_September 4th_.

I met yesterday, in an old and ruined quarter of the town, a perfectly
exquisite mousmé, charmingly dressed; a fresh note of color against
the dark background of decayed buildings.

It was quite at the farthest end of Nagasaki, in the most ancient part
of the town. In this region are trees centuries old, ancient temples
of Buddha, of Amiddah, of Benten, or Kwanon, with steep and pompous
roofs; monsters carved in granite sit there in courtyards silent as
the grave, where the grass grows between the paving-stones. This
deserted quarter is traversed by a narrow torrent running in a deep
channel, across which are thrown little curved bridges with granite
balustrades eaten away by lichen. All the objects there wear the
strange grimace, the quaint arrangement familiar to us in the most
antique Japanese drawings.

I walked through it all at the burning hour of midday, and saw not a
soul, unless indeed, through the open windows of the bonze-houses, I
caught sight of some priests, guardians of tombs or sanctuaries,
taking their siesta under their dark-blue gauze nets.

All at once this little mousmé appeared, a little above me, just at
the point of the arch of one of these bridges carpeted with gray moss;
she was in full light, in full sunshine, and stood out in brilliant
clearness, like a fairy vision, against the background of old black
temples and deep shadows. She was holding her dress together with one
hand, gathering it close round her ankles to give herself an air of
greater slimness. Over her quaint little head, her round umbrella with
its thousand ribs threw a great halo of blue and red, edged with