night-moths. Above all, the mystery of their tiny slits of eyes,
drawn back and up so far that the tight-drawn lids can scarcely open;
the mystery of their expression, which seems to denote inner thoughts
of a silly, vague, complacent absurdity, a world of ideas absolutely
closed to ourselves. And I think as I gaze at them: "How far we are
from this Japanese people! how utterly dissimilar are our races!"

Then we have to let several English sailors pass before us, decked out
in their white drill clothes, fresh, fat and pink like little sugar
figures, who attitudinize in a sheepish manner round the shafts of the
columns.

At last it is our turn; Chrysanthème slowly settles herself in a very
affected style, turning in the points of her toes as much as possible,
according to the fashion.

And on the negative we are shown we look like a supremely ridiculous
little family drawn up in a line by a common photographer at a fair.




XLVI.

_September 13th_.


This evening Yves is off duty three hours earlier than myself; from
time to time this is the case, according to the arrangement of the
watches. On those occasions he lands the first, and goes up to wait