excite my gallantry. But to my own great astonishment I was a mirror of
discretion, and in four days that was my character all over the town. I
was quite astonished to find myself accosted in quite a respectful
manner, to which I was not accustomed; but in the pious state of mind I
was in, this confirmed me in the belief that my idea of taking the cowl
had been a Divine inspiration. Nevertheless, I felt listless and weary,
but I looked upon that as the inevitable consequence of so complete a
change of life, and thought it would disappear when I grew more
accustomed to goodness.

In order to put myself, as soon as possible, on an equality with my
future brethren, I passed three hours every morning in learning German.
My master was an extraordinary man, a native of Genoa, and an apostate
Capuchin. His name was Giustiniani. The poor man, to whom I gave six
francs every morning, looked upon me as an angel from heaven, although I,
with the enthusiasm of a devotee, took him for a devil of hell, for he
lost no opportunity of throwing a stone at the religious orders. Those
orders which had the highest reputation, were, according to him, the
worst of all, since they led more people astray. He styled monks in
general as a vile rabble, the curse of the human race.

"But," said I to him one day, "you will confess that Our Lady of
Einsiedel . . ."

"What!" replied the Genoese, without letting me finish my remark, "do you
think I should make an exception in favour of a set of forty ignorant,
lazy, vicious, idle, hypocritical scoundrels who live bad lives under the
cloak of humility, and eat up the houses of the poor simpletons who
provide for them, when they ought to be earning their own bread?"

"But how about his reverend highness the abbot?"

"A stuck-up peasant who plays the part of a prince, and is fool enough to
think himself one."

"But he is a prince."

"As much a prince as I am. I look upon him as a mere buffoon."

"What has he done to you?"

"Nothing; but he is a monk."

"He is a friend of mine."

"I cannot retract what I have said, but I beg your pardon."

This Giustiniani had a great influence upon me, although I did not know
it, for I thought my vocation was sure. But my idea of becoming a monk at
Einsiedel came to an end as follows:

The day before the abbot was coming to see me, at about six o'clock in
the evening, I was sitting at my window, which looked out on the bridge,
and gazing at the passers-by,