“The Holy Father has granted me permission to eat meat.”
“Let me see your permission.”
“He gave it to me by word of mouth.”
“Reverend sir, I am not obliged to believe you.”
“You are a fool.”
“I am master in my own house, and I beg you will go to some other inn.”
Such an answer, coupled to a most unexpected notice to quit, threw me into a violent passion. I was swearing, raving, screaming, when suddenly a grave-looking individual made his appearance in my room, and said to me:
“Sir, you are wrong in calling for meat, when in Ancona fish is much better; you are wrong in expecting the landlord to believe you on your bare word; and if you have obtained the permission from the Pope, you have been wrong in soliciting it at your age; you have been wrong in not asking for such permission in writing; you are wrong in calling the host a fool, because it is a compliment that no man is likely to accept in his own house; and, finally, you are wrong in making such an uproar.”
Far from increasing my bad temper, this individual, who had entered my room only to treat me to a sermon, made me laugh.
“I willingly plead guilty, sir,” I answered, “to all the counts which you allege against me; but it is raining, it is getting late, I am tired and hungry, and therefore you will easily understand that I do not feel disposed to change my quarters. Will you give me some supper, as the landlord refuses to do so?”