passes in her eyes.

This little sinking at the heart is for Yves, no doubt.

The news spreads through the house.

Mdlle. Oyouki dashes upstairs, with half a tear in each of her babyish
eyes; kisses me with her full red lips, which always leave a wet ring
on my cheek; then quickly draws from her wide sleeve a square of
tissue-paper, wipes away her stealthy tears, blows her little nose,
rolls the bit of paper in a ball, and throws it into the street on the
parasol of a passer-by.

Then Madame Prune makes her appearance; in an agitated and discomposed
manner she successively adopts every attitude expressive of utter
dismay. What on earth is the matter with the old lady, and why will
she keep getting closer and closer to me, till she is almost in my
way?

It is wonderful all I still have to do this last day, and the endless
drives I have to make to the old curiosity shops, to my tradespeople,
and to the packers.

Nevertheless before my rooms are dismantled, I intend making a sketch
of them, as I did formerly at Stamboul. It really seems to me as if
all I do here is a bitter parody of all I did over there.

This time, however, it is not that I care for this dwelling; it is
only because it is pretty and uncommon, and the sketch will be an
interesting souvenir.