ter of fifteen, Oyouki, who is Chrysantheme's inseparable friend.

[Footnote D: In Japanese: _Sato-san_ and _Oume-San_.]

Both of them are entirely absorbed in the practices of Shintoist
devotion: perpetually on their knees before their family altar,
perpetually occupied in murmuring their lengthy orisons to the
Spirits, and clapping their hands from time to time to recall around
them the inattentive essences floating in the atmosphere;--in their
spare moments they cultivate in little pots of gayly-painted
earthenware, dwarf shrubs and unheard-of flowers which smell
deliciously in the evening.

M. Sucre is taciturn, dislikes society, looks like a mummy in his blue
cotton dress. He writes a great deal, (his memoirs, I fancy) with a
paint-brush held in his finger-tips, on long strips of rice-paper of a
faint gray tint.

Madame Prune is eagerly attentive, obsequious and rapacious; her
eye-brows are closely shaven, her teeth carefully lacquered with black
as befits a lady of gentility, and at all and no matter what hours,
she appears on all fours at the entrance of our apartment, to offer us
her services.

As to Oyouki, she rushes upon us ten times a day,--whether we are
sleeping, or dressing,--like a whirlwind on a visit, flashing upon us,
a very gust of dainty youthfulness and droll gayety,--a living peal of
laughter. She is round of figure, round of face; half baby, half girl;
and so affectionate that she bestows kisses on the slightest occasion
with her great puffy lips,--a little moist, it is true, like a
child's, but nevertheless very fresh and very red.

XV.

In our dwelling, open as it is all the night through, the lamps
burning before the gilded Buddha procure us the company of the insect
inhabitants of every garden in the neighborhood. Moths, mosquitoes,
cicalas, and other extraordinary insects of which I don't even know
the names,--all this company assembles around us.

It is extremely funny, when some unexpected grasshopper, some
free-and-easy beetle presents itself without invitation or excuse,
scampering over our white mats, to see the manner in which
Chrysantheme indicates it to my righteous vengeance,--merely pointing
her finger at it, without another word than "Hou!" said with bent
head, a particular pout, and a scandalized air.

There is a fan kept expressly for the purpose of blowing them out of
doors again.

XVI.

Here, I must own, that to the reader of my story it must app