through that little brain? My knowledge of her language is still
too limited to enable me to find out. Moreover, it is a hundred to one
that she has no thoughts whatever. And even if she had, what do I care?

I have chosen her to amuse me, and I should really prefer that she
should have one of those insignificant little thoughtless faces like all
the others.

CHAPTER VIII. THE NECESSARY VEIL

When night comes on, we light two hanging lamps of religious symbolism,
which burn till daylight, before our gilded idol.

We sleep on the floor, on a thin cotton mattress, which is unfolded
and laid out over our white matting. Chrysantheme's pillow is a little
wooden block, cut so as to fit exactly the nape of her neck, without
disturbing the elaborate head-dress, which must never be taken down;
the pretty black hair I shall probably never see undone. My pillow,
a Chinese model, is a kind of little square drum covered over with
serpent-skin.

We sleep under a gauze mosquito-net of sombre greenish-blue, dark as the
shades of night, stretched out on an orange-colored ribbon. (These are
the traditional colors, and all respectable families of Nagasaki possess
a similar net.) It envelops us like a tent; the mosquitoes and the
night-moths whirl around it.

This sounds very pretty, and written down looks very well. In reality,
however, it is not so; something, I know not what, is lacking, and
everything is very paltry. In other lands, in the delightful isles of
Oceania, in the old, lifeless quarters of Stamboul, it seemed as if mere
words could never express all I felt, and I struggled vainly against
my own inability to render, in human language, the penetrating charm
surrounding me.

Here, on the contrary, words exact and truthful in themselves seem
always too thrilling, too great for the subject; seem to embellish it
unduly. I feel as if I were acting, for my own benefit, some wretchedly
trivial and third-rate comedy; and whenever I try to consider my home
in a serious spirit, the scoffing figure of M. Kangourou rises before
me--the matrimonial agent, to whom I am indebted for my happiness.

CHAPTER IX. MY PLAYTHING

July 12th

Yves visits us whenever he is free, in the evening at five o'clock,
after his duties on board are fulfilled.

He is our only European visitor, and, with the exception of a few
civilities and cups of tea, exchanged with our neighbors, we lead a very
retired life. Only in the evenings, wi