It is not because of vanity, and even less out of modesty, that I expose openly the various roles I played when I was young. It is my honest desire-if at all possible-to debase the egotism of those who have searched for a moderate fortune in ways similar to my own. And, above all, I want to offer the public a glowing testimony of my gratitude with the admission that everything I own is the direct result of their generosity and charity.
I was born in the rue Saint-Paul; my existence is the result of the furtive liaison between an honorable soldier of the guards and a mender of shoes. My mother, who would rather spend her time on her back, taught me the trade of mending and patching-especially shoes-at a very early age, to rid herself of the responsibility of taking care of me as quickly as she possibly could. I was about thirteen years old when my mother decided that she could leave me her mending coop and her customers, provided of course that she would get her share of my daily take.
I fulfilled her hopes so well that it took me only a very short time before I had become a pearl among the menders in our neighborhood. But I did not limit my talents to cobbling because I was also very adept at patching old trousers and mending the seats. Added to my dexterity and greatly enhancing my business was my charming face with which Nature had graced me. There was nobody in the entire neighborhood who did not want to be waited on by me. My mending coop was the gathering point of all the lackeys of the rue Saint-Antoine. Thus, I was continuously exposed to fine company, which gave me my first veneer of good manners and breeding.
My parents had given me, through lineage and good example, such a strong inclination to taste voluptuous pleasures that the desire to walk in their footsteps and try out the sweetness of carnal knowledge almost killed me.
My father, Monsieur Tranche-montagne, my mother and I lived in a single room on the fourth floor. It was furnished with a couple of wicker chairs, an old cupboard with some dirty earthenware dishes, and one wide, miserable bed without curtains and without a blanket upon which the three of us had to sleep.
The older I became the more frequently I awoke during the night because I started to notice the distinct motions of my bed companions. Quite often they were so exuberant that the springs of the bedstead forced me to participate in all of their movements. They were both panting and whispering words of endearment to each other that were dictated by their passion. I suffered unbearable excitement. I was consumed by a smoldering fire which almost took my breath away. At those moments I would have loved to kick and punch my own mother because I was so jealous of the ecstasies she enjoyed. What else could I do when I was plagued by these emotions than resort to the silent lusts of the lonely? It was a blessing that on top of these pressing needs I did not suffer from a cramp in my fingertips. But, alas, what a miserable remedy when compared to the real thing! It was really child's play. I stimulated and wore myself out to no avail and the only result was that I would be more fervent, passionate and frantic than before. I was almost consumed by rage and passion; briefly I wished I could be ravaged by a satyr. A nice disposition for a fourteen-year-old girl but, as the saying goes, I was “a chip off the old block.”
One might well understand how this eternally torturing thorn in my flesh caused me to think seriously about procuring some good solid boy friend who might be able to slake this unbearable thirst which made my tongue stick to the roof of my mouth. Or at least some person who might be able to bring about some relief!