A piece of work, as minute and fine as that of an engraver upon stone, is
slowly executed on my person; and their lean hands harrow and worry me
with automatic precision.

Finally it is finished, and the tattooers, falling back with an air of
satisfaction to contemplate their work, declare it to be lovely.

I dress myself quickly to go on shore, to take advantage of my last hours
in Japan.

The heat is fearful to-day: the powerful September sun falls with a
certain melancholy upon the yellowing leaves; it is a day of clear
burning heat after an almost chilly morning.

As I did yesterday, I ascend to my lofty suburb, during the drowsy
noontime, by deserted pathways filled only with light and silence.

I noiselessly open the door of my dwelling, and enter cautiously on
tiptoe, for fear of Madame Prune.

At the foot of the staircase, upon the white mats, beside the little
sabots and tiny sandals which are always lying about in the vestibule,
a great array of luggage is ready for departure, which I recognize at a
glance--pretty, dark robes, familiar to my sight, carefully folded and
wrapped in blue towels tied at the four corners. I even fancy I feel a
little sad when I catch sight of a corner of the famous box of letters
and souvenirs peeping out of one of these bundles, in which my portrait
by Ureno now reposes among divers photographs of mousmes. A sort of
long-necked mandolin, also ready for departure, lies on the top of the