emblem of the _Empire of the Rising Sun_, where we now are.

* * * * *

With the exception of three or four mousmes at the further end who are
practicing with bows and arrows, we are to-day the only people in the
garden, and the mountain round about is silent.

Having finished her cigarette and her cup of tea, Chrysantheme also
wishes to exert her skill; for archery is still held in honor among
the young women. The old man who keeps the range, picks out for her
his best arrows tipped with white and red feathers,--and she takes aim
with a serious air. The mark is a circle, traced in the middle of a
picture on which is painted in flat gray tones, terrifying chimera
flying through the clouds.

Chrysantheme is certainly an adroit markswoman, and we admire her as
much as she expected.

Then Yves, who is usually clever at all games of skill, wishes to try
his luck, and fails. It is amusing to see her, with her mincing ways
and smiles, arrange with the tips of her little fingers, the sailor's
broad hands, placing them on the bow and the string in order to teach
him the proper manner. Never have they seemed to get on so well
together, Yves and my dolly, and I might even feel anxious, were I
less sure of my good brother, and if, moreover, it were not a matter
of perfect indifference to me.

* * * * *

In the stillness of the garden, mid the balmy peacefulness of these
mountains, a loud noise suddenly startles us; a unique, powerful,
terrible sound, which is prolonged in infinite metallic vibrations. It
begins again sounding more appalling: _Boum!_ borne to us by the
rising wind.

"_Nippon Kane!_" explains Chrysantheme,--and she again takes up her
brightly-feathered arrows. "_Nippon Kane_ (the Japanese brass); it is
the Japanese brass that is sounding!" It is the monstrous gong of a
monastery, situated in a suburb beneath us. Well, it is powerful
indeed "the Japanese brass!" When the strokes are ended, when it is no
longer heard, a vibration seems to linger among the suspended foliage,
and an endless quiver runs through the air.

* * * * *

I am obliged to admit that Chrysantheme looks very charming shooting
her arrows, her figure well bent back the better to bend her bow; her
loose-hanging sleeves caught up to her shoulders, showing the graceful
bare arms polished like amber and very much of the same color. Each
arrow whistl