The three ladies are about to turn back home, for the night is already
far advanced and, farther down, the cosmopolitan quarters near the quays
are not safe at this unusual hour.

The moment has therefore come for Yves--who will not land again--to make
his last tragic farewells to his friends the little mousmes.

I am very curious to see the parting between Yves and Chrysantheme;
I listen with all my ears, I look with all my eyes, but it takes place in
the simplest and quietest fashion: none of that heartbreaking which will
be inevitable between Madame Prune and myself; I even notice in my mousme
an indifference, an unconcern which puzzles me; I positively am at a loss
to understand what it all means.

And I muse as I continue to descend toward the sea. "Her appearance of
sadness was not, therefore, on Yves's account. On whose, then?" and the
phrase runs through my head:

"Come back to-morrow before setting sail, to bid me goodby; I shall not
return to my mother until evening; you will find me still up there."

Japan is indeed most delightful this evening, so fresh and so sweet; and
little Chrysantheme was very charming just now, as she silently walked
beside me through the darkness of the lane.

It is about two o'clock when we reach the 'Triomphante' in a hired
sampan, where I have heaped up all my cases till there is danger of
sinking. The "very tall friend" gives over to me the watch that I must
keep till four o'clock; and the sailors on duty, but half awake, make a