"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