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, when all at once a carriage and four came up at a good pace and stopped at the inn.  There was no footman on it, and consequently the waiter came out and opened the door, and I saw four well-dressed women leave the carriage.  In the first three I saw nothing noticeable, but the fourth, who was dressed in a riding-habit, struck me at once with her elegance and beauty.  She was a brunette with fine and well-set eyes, arched eyebrows, and a complexion in which the hues of the lily and the rose were mingled.  Her bonnet was of blue satin with a silver fillet, which gave her an air I could not resist.  I stretched out from the window as far as I could, and she lifted her eyes and looked at me as if I had bade her do so.  My position obliged me to look at her for half a minute; too much for a modest woman, and more than was required to set me all ablaze.

I ran and took up my position at the window of my ante-chamber, which commanded a view of the staircase, and before long I saw her running by to rejoin her three companions.  When she got opposite to my window she chanced to turn in that direction, and on seeing me cried out as if she had seen a ghost; but she soon recollected herself and ran away, laughing like a madcap, and rejoined the other ladies who were already in their room.

Reader, put yourself in my place, and tell me how I could have avoided this meeting.  And you who would bury yourselves in monastic shades, persevere, if you can, after you have seen what I saw at Zurich on April 23rd.

I was in such a state of excitement that I had to lie down on my bed.  After resting a few minutes, I got up and almost unconsciously went towards the passage window and saw the waiter coming out of the ladies’ room.

“Waiter,” said I, “I will take supper in the dining-room with everybody else.”

“If you want to see those ladies, that won’t do, as they have ordered their supper to be brought up to them.  They want to go to bed in good time as they are to leave at day-break.”

“Where are they going?”

“To Our Lady of Einsiedel to pay their vows.”

“Where do they come from?”

“From Soleure.”

“What are their names?”

“I don’t know.”

I went to lie down again, and thought how I could approach the fair one of my thoughts.  Should I go to Einsiedel, too?  But what could I do when I got there?  These ladies are going to make their confessions; I could not get into the confessional.  What kind of a figure should I cut among the monks?  And if I were to meet the abbot on the way, how could I help returning with him?  If I had had a trusty friend I would have arranged an ambuscade and carried off my charmer.  It would have been an easy task, as she had nobody to defend her.  What if I were to pluck up my heart and beg them to let me sup in their company?  I was afraid of the three devotees; I should meet with a refusal.  I judged that my charmer’s devotion was more a matter of form than any thing else, as her physiognomy declared her to be a lover of pleasure, and I had long been accustomed to read womens’ characters by the play of their features.