den full of sunshine, where the
dwarf shrubs and the deformed flowers seem, like the rest of the
household, plunged in warm somnolence.

At the outer gate I stop for the last adieu: the little sad pout has
reappeared, more accentuated than ever, on Chrysantheme's face; it is the
right thing, it is correct, and I should feel offended now were it
absent.

Well, little mousme, let us part good friends; one last kiss even, if you
like. I took you to amuse me; you have not perhaps succeeded very well,
but after all you have done what you could: given me your little face,
your little curtseys, your little music; in short, you have been pleasant
enough in your Japanese way. And who knows, perchance I may yet think of
you sometimes when I recall this glorious summer, these pretty, quaint
gardens, and the ceaseless concert of the cicalas.

She prostrates herself on the threshold of the door, her forehead against
the ground, and remains in this attitude of superlatively polite salute
as long as I am in sight, while I go down the pathway by which I am to
disappear for ever.

As the distance between us increases, I turn once or twice to look at her
again; but it is a mere civility, and meant to return as it deserves her
grand final salutation.

CHAPTER LIII

OFF FOR CHINA

When I entered the town, at the turn of the principal street, I had the
good luck to meet Number 415, my poor relative. I was just at that moment
in want of a speedy djin, and I at once got into his vehicle; besides, it
was an alleviation to my feelings, in this hour of departure, to take my
last drive in company with a member of my family.

Unaccustomed as I was to be out of doors during the hours of siesta, I
had never yet seen the streets of the town thus overwhelmed by the
sunshine, thus deserted in the silence and solitary brilliancy peculiar
to all hot countries.

In front of all the shops hang white shades, adorned here and there with
slight designs in black, in the quaintness of which lurks I know not
what--something mysterious: dragons, emblems, symbolical figures. The sky
is too glaring; the light crude, implacable; never has this old town of
Nagasaki appeared to me so old, so worm-eaten, so bald, notwithstanding
all its veneer of new papers and gaudy paintings. These little wooden
houses, of such marvellous cleanly whiteness inside, are black outside,
timeworn, disjointed and grimacing. When one looks closely, this grimace
is to be fo