nd arms,
raised on high, are each dressed up and capped with a wig under which
peers a mask; between these phantoms tremendous fighting and battling
take place, and many a sword-thrust is exchanged. The most fearful of
all is a certain puppet representing an old hag; every time she appears,
with her weird head and ghastly grin, the lights burn low, the music of
the accompanying orchestra moans forth a sinister strain given by the
flutes, mingled with a rattling tremolo which sounds like the clatter of
bones. This creature evidently plays an ugly part in the piece--that of
a horrible old ghoul, spiteful and famished. Still more appalling than
her person is her shadow, which, projected upon a white screen, is
abnormally and vividly distinct; by means of some unknown process this
shadow, which nevertheless follows all her movements, assumes the
aspect of a wolf. At a given moment the hag turns round and presents the
profile of her distorted snub nose as she accepts the bowl of rice which
is offered to her; on the screen at the very same instant appears the
elongated outline of the wolf, with its pointed ears, its muzzle and
chops, its great teeth and hanging tongue. The orchestra grinds, wails,
quivers; then suddenly bursts out into funereal shrieks, like a concert
of owls; the hag is now eating, and her wolfish shadow is eating
also, greedily moving its jaws and nibbling at another shadow easy to
recognize--the arm of a little child.

We now go on to see the great salamander of Japan, an animal rare in
this country, and quite unknown elsewhere, a great, cold mass, sluggish
and benumbed, looking like some antediluvian experiment, forgotten in
the inner seas of this archipelago.

Next comes the trained elephant, the terror of our mousmes, the
equilibrists, the menagerie.

It is one o'clock in the morning before we are back at Diou-djen-dji.

We first get Yves to bed in the little paper room he has already
once occupied. Then we go to bed ourselves, after the inevitable
preparations, the smoking of the little pipe, and the tap! tap! tap!
tap! on the edge of the box.

Suddenly Yves begins to move restlessly in his sleep, to toss about,
giving great kicks on the wall, and making a frightful noise.

What can be the matter? I imagine at once that he must be dreaming of
the old hag and her wolfish shadow. Chrysantheme raises herself on her
elbow and listens, with astonishment depicted on her face.

Ah, happy thought! she