nce, a petulant little gossip. In my
childhood, I was sometimes taken to the _Learned Animals_ Theater, and
I remember a certain Madame de Pompadour, a principal role, filled by
a gayly dressed-up old monkey; Touki-San reminds me of her.

In the evening, all these folk generally come and fetch us for a long
processional walk with lighted lanterns. My wife, more serious, more
melancholy, perhaps even more refined, and belonging, I fancy, to a
higher class, tries when these friends come to us to play the part of
the lady of the house. It is comical to see the entry of these
ill-matched couples, partners for a day, the ladies with their
disjointed bows falling on all fours before Chrysantheme, the queen of
the establishment. When we are all assembled, we start off, arm in
arm, one behind the other, and always carrying at the end of our short
sticks little white or red paper lanterns;--it seems it is pretty.

We are obliged to scramble down the kind of street, or rather
goat's-path, which leads to the Japanese Nagasaki,--with the prospect,
alas! of having to climb up again at night; clamber up all the steps,
all the slippery slopes, stumble over all the stones, before we shall
be able to get home, go to bed, and sleep. We make our descent in the
darkness, under the branches, under the foliage, betwixt dark gardens
and venerable little houses that throw but a faint glimmer on the
road; and when the moon is absent or clouded over, our lanterns are
by no means unnecessary.

When at last we reach the bottom, suddenly, without transition, we
find ourselves in the very heart of Nagasaki and its busy throng in a
long illuminated street, where vociferating djins hurry along and
thousands of paper lanterns swing and gleam in the wind. It is life
and animation, after the peace of our silent suburb.

Here, decorum requires we should separate from our wives. All five
take hold of each others' hands, like a batch of little girls out
walking. We follow them with an air of indifference. Seen from behind,
our dolls are really very dainty, with their back hair so tidily done
up, their tortoiseshell pins so coquettishly arranged. They shuffle
along, their high wooden clogs making an ugly sound, striving to walk
with their toes turned in, according to the height of fashion and
elegance. At every minute they burst out laughing.

Yes, seen from behind, they are very pretty; they have, like all
Japanese women, the most lovely turn of the he