her own importance, a petulant little gossip. In my childhood I was
sometimes taken to the Learned Animals Theatre, and I remember a certain
Madame de Pompadour, a principal role, filled by a gayly dressed old
monkey; Touki-San reminds me of her.

In the evening, all these folk usually come and fetch us for a long
processional walk with lighted lanterns. My wife, more serious, more
melancholy, perhaps even more refined, and belonging, I fancy, to a
higher class, tries when these friends come to us to play the part of the
lady of the house. It is comical to see the entry of these ill-matched
pairs, partners for a day, the ladies, with their disjointed bows,
falling on all fours before Chrysantheme, the queen of the establishment.
When we are all assembled, we set out, arm in arm, one behind another,
and always carrying at the end of our short sticks little white or red
paper lanterns; it is a pretty custom.

We are obliged to scramble down the kind of street, or rather goat's-
path, which leads to the Japanese Nagasaki--with the prospect, alas!
of having to climb up again at night; clamber up all the steps, all the
slippery slopes, stumble over all the stones, before we shall be able to
get home, go to bed, and sleep. We make our descent in the darkness,
under the branches, under the foliage, among dark gardens and venerable
little houses that throw but a faint glimmer on the road; and when the
moon is absent or clouded over, our lanterns are by no means unnecessary.

When at last we reach the bottom, suddenly, without transition, we find
ourselves in the very heart of Nagasaki and its busy throng in a long
illuminated street, where vociferating djins hurry along and thousands of
paper lanterns swing and gleam in the wind. It is life and animation,
after the peace of our silent suburb.