first lantern to hand, and stick a fresh candle on the iron point at
the bottom; Chrysanthème puts forth all her strength, the candle
splits, breaks; the mousmé pricks her fingers, pouts and whimpers.
Such is the inevitable scene that takes place every evening, and
delays our retiring to rest under the dark blue gauze net for a good
quarter of an hour; while the cicalas on the roof seem to mock us with
their ceaseless song.

All this, which I should find amusing in any one else,--any one I
loved--provokes me in her.




XLIV.


_September 11th_.

A week has passed by peacefully enough, during which I have written
down nothing.

Little by little I am becoming accustomed to my Japanese household, to
the strangeness of the language, costumes, and faces. For the last
three weeks, no letters have arrived from Europe; they have no doubt
miscarried, and their absence contributes, as is usually the case, to
throw a veil of oblivion over the past.

Every day, therefore, I faithfully climb up to my villa, sometimes by
beautiful star-lit nights, sometimes through stormy downpours of rain.