assume whenever they have to call from afar.

"Hi! Mdlle. Lu-u-u-u une!!"

"Hi! Madame Jonqui-i-i-i ille!!"

They shout from one to the other their outlandish names, prolonging
them indefinitely in the now silent night, in the reverberations of
the damp air after the great summer rain.

At length they are all collected and united again, these tiny
personages with narrow eyes and no brains, and we return to
Diou-djen-dji all wet through.

For the third time, we have Yves sleeping beside us under our blue
tent.

There is a great row soon after midnight in the apartment beneath us:
our landlord's family returning from a pilgrimage to a far-distant
temple of the Goddess of Grace. (Although Madame Prune is a Shintoist,
she reveres this deity, who, scandal says, watched over her youth.) A
moment after, Mdlle. Oyouki bursts into our room like a rocket,
bringing, on a charming little tray, sweetmeats which have been
blessed and bought at the gates of the temple yonder, on purpose for
us, and which we must positively eat at once, before the virtue is
gone out of them. Scarcely rousing ourselves, we absorb these little
edibles flavored with sugar and pepper, and return a great many sleepy
thanks.

Yves sleeps quietly on this occasion, without dealing any blows to the