The opening of I. IN WHICH WE ARE MADE ACQUAINTED WITH MADAME AGNES
ABOUT twenty years ago, I lived in a town in France which I may be allowed to call Philopolis. It need not be sought on the map: it will not be found there, at least under the name I think it proper to call it by, in order to avoid all appearance of indiscretion. The story I am about to relate is really a true one.
I had just finished my school-days, and, having carefully thought over the different professions which seemed to accord with my tastes, I felt—and it may be imagined how bitterly—that not one of them was within my means. To embrace any of them would have required a larger sum than I had the least hope of. Under such unfavorable circumstances, I became a tutor in a Lycée.