little wooden block to rest the nape of his neck.

A few houses are open, where amusements are still going on; here and
there, from the somber gardens, the sound of a guitar reaches our
ears, some dance giving in its weird rhythm a strange impression of
sadness.

Here is the well, surrounded by bamboos, where we are wont to make a
nocturnal halt for Chrysanthème to take breath. Yves begs me to throw
forward the red gleam of my lantern, in order to recognize the place,
for it marks our half-way resting place.

And at last, at last, here is our house! The door is closed, all is
silent and black. Our panels have been carefully shut by M. Sucre and
Madame Prune; the rain streams down the wood of our old black walls.

In such weather it is impossible to allow Yves to return down hill,
and wander along the shore in quest of a sampan. No, he shall not
return on board to-night; we will put him up in our house. His little
room has indeed been already provided for in the conditions of our
lease, and notwithstanding his discreet refusal, we immediately set to
work to make it. Let us go in, take off our boots, shake ourselves
like so many cats that have been out in a shower, and step up to our
apartment.

In front of Buddha, the little lamps are burning; in the middle of the
room, the night-blue gauze is stretched. On entering, the first
impression is a favorable one; our dwelling is pretty, this evening,
the late hour and deep silence give it an air of mystery. And then
also, in such weather, it is always pleasant to get home.