y asparagus and sell
it, converting the proceeds into some extra good breakfasts. As he
did not wish to expose himself, and not being very nimble, he
selected me for this expedition.... Long did I stickle, but he
persisted. I never could resist kindness, so I consented. I went
every morning to the garden, gathered the best of the asparagus,
and took it to "the Molard," where some good creature, perceiving
that I had just been stealing it, would insinuate that little fact,
so as to get it the cheaper. In my terror I took whatever she chose
to give me, and carried it to M. Verrat.

This little domestic arrangement continued for several days before
it came into my head to rob the robber, and tithe M. Verrat for the
proceeds of the asparagus.... I thus learned that to steal was,
after all, not so very terrible a thing as I had conceived; and ere
long I turned this discovery to so good an account, that nothing I
had an inclination for could safely be left within my reach....

And now, before giving myself over to the fatality of my destiny,
let me, for a moment, contemplate what would naturally have been my
lot had I fallen into the hands of a better master. Nothing was
more agreeable to my tastes, nor better calculated to render me
happy, than the calm and obscure condition of a good artisan, more
especially in certain lines, such as that of an engraver at
Geneva.... In my native country, in the bosom of my religion, of my
family, and my friends, I should have led a life gentle and
uncheckered as became my character, in the uniformity of a pleasing
occupation and among connections dear to my heart. I should have
been a good Christian, a good citizen, a good father, a good
friend, a good artisan, and a good man in every respect. I should
have loved my station; it may be I should have been an honor to it:
and after having passed an obscure and simple, though even and
happy, life, I should peacefully have departed in the bosom of my
kindred. Soon, it may be, forgotten, I should at least have been
regretted as long as the remembrance of me survived.

Instead of this... what a picture am I about to draw!

Thus ends the first book of the "Confessions."

The picture Rousseau is "about to draw" has in it a certain Madame de
Warens for a principal figure. (Apprentice