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 while
before the Arethusa, with a shout of laughter, recognised 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 countryfolk in France
have made up their minds as to a person's calling, argument is
fruitless.
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