are restless, as can be easily imagined. Chrysanthème gives him a
shake, wishing him to get up and share our blue mosquito net.

After a little pressing he does as he is bid and follows us, looking
like an overgrown boy only half awake. I make no objection to this
singular hospitality; after all, it looks so little like a bed, the
matting we are to share, and we sleep in our clothes, as we always do
according to the Niponese fashion. After all, on a journey in a
railway, do not the most estimable ladies stretch themselves without
demur by the side of gentlemen unknown to them?

I have however placed Chrysanthème's little wooden block in the center
of the gauze tent, between our two pillows.

Then, without saying a word, in a dignified manner as though she were
rectifying an error of etiquette that I had inadvertently committed,
Chrysanthème takes up her piece of wood, putting in its place my
snake-skin drum; I shall therefore be in the middle between the two.
It is really more correct, decidedly much more proper; Chrysanthème is
evidently a very decorous young person.

Returning on board next morning, in the clear morning sun, we walk
through pathways full of dew; accompanied by a band of funny little
mousmés of six or eight years of age, who are going off to school.

Needless to say that the cicalas around us keep up their perpetual
sonorous chirping. The mountain smells delicious. The atmosphere, the
dawning day, the infantine grace of these little girls in their long
frocks and shiny chignons, all is redundant with freshness and youth.
The flowers and grasses on which we tread sparkle with dewdrops,