he had
anything like as good a comrade, anything like as keen a relish for what
he saw, and what he ate, and the rivers that he bathed in, and the
rubbish that he wrote, I would exchange estates to-day with the poor
exile, and count myself a gainer.

But there was another point of similarity between the two journeys, for
which the _Arethusa_ was to pay dear: both were gone upon in days of
incomplete security. It was not long after the Franco-Prussian war.
Swiftly as men forget, that countryside was still alive with tales of
uhlans and outlying sentries, and hairbreadth 'scapes from the
ignominious cord, and pleasant momentary friendships between invader and
invaded. A year, at the most two years, later you might have tramped
all that country over and not heard one anecdote. And a year or two
later, you would--if you were a rather ill-looking young man in
nondescript array--have gone your rounds in greater safety; for along
with more interesting matter, the Prussian spy would have somewhat faded
from men's imaginations.

For all that, our voyager had got beyond Chateau Renard before he was
conscious of arousing wonder. On the road between that place and
Chatillon-sur-Loing, however, he encountered a rural postman; they fell
together in talk, and spoke of a variety of subjects; but through one
and all, the postman was still visibly preoccupied, and his eyes were
faithful to the _Arethusa's_ knapsack. At last, with mysterious
roguishness, he inquired what it contained, and on being answered, shook
his head with kindly incredulity. "_Non_," said he, "_non, vous avez des
portraits_." And then with a languishing appeal, "_Voyons_, show me the
portraits!" It was some little time before the _Arethusa_, with a shout
of laughter, recognized his drift. By portraits he meant indecent
photographs; and in the _Arethusa_, an austere and rising author, he
thought to have identified a pornographic _colporteur_. When
country-folk in France have made up their minds as to a person's
calling, argument is fruitless. Along all the rest of the way, the
postman piped and fluted meltingly to get a sight of the collection; now
he would upbraid, now he would reason--"_Voyons_, I will tell nobody";
then he tried corruption, and insisted on paying for a glass of wine;
and at last, when their ways separated--"_Non_," said he, "_ce n'est pas
bien de votre part. O non, ce n'est pas bien_." And shaking his head
with quite a sentimental sense of injury