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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
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