immense depths below, at the valleys and mountains as they become, one by
one, indistinct and lost in the deepening darkness. Placed as we are at
an enormous height, in the wide, free atmosphere, we seem already to have
quitted this miniature country, already to be freed from the impression
of littleness which it has given us, and from the little links by which
it was beginning to bind--us to itself.

Seen from such heights as these, all the countries of the globe bear a
strong resemblance to one another; they lose the imprint made upon them
by man, and by races; by all the atoms swarming on the surface.

As of old, in the Breton marshes, in the woods of Toulven, or at sea in
the night-watches, we talk of all those things to which thoughts
naturally revert in darkness; of ghosts, of spirits, of eternity, of the
great hereafter, of chaos--and we entirely forget little Chrysantheme!

When we arrive at Diou-djen-dji in the starry night, the music of her
'chamecen', heard from afar, recalls to us her existence; she is studying
some vocal duet with Mademoiselle Oyouki, her pupil.

I feel myself in very good humor this evening, and, relieved from my
absurd suspicions about my poor Yves, am quite disposed to enjoy without
reserve my last days in Japan, and to derive therefrom all the amusement
possible.

Let us then repose ourselves on the dazzling white mats, and listen to
the singular duet sung by those two mousmes: a strange musical medley,
slow and mournful, beginning with two or three high notes, and descending
at each couplet, in an almost imperceptible manner, into actual
solemnity. The song keeps its dragging slowness; but the accompaniment,