At a given moment the hag turns round and presents the profile of her
distorted snub nose as she accepts the bowl of rice which is offered
to her; on the screen at the very same instant appears the elongated
outline of the wolf, with its pointed ears, its muzzle and chops, its
great teeth and hanging tongue. The orchestra grinds, wails, quivers;
then suddenly bursts out into funereal shrieks, like a concert of
owls; the hag is now eating, and her wolfish shadow is eating also,
greedily moving its jaws and nibbling at another shadow easy to
recognize,--the arm of a little child.

We now go on to see the _great salamander_ of Japan, an animal rare
in this country, and quite unknown elsewhere, a great cold mass;
sluggish and benumbed, looking like some antediluvian _experiment_,
forgotten in the inner seas of this archipelago.

Next comes the trained elephant, the terror of our mousmés, the
equilibrists, the menagerie.

It is one o'clock in the morning before we are back at Diou-djen-dji.

We first get Yves to bed in the little paper room he has already once
occupied. Then we go to bed ourselves, after the inevitable
preparations, the smoking of the little pipe, and the _pan! pan! pan!
pan!_ on the edge of the box.

Suddenly Yves begins to move restlessly in his sleep, to toss about,
giving great kicks on the wall, and making a frightful noise.

What can be the matter? I at once imagine that he must be dreaming of
the old hag and her wolfish shadow. Chrysanthème raises herself on her