indeed "the Japanese brass!" When the strokes are ended, when it is no
longer heard, a vibration seems to linger among the suspended foliage,
and an endless quiver runs through the air.

* * * * *

I am obliged to admit that Chrysanthème looks very charming shooting
her arrows, her figure well bent back the better to bend her bow; her
loose-hanging sleeves caught up to her shoulders, showing the graceful
bare arms polished like amber and very much of the same color. Each
arrow whistles by with the rustle of a bird's wing,--then a short
sharp little blow is heard, the target is hit, always.

At nightfall, when Chrysanthème has gone up to Diou-djen-dji, we
cross, Yves and myself, the European concession, on our way to the
ship, to take up our watch till the following day. The cosmopolitan
quarter exhaling an odor of absinthe, is dressed up with flags, and
squibs are being fired off in honor of France. Long lines of djins
pass by, dragging as fast as their naked legs can carry them, the crew
of the _Triomphante_, who are shouting and fanning themselves. The
"Marseillaise" is heard everywhere; English sailors are singing it,
gutturally with a dull and slow cadence like their own "God Save." In
all the American bars, grinding organs are hammering it with many an
odious variation and flourish, in order to attract our men.

* * * * *

Just one funny recollection comes back to me of that evening. On our
return, we had by mistake got into a street inhabited by a multitude
of ladies of doubtful reputation. I can still see that big fellow