, 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. 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.