The Golden Dream of Carlo Chuchio

What I discovered was: my conscience. I never had much occasion to use my conscience. I never suspected I actually owned one. Evidently, I did. I did not like it. It was making my head hurt and my stomach turn queasy.
It kept jabbing at me. A question about the map. Conscience insisted it did not belong to me. I disagreed. We had a not-very-friendly conversation.
Myself: “You’re talking nonsense. The bookseller gave it to me. Free. A gift. He said so.”
Conscience: “Wrong. He gave you the book. He didn’t give you the map.”
“He did, too,” I protested. “He gave me the book. The map was in the book. It comes to the same thing.”
“Does it?” Conscience said slyly. “Answer me this: Did he realize it was there?”
I mentally shrugged. “How should I know? Maybe not.”
“Maybe not?” said Conscience. “Probably not?”
“All right, then: Probably not.”
“Say, rather: Most certainly not. He gave you the book out of kindness and generosity. He had no intention of giving you the map. It was a mistake, an accident.”
“So?”
“Let me put it this way,” said Conscience. “Suppose you gave your old coat to a freezing beggar. And suppose you’d forgotten some gold pieces in the pocket. You’d want them back, wouldn’t you?”
“Of course.”
“Now we’re getting somewhere. Very good. So. What are you going to do?”
“Keep the map,” I said.
“You’re disgusting,” said Conscience. “You haven’t understood a word-“
“What do you want from me?” I said. “I’m a chooch.”
“Even a chooch can do the right thing. Sometimes, at least. Tell me, have you ever had a piece of grit in your eye? And you rub and rub, but you can’t get it out? And only make it worse? I promise you’ll have a piece of grit that won’t go away. It’s going to sting and smart every day for the rest of your life.”
“Get out,” I said. “Let me be.”