whether
she would ever see it again; her manner was good and honest, and her
features bore the traces of the beauty that time had ruined.

Although I am not a prejudiced man, the presence of the two evil-smelling
monks annoyed me extremely. I thought the obstinate way in which they
stayed little less than an insult. True they were men like myself, in
spite of their goats' beards and dirty frocks, and consequently were
liable to the same desires as I; but for all that I found them wholly
intolerable. I could not shame them without shaming the lady, and they
knew it; monks are adepts at such calculations.

I have travelled all over Europe, but France is the only country in which
I saw a decent and respectable clergy.

At the end of a quarter of an hour I could contain myself no longer, and
told the aunt that I wished to say something to her in private. I thought
the two satyrs would have taken the hint, but I counted without my host.
The aunt arose, however, and took me into the next room.

I asked my question as delicately as possible, and she replied,--

"Alas! I have only too great a need of twenty ducats (about eighty
francs) to pay my rent."

I gave her the money on the spot, and I saw that she was very grateful,
but I left her before she could express her feelings.

Here I must tell my readers (if I ever have any) of an event which took
place on that same day.

As I was dining in my room by myself, I was told that a Venetian
gentleman who said he knew me wished to speak to me.

I ordered him to be shewn in, and though his face was not wholly unknown
to me I could not recollect who he was.

He was tall, thin and wretched, misery and hunger spewing plainly in his
every feature; his beard was long, his head shaven, his robe a dingy
brown, and bound about him with a coarse cord, whence hung a rosary and a
dirty handkerchief. In the left hand he bore a basket, and in the right a
long stick; his form is still before me, but I think of him not as a
humble penitent, but as a being in the last state of desperation; almost
an assassin.

"Who are you?" I said at length. "I think I have seen you before, and yet
. . ."

"I will soon tell you my name and the story of my woes; but first give me
something to eat, for I am dying of hunger. I have had nothing but bad
soup for the last few days."

"Certainly; go downstairs and have your dinner, and then come back to me;
you can't eat and speak at the same time."

My