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, he departed
unrefreshed.
On certain little difficulties encountered by the Arethusa at
Chatillon-sur-Loing, I have not space to dwell; another Chatillon,
of grislier memory, looms too near at hand. But the next day, in a
certain hamlet called La Jussiere, he stopped to drink a glass of
syrup in a very poor, bare drinking shop. The hostess, a comely
woman, suckling a child, examined the traveller with kindly and
pitying eyes. "You are not of this department?" she asked. The
Arethusa told her he was English. "Ah!" she said, surprised. "We
have no English. We have many Italians, however, and they do very
well; they do not complain of the people of hereabouts. An
Englishman may do very well also; it will be something new.
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