We have come at the wrong moment; there is a file of people at the
door. Long rows of djins' cars are stationed there, awaiting the
customers they have brought, who will all have their turn before us.
The runners, naked and tatooed, carefully combed in sleek bands and
shiny chignons, are chatting together, smoking little pipes, or
bathing their muscular legs in the fresh water of the torrent.

The courtyard is irreproachably Japanese, with its lanterns and dwarf
trees. But the studio where one sits might be in Paris or Pontoise;
the self-same chair in "old oak," the same faded "poufs," plaster
columns and pasteboard rocks.

The people who are being _taken_ at this moment are two ladies of
quality, evidently mother and daughter, who are sitting together for a
cabinet-sized portrait, with accessories of Louis XV. time. A strange
group this, the first great ladies of this country I have seen so
near, with their long aristocratic faces, dull, lifeless, almost gray
by dint of rice-powder, and their mouths painted heart-shape in vivid
carmine. Withal an undeniable look of good breeding that strongly
impresses us, notwithstanding the intrinsic differences of races and
acquired notions.

They scanned Chrysanthème with an obvious look of scorn, although her
costume was as ladylike as their own. For my part, I could not take my
eyes off these two creatures; they captivated me like incomprehensible
things that one had never seen before. Their fragile bodies,
outlandishly graceful in posture, are lost in stiff materials and
redundant sashes, of which the ends droop like tired wings. They make
me think, I know not why, of great rare insects; the extraordinary
patterns on their garments have something of the dark motley of