The next step of this youth, who was always dreaming of the love of princesses, was to accept with just thankfulness the position of lackey or footboy in the household of a widow.  With Madame de Vercellis he passed three months, and at the end of that time she died.  His stay here was marked by an incident that has filled many pages with stormful discussion.  When Madame de Vercellis died, a piece of old rose-coloured ribbon was missing; Rousseau had stolen it, and it was found in his possession.  They asked him whence he had taken it.  He replied that it had been given to him by Marion, a young and comely maid in the house.  In her presence and before the whole household he repeated his false story, and clung to it with a bitter effrontery that we may well call diabolic, remembering how the nervous terror of punishment and exposure sinks the angel in man.  Our phrase, want of moral courage, really denotes in the young an excruciating physical struggle, often so keen that the victim clutches after liberation with the spontaneous tenacity and cruelty of a creature wrecked in mastering waters.  Undisciplined sensations constitute egoism in the most ruthless of its shapes, and at this epoch, owing either to the brutalities which surrounded his apprentice life at Geneva, or to that rapid tendency towards degeneration which he suspected in his own character, Rousseau was the slave of sensations which stained his days with baseness.  “Never,” he says, in his account of this hateful action, “was wickedness further from me than at this cruel moment; and when I accused the poor girl, it is contradictory and yet it is true that my affection for her was the cause of what I did.  She was present to my mind, and I threw the blame from myself on to the first object that presented itself.  When I saw her appear my heart was torn, but the presence of so many people was too strong for my remorse.  I feared punishment very little; I only feared disgrace, but I feared that more than death, more than crime, more than anything in the world.  I would fain have buried myself in the depths of the earth; invincible shame prevailed over all, shame alone caused my effrontery, and the more criminal I became, the more intrepid was I made by the fright of confessing it.  I could see nothing but the horror of being recognised and declared publicly to my face a thief, liar, and traducer."[32] When he says that he feared punishment little, his analysis of his mind is most likely wrong, for nothing is clearer than that a dread of punishment in any physical form was a peculiarly strong feeling with him at this time.  However that may have been, the same over-excited imagination which put every sense on the alarm and led him into so abominable a misdemeanour, brought its own penalties.  It led him to conceive a long train of ruin as having befallen Marion in consequence of his calumny against her, and this dreadful thought haunted him to the end of his life.  In the long sleepless nights