naturally revert in darkness; of ghosts, of spirits, of eternity, of
the great hereafter, of chaos--and we entirely forget little
Chrysanthème!

When we arrive at Diou-djen-dji in the starry night, it is the music
of her _chamécen_, heard from afar, which recalls to us her existence;
she is studying some vocal duet with Mdlle. Oyouki, her pupil.

I feel myself in very good humor this evening, and, relieved from any
absurd suspicions about my poor Yves, am quite disposed to enjoy
without reserve my last days in Japan, and derive therefrom all the
amusement possible.

Let us then stretch ourselves out on the dazzling white mats, and
listen to the singular duet sung by these two mousmés: a strange
musical medley, slow and mournful, beginning with two or three high
notes, and descending at each couplet, in almost an imperceptible
manner, into actual solemnity. The song keeps its dragging slowness;
but the accompaniment becoming more and more accentuated, is like the
impetuous sound of a far-off hurricane. At the end, when these girlish
voices, generally so soft, give out their hoarse and guttural notes,
Chrysanthème's hands fly wildly and convulsively over the quivering
strings. Both of them lower their heads, pout their under-lips in the
effort of bringing out these astonishingly deep notes. And at these
moments, their little narrow eyes open and seem to reveal an
unexpected something, almost a soul, under these trappings of
marionnettes.

But it is a soul which more than ever appears to me of a different
species to my own; I feel my thoughts to be far removed from theirs,