noise.

What can be the matter? I at once imagine 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 has discovered what is tormenting him:

"Ka!" (mosquitoes) she says.

And, to impress the more forcibly her meaning on my mind, she pinches
my arm so hard with her little pointed nails, at the same time
imitating, with such an amusing play of her features, the grimace of a
person who is stung, that I exclaim--

"Oh! stop, Chrysantheme, this pantomime is too expressive, and indeed
useless! I know the word _Ka_, and had quite understood, I assure
you."

It is done so drolly and so quickly, with such a pretty pout, that in
truth I cannot think of being angry, although I shall certainly have
to-morrow a blue mark on my arm; about that there is no doubt.

"Come, we must get up and go to Yves' rescue; he cannot be allowed to
go on thumping in that manner. Let us take a lantern, and see what has
happened."

It was indeed the mosquitoes. They are hovering in a thick cloud about
him; those of the house and those of the garden all seem collected
together, swarming and buzzing. Chrysantheme indignantly burns several
at the flame of her lantern, and shows me others: "Hou!" covering the
white paper walls.

He, tired out with his day's amusement, sleeps on; but his slumbers
are restless, as can be easily imagined. Chrysantheme gives him a
shake, wishing him to get up and share our blue mosquito net.

After a little pressing he does as he is bid and follows us, looking
like an overgrown boy only half awake. I make no objection to this
singular hospitality; after all, it looks so little like a bed, the
matting we are to share, and we sleep in our clothes, as we always do
according to the Niponese fashion. After all, on a journey in a
railway, do not the most estimable ladies stretch themselves without
demur by the side of gentlemen unknown to them?

I have however placed Chrysantheme's little wooden block in the center
of the gauze tent, between our two pillows.

Then, without saying a word, in a dignified manner as though she were
rectifying an error of etiquette that I had inadvertently committed,
Chrysantheme takes up her piece of wood, putting in its place my
snake-skin drum; I shall therefore be in the middle between the two.
It is really more correct, decidedly much more proper; Chrysant