smattering of the Niponese language.

Messrs, the packers have, at my request, sent in the evening several
charming little boxes, with compartments and false bottoms, and
several paper bags (in the untearable Japanese paper), which close of
themselves and are fastened by strings, also in paper, arranged
beforehand in the most ingenious manner,--quite the cleverest and most
handy thing of its kind; for little useful trifles these people are
unrivaled.

It is a real treat to pack them, and everybody lends a helping
hand,--Yves, Chrysanthème, Madame Prune, her daughter, and M. Sucre.
By the glimmer of the reception-lamps, which are still burning, every
one wraps, rolls, and ties up expeditiously, for it is already late.

Although Oyouki has a heavy heart, she cannot prevent herself from
indulging in a few bursts of childish laughter while she works.

Madame Prune, bathed in tears, no longer restrains her feelings; poor
lady, I really very much regret....

Chrysanthème is absent-minded and silent.

But what a fearful amount of luggage! Eighteen cases or parcels,
containing Buddhas, chimeras, and vases, without mentioning the last
lotus that I carry away tied up in a pink cluster.

All this is piled up in the djins' carts, hired at sunset, which are
waiting at the door, while their runners lie asleep on the grass.