al
is served, in the pleasant freshness of the fountain which continues
its murmur under our feet.

After dinner, we follow the faithful and ascend again to the temple.

Up there we find the same elfin revelry, the same masks, the same
music. We seat ourselves, as before, under a gauze tent and sip odd
little drinks tasting of flowers. But this evening we are alone, and
the absence of the band of mousmes, whose familiar little faces formed
a bond of union between this holiday-making people and ourselves,
separates and isolates us more than usual from the profusion of
oddities in the midst of which we seem to be lost. Beneath us, lies
always the immense blue background: Nagasaki illumined by moonlight,
and the expanse of silvered, glittering water, which seems like a
vaporous vision suspended in mid-air. Behind us is the great open
temple, where the bonzes officiate to the accompaniment of sacred
bells and wooden clappers,--looking, from where we sit, more like
puppets than anything else, some squatting in rows like peaceful
mummies, others executing rhythmical marches before the golden
background where stand the gods. We do not laugh to-night, and speak
but little, more forcibly struck by the scene than we were on the
first night; we only look on, trying to understand. Suddenly, Yves
turning round, says:

"Hullo! brother, your mousme!!"

Actually there she is, behind him; Chrysantheme almost on all fours,
hidden between the paws of a great granite beast, half tiger, half
dog, against which our fragile tent is leaning.

"She pulled my trousers with her nails, for all the world like a
little cat," said Yves, still full of surprise, "positively like a
cat!"

She remains bent double in the most humble form of salutation; she
smiles timidly, afraid of being ill received, and the head of my
little brother-in-law, Bambou, appears smiling too, just above her
own. She has brought this little _mousko_[I] with her, perched astride
on her back; he looks as absurd as ever, with his shaven head, his
long frock and the great bows of his silken sash. There they both
stand gazing at us, anxious to know how their joke will be taken.

[Footnote I: _Mousko_ is the masculine of _mousme_, and signifies
little boy. Excessive politeness makes it _mousko-san_ (Mr. little
boy).]

For my part, I have not the least idea of giving them a cold
reception; on the contrary, the meeting amuses me. It even strikes me
that it is rather pretty