er to find still mine when I had almost forgotten its
existence. Chrysantheme has put fresh flowers in our vases, spread out
her hair, donned her best clothes, and lighted our lamps to honor my
return. From the balcony she had watched the 'Triomphante' leave the
dock, and, in the expectation of our prompt return, she had made her
preparations; then, to wile away the time, she was studying a duet on
the guitar with Oyouki. Not a question did she ask, nor a reproach did
she make. Quite the contrary.

"We understood," she said, "how impossible it was, in such dreadful
weather, to undertake so lengthy a crossing in a sampan."

She smiled like a pleased child, and I should be fastidious indeed if I
did not admit that to-night she is charming.

I announce my intention of taking a long stroll through Nagasaki; we
will take Oyouki-San and two little cousins who happen to be here, as
well as some other neighbors, if they wish it; we will buy the most
amusing toys, eat all sorts of cakes, and entertain ourselves to our
hearts' content.

"How lucky we are to be here, just at the right moment," they exclaim,
jumping with joy. "How fortunate we are! This very evening there is to
be a pilgrimage to the great temple of the jumping Tortoise! The whole
town will be there; all our married friends have already started, the
whole set, X----, Y----, Z----, Touki-San, Campanule, and Jonquille,
with 'the friend of amazing height.' And these two, poor Chrysantheme
and poor Oyouki, would have been obliged to stay at home with heavy
hearts, had we not arrived, because Madame Prune had been seized with
faintness and hysterics after her dinner."

Quickly the mousmes must deck themselves out. Chrysantheme is ready;
Oyouki hurries, changes her dress, and, putting on a mouse-colored gray
robe, begs me to arrange the bows of her fine sash-black satin lined
with yellow-sticking at the same time in her hair a silver topknot.
We light our lanterns, swinging at the end of little sticks; M. Sucre,
overwhelming us with thanks for his daughter, accompanies us on all
fours to the door, and we go off gayly through the clear and balmy
night.

Below, we find the town in all the animation of a great holiday. The
streets are thronged; the crowd passes by--a laughing, capricious, slow,
unequal tide, flowing onward, however, steadily in the same direction,
toward the same goal. From it rises a penetrating but light murmur, in
which dominate the sounds of laug