face under an immense paper parasol, a huge circle, closely ribbed and
fantastically striped.

She recognizes me from afar, and laughing as usual, runs to meet me.

I announce our departure, and a tearful pout suddenly contracts her
childish face. After all, does this news grieve her? Is she going to
shed tears over it? No! it turns to a fit of laughter, a little
nervous perhaps, but unexpected and disconcerting,--dry and clear,
pealing through the silence and warmth of the narrow paths, like a
cascade of little mock pearls.

Ah, there indeed is a marriage tie which will be broken without much
pain! But she fills me with impatience, poor empty-headed linnet, with
her laughter, and I turn my back upon her to continue my journey.

Up above, Chrysanthème sleeps, stretched out on the floor; the house
is wide open, and the soft mountain breeze rustles gently through it.

That same evening we had intended to give a tea-party, and by my
orders flowers had already been placed in every nook and corner of the
house. There were lotus in our vases, beautiful rose-colored lotus,
the last of the season, I verily believe. They must have been ordered
from a special gardener, out yonder near the Great Temple, and they
will cost me dear.

With a few gentle taps of a fan I awake my surprised mousmé; and,
curious to catch her first impressions, I announce my departure. She
starts up, rubs her eyelids with the back of her little hands, looks
at me, and hangs her head: something like an expression of sadness