Chrysanthème and poor Oyouki, would have been obliged to stay at home
with heavy hearts, because we had not yet arrived, and because Madame
Prune had been seized with faintness and hysterics after her dinner.

Quickly the mousmés must deck themselves out. Chrysanthème is ready;
Oyouki hurries, changes her dress, and, putting on a mouse-colored
gray robe, begs me to arrange the bows of her fine sash--black satin
lined with yellow--sticking at the same time in her hair a silver
top-knot. We light our lanterns, swinging at the end of little sticks;
M. Sucre, overwhelming us with thanks for his daughter, accompanies us
on all fours to the door,--and we go off gayly through the clear and
balmy night.

Below, we find the town in all the animation of a great holiday. The
streets are thronged; the crowd passes by,--a laughing, capricious,
slow, unequal tide, flowing onwards, however, steadily in the same
direction, towards the same goal. There arises therefrom an immense
but light murmur in which dominate the sounds of laughter, and the
low-toned interchange of polite speeches. Then follow lanterns upon
lanterns. Never in my life have I seen so many, so variegated, so
complicated, and so extraordinary.

We follow, drifting with the surging crowd, borne along by it. There
are groups of women of every age, decked out in their smartest
clothes, crowds of mousmés with aigrettes of flowers in their hair, or
little silver top-knots like Oyouki,--pretty little physiognomies,
little narrow eyes peeping between slit lids like those of a new-born
kitten, fat pale little cheeks, round, puffed-out, half-opened lips.
They are pretty, nevertheless, these little Niponese, in their smiles
and childishness.