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demonstrated both a strong bent for classical literary studies and an irresistible leaning towards a career in the Church. His family had to reconcile themselves to letting him enter the seminary. So it was under these circumstances that he visited Paris for the first time‚ on the occasion of a pilgrimage to Notre-Dame. He took pleasure in wandering through the poorer districts near the Ile de la Cité‚ and at once responded to their ambiguous charm. A few months later‚ he returned to the capital as a theology student‚ but this time to become resident‚ close to Rue St-Jacques‚ not far from the place where another ‘scholar’ once lived: François de Montcorbier‚ whom we know as Villon.
    He must have had the temperament of a missionary or preacher. For not a week went by that our young man was not seen‚ soberly dressed‚ wearing a beret‚ haunting the vicinity of Place Maubert‚ the least attractive of whose local inhabitants he knew by name‚ and was able to get them to share their woes and confide in him the most shameful details of their life. Scavengers of fag ends‚ pickpockets and tramps no longer held any secrets from the man they not unkindly called ‘Father Greenhorn’.
    The time came when Théophile didn’t disdain to go into the lowest dives and mix even more closely with the down- and-outs. He showed a preference for those vagrants who‚ beneath a stinking carapace of grimy sweat‚ gave evidence of some education‚ acquired in ‘the days of wanton youth’‚ and they themselves took a certain pride in his friendship.
    Little by little‚ insidiously‚ the whole neighbourhood became rooted in him; this area‚ its stones and its people‚ decided to keep him there for ever‚ even if this conspiracy of vague wishfulness‚ in human beings and things‚ had to achieve its purpose at the cost of some misfortune. Which is indeed what occurred.
    Trigou was ordained and yet didn’t leave the capital. The young priest became a teacher of French and Latin in a very well-known religious establishment at Auteuil. Uneventful years passed. Théophile fulfilled his duties as teacher and educator to everyone’s satisfaction. Every Sunday during the summer months‚ he observed the Lord’s commandments by taking rest. Often he would go out of Paris‚ by himself‚ into the wooded countryside‚ and there‚ in the woodland solitude‚ cheered by birdsong‚ a modern-day Francis of Assisi‚ he would devote himself to religious texts and meditation.
    One August Sunday‚ even more stiflingly hot than usual‚ the young priest went to the forest of Fontainebleau. Feeling rather weary after a long walk‚ he sat down by a big tree‚ on a mound that seemed to have been placed there specially. He dropped off to sleep for quite a while. When he woke‚ his hips felt unusually itchy. He realized he had just enough time to get to the station and catch the train. On the walk back‚ the itchiness‚ which had spread to the entire lower part of his body‚ intensified to an unbearable degree. But with no time to spare and perhaps accustomed‚ in spirit at least‚ to otherwise painful mortifications‚ it was only once inside the carriage that he investigated the cause of his itchiness.
    This train was composed of old wooden carriages‚ of the kind still used on provinicial ‘slow trains’‚ with no corridors. The priest was alone in his compartment. He immediately discovered the explanation for the ‘providential’ and extremelycomfortable mound he had unwisely sat on: it was a gigantic anthill. His trousers and underpants were full of insects driven to ferocity by having been displaced from their dwelling. It was high time‚ the priest decided in between stations‚ to deal with what had become a matter of urgency: he unbuttoned his cassock‚ took off his trousers and underpants‚ and began to shake them all out of the window. At one point along the route‚ the track curves. A powerful gust