best in all Nagasaki, and whenever I am in a hurry, I always beg
Madame Prune to send down to the djin stand, and engage my cousin.




XX.


I arrived unexpectedly to-day at Diou-djen-dji, in the midst of a
burning noonday heat. At the foot of the stairs lay Chrysanthème's
wooden clogs and her sandals of varnished leather.

In our rooms, up above, all was open to the air; bamboo blinds lowered
on the sunny side, and through their transparency came warm air and
golden threads of light. To-day, the flowers Chrysanthème had placed
in our bronze vases were lotus, and my eyes fell, as I entered, upon
their great rosy cups.

According to her usual custom, she was lying flat on the floor
enjoying her daily siesta.

What a singular originality these bouquets of Chrysanthème always
have: a something difficult to define, a Japanese slimness, a
mannered grace which we should never succeed in imparting to them.

She was sleeping flat on her face upon the mats, her high headdress
and tortoiseshell pins standing out boldly from the rest of the
horizontal figure. The train of her tunic prolonged her delicate
little body, like the tail of a bird; her arms were stretched