The next morning I was awoke by a terrible noise in the passage, almost at the door of my room.

Getting out of my bed, I open my door to ascertain the cause of the uproar.  I see a troop of ‘sbirri’ at the door of a chamber, and in that chamber, sitting up in bed, a fine-looking man who was making himself hoarse by screaming in Latin against that rabble, the plague of Italy, and against the inn-keeper who had been rascally enough to open the door.

I enquire of the inn-keeper what it all means.

“This gentleman,” answers the scoundrel, “who, it appears, can only speak Latin, is in bed with a girl, and the ‘sbirri’ of the bishop have been sent to know whether she is truly his wife; all perfectly regular.  If she is his wife, he has only to convince them by shewing a certificate of marriage, but if she is not, of course he must go to prison with her.  Yet it need not happen, for I undertake to arrange everything in a friendly manner for a few sequins.  I have only to exchange a few words with the chief of the ‘sbirri’, and they will all go away.  If you can speak Latin, you had better go in, and make him listen to reason.”

“Who has broken open the door of his room?”

“Nobody; I have opened it myself with the key, as is my duty.”

“Yes, the duty of a highway robber, but not of an honest inn-keeper.”

Such infamous dealing aroused my indignation, and I made up my mind to interfere.  I enter the room, although I had still my nightcap on, and inform the gentleman of the cause of the disturbance.  He answers with a laugh that, in the first place, it was impossible to say whether the person who was in bed with him was a woman, for that person had only been seen in the costume of a military officer, and that, in the second place, he did not think that any human being had a right to compel him to say whether his bed-fellow was his wife or his mistress, even supposing that his companion was truly a woman.

“At all events,” he added, “I am determined not to give one crown to arrange the affair, and to remain in bed until my door is shut.  The moment I am dressed, I will treat you to an amusing denouement of the comedy.  I will drive away all those scoundrels at the point of my sword.”

I then see in a corner a broad sword, and a Hungarian costume looking like a military uniform.  I ask whether he is an officer.

“I have written my name and profession,” he answers, “in the hotel book.”

Astonished at the absurdity of the inn-keeper, I ask him whether it is so; he confesses it, but adds that the clergy have the right to prevent scandal.

“The insult you have offered to that officer, Mr. Landlord, will cost you very dear.”

His only answer is to laugh in my face.  Highly enraged at seeing such a scoundrel laugh at me, I take up the officer’s quarrel warmly, and asked him to entrust his passport to me for a few minutes.