The moment has therefore come for Yves--who will not land again--to
make his last tragic farewells to his friends the little mousmés.

Now I am very curious to see the parting between Yves and
Chrysanthème; I listen with all my ears, I look with all my eyes, it
takes place in the simplest and quietest fashion: none of that
heartbreaking which will be inevitable between Madame Prune and
myself; I even notice in my mousmé an indifference, an unconcern which
puzzles me; I positively am at a loss to understand what it all means.

And I muse to myself as I continue to descend towards the sea. "Her
appearance of sadness was not, therefore, on Yves' account. On whose,
then?" and the phrase runs through my head:

"Come back to-morrow before setting sail, to bid me good-by; I shall
only return to my mother in the evening; you will find me still up
there."

Japan is indeed most delightful this evening, so fresh and so sweet;
and little Chrysanthème was very charming just now, as she silently
walked beside me through the darkness of the lane.

It is about two o'clock when we reach the _Triomphante_ in a hired
sampan, where I have heaped up all my cases till there is danger of
sinking. The _very tall friend_ gives over to me the watch that I must
keep till four o'clock; and the sailors on duty, but half awake, make
a chain in the darkness, to haul on board all my fragile luggage.