monotony of the mats, to the finely finished simplicity of the white
woodwork. I am even losing my Western prejudices; all my preconceived
ideas are this evening evaporating and vanishing; crossing the garden
I have courteously saluted M. Sucre, who was watering his dwarf shrubs
and his deformed flowers; and Madame Prune appears to me a highly
respectable old lady, in whose past there is nothing to criticise.

We shall take no walk to-night; my only wish is to remain stretched
out where I am, listening to the music of my mousmé's _chamécen_.

Till now, I have always used the word _guitar_, to avoid exotic terms,
for the abuse of which I have been so reproached. But neither the word
_guitar_ nor _mandolin_ suffices to designate this slender instrument
with its long neck, the high notes of which are shriller than the
voice of the grasshopper; henceforth, I will write _chamécen_.

I will also call my mousmé _Kikou, Kikou-San_; this name suits her
better than Chrysanthème, which though translating the sense exactly,
does not preserve the strange-sounding euphony of the original.

I therefore say to Kikou, my wife:

"Play, play on for me; I shall remain here all the evening and listen
to you."

Astonished to find me in so amiable a mood, she requires pressing a
little, and with almost a bitter curve of triumph and disdain about
her lips, she seats herself in the attitude of an idol, raises her
long, dark-colored sleeves, and begins. The first hesitating notes are
murmured faintly and mingle with the music of the insects humming