black, and an oleander full of flowers growing among the stones of the
bridge spread its glory beside her, bathed, like herself, in the
sunshine. Behind this youthful figure and this flowering shrub all was
blackness. Upon the pretty red and blue parasol great white letters
formed this inscription, much used among the mousmés, and which I
have learned to recognize: _Stop! clouds, to see her pass by_. And it
was really worth the trouble to stop and look at this exquisite little
person, of a type so ideally Japanese.

However, it will not do to stop too long and be ensnared,--it would
only be another take-in. A doll like the rest, evidently, an ornament
for a china shelf, and nothing more. While I gaze at her, I say to
myself that Chrysanthème, appearing in this same place, with this
dress, this play of light, and this aureole of sunshine, would produce
just as delightful an effect.

For Chrysanthème is pretty, there can be no doubt about it. Yesterday
evening, in fact, I positively admired her. It was quite night; we
were returning with the usual escort of little married couples like
our own, from the inevitable tour of the tea-houses and bazaars. While
the other mousmés walked along hand in hand, adorned with new silver
top-knots which they had succeeded in having presented to them, and
amusing themselves with playthings, she, pleading fatigue, followed,
half reclining, in a djin carriage. We had placed beside her great
bunches of flowers destined to fill our vases, late iris and
long-stemmed lotus, the last of the season, already smelling of
autumn. And it was really very pretty to see this Japanese girl in her
little car, lying carelessly among all these water-flowers, lighted by
gleams of ever-changing colors, as they chanced from the lanterns we
met or passed. If, on the evening of my arrival in Japan, any one had