ertain turn, whence we have a bird's-eye view of the
whole harbor. The black, stagnant waters reflect innumerable distant
fires, and the ships--tiny, immovable objects, which, seen from our
point of view, take the shape of fish, seem also to slumber,--little
objects which serve to bear us elsewhere, to go far away, and to forget.

The three ladies are about to turn back home, for the night is already
far advanced and, farther down, the cosmopolitan quarters near the quays
are not safe at this unusual hour.

The moment has therefore come for Yves--who will not land again--to make
his last tragic farewells to his friends the little mousmes.

I am very curious to see the parting between Yves and Chrysantheme; I
listen with all my ears, I look with all my eyes, but it takes place in
the simplest and quietest fashion: none of that heartbreaking which
will be inevitable between Madame Prune and myself; I even notice in my
mousme an indifference, an unconcern which puzzles me; I positively am
at a loss to understand what it all means.

And I muse as I continue to descend toward the sea. "Her appearance of
sadness was not, therefore, on Yves's account. On whose, then?" and the
phrase runs through my head:

"Come back to-morrow before setting sail, to bid me goodby; I shall not
return to my mother until evening; you will find me still up there."

Japan is indeed most delightful this evening, so fresh and so sweet; and
little Chrysantheme was very charming just now, as she silently walked
beside me through the darkness of the lane.

It is about two o'clock when we reach the 'Triomphante' in a hired
sampan, where I have heaped up all my cases till there is danger of
sinking. The "very tall friend" gives over to me the watch that I must
keep till four o'clock; and the sailors on duty, but half awake, make a
chain in the darkness, to haul on board all my fragile luggage.

CHAPTER LII. "FAREWELL!"

September 18th.

I intended to sleep late this morning, in order to make up for my lost
sleep of last night.

But at eight o'clock three persons of the most extraordinary appearance,
led by M. Kangourou, present themselves with profound bows at the
door of my cabin. They are arrayed in long robes bedizened with dark
patterns; they have the flowing locks, high foreheads, and pallid
countenances of persons too exclusively devoted to the fine arts; and,
perched on the top of their coiffures, they wear sailor hats of English