L'Heure's,[F] the woman who sells waffles; we always buy a provision
from her, to refresh us on the way. A very lively young woman is this
pastry-cook, and most anxious to make herself agreeable; she looks
quite like a screen picture, behind her piled-up cakes, ornamented
with little posies. We will take shelter under her roof while we wait;
and, to avoid the drops that fall heavily from the water-spouts, wedge
ourselves tightly against her display of white and pink sweetmeats, so
artistically spread out on fresh and delicate branches of cypress.

[Footnote F: In Japanese: _Toki-San_.]

Poor 415, what a providence he is to us! Already he re-appears, most
excellent cousin, ever smiling, ever running, while the water streams
down his handsome bare legs; he brings us two umbrellas, borrowed from
a China merchant, who is also a distant relative of ours. Like me,
Yves has till now never consented to use such a thing, but he now
accepts one because it is droll: in paper, of course, with innumerable
folds waxed and gummed, and the inevitable flight of storks forming a
wreath all round.

Chrysantheme, yawning more and more in her kitten-like fashion,
becomes coaxing in order to be helped along, and tries to take my arm:

"I beg you, mousme, this evening to take the arm of Yves-San; I am
sure that will suit us all three."

And there they go, she, tiny figure, hanging on to the big fellow, and
so they climb up. I lead the way, carrying the lantern that lights our
steps, and whose flame I protect as well as I can under my fantastic
umbrella. On each side of the road is heard the roaring torrent of
stormy waters rolling down from the mountain side. To-night the way
seems long, difficult and slippery; a succession of interminable
flights of steps, gardens and houses piled up one above another; waste
lands, and trees which in the darkness shake their dripping foliage on
our heads.

One would say that Nagasaki is ascending at the same time as
ourselves; but yonder, and very far away, in a kind of vapory mist
which seems luminous on the blackness of the sky; and from the town
there rises a confused murmur of voices and rumbling of gongs and
laughter.

The summer rain has not yet refreshed the atmosphere. On account of
the stormy heat, the little suburban houses have been left open like
sheds, and we can see all that is going on. Lamps ever lighted burn
before the altars dedicated to Buddha and to the souls of the
ancestors;