neighborhood to whom our mousmés wish to show some politeness.

Oh! what a singular company of tiny beings forms our suite and follows
us into the tea-gardens in the evenings! The most absurd faces, with
sprigs of flowers stuck in the oddest fashion in their comical and
childish heads! One might suppose it was a whole school of mousmés out
for an evening's frolic under our care.

Yves returns with us, when time comes to remount our
hill,--Chrysanthème heaves great sighs like a tired child, and stops
on every step, leaning on our arms.

When we have reached our destination he says good-night, just touches
Chrysanthème's hand, and descending once more, by the slope which
leads to the quays and the shipping, he crosses the roadstead in a
sampan, to get on board the _Triomphante_.

Meantime, we, with the aid of a sort of secret key, open the door of
our garden, where Madame Prune's pots of flowers, ranged in the
darkness, send forth delicious odors in the night air. We cross the
garden by moonlight or starlight, and mount to our own rooms.

If it is very late,--a frequent occurrence,--we find all our wooden
panels drawn and tightly shut by the careful M. Sucre (as a precaution
against thieves), and our apartment is as close and as private as if
it were a real European one.

In this house, when every chink is thus closed, a strange odor mingles
with the musk and the lotus,--an odor essential to Japan, to the
yellow race, belonging to the soil or emanating from the venerable