We speak, first of all, of the order for departure which may arrive at any moment, for China or for France. Soon we shall have to leave this easy and almost amusing life, this j.a.panese suburb where chance has installed us, and our little house buried among flowers. Yves perhaps will regret all this more than I shall, I know that well enough; for it is the first time that any such interlude has broken the rude monotony of his hard-worked career. Formerly, when in an inferior rank, he was scarcely more often on sh.o.r.e, in foreign countries, than the sea-gulls themselves; whilst I have, from the very beginning, been spoilt by residence in all sorts of charming spots, infinitely superior to this, in all sorts of countries, and the remembrance pleasurably haunts me still.

In order to discover how the land lies, I risk the remark:

"You will perhaps be more sorry to leave this little Chrysantheme than I am?"

Silence reigns between us.

After which I pursue, and, burning my ships, I add:

"You know, after all, if you have such a fancy for her, I haven't really married her; one can't really consider her my wife."

In great surprise he looks in my face:

"Not your wife, you say? But, by Jove, though, that's just it; she is your wife."

There is no need of many words at any time between us two; I know exactly now, by his tone, by his great good-humored smile, how the case stands; I understand all that lies in the little phrase: "That's just it, she is your wife." If she were not, well then he could not answer for what might happen,--notwithstanding any remorse he might have in the depths of his heart, since he is no longer a bachelor and free as air, as in former days. But he considers her my wife, and she is sacred. I have the fullest faith in his word, and I experience a positive relief, a real joy, at finding my staunch Yves of bygone days. How could I have so succ.u.mbed to the demeaning influence of my surroundings as to suspect him even, and invent for myself such a mean, petty anxiety?

We will never even mention that doll again.

We remain up there very late, talking of other things, gazing the while at the immense depths below our feet, 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 each other; 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, it is the music of her _chamecen_, heard from afar, which recalls to us her existence; she is studying some vocal duet with Mdlle. Oyouki, her pupil.

I feel myself in very good humor this evening, and, relieved from any absurd suspicions about my poor Yves, am quite disposed to enjoy without reserve my last days in j.a.pan, and derive therefrom all the amus.e.m.e.nt possible.

Let us then stretch ourselves out on the dazzling white mats, and listen to the singular duet sung by these two mousmes: a strange musical medley, slow and mournful, beginning with two or three high notes, and descending at each couplet, in almost an imperceptible manner, into actual solemnity. The song keeps its dragging slowness; but the accompaniment becoming more and more accentuated, is like the impetuous sound of a far-off hurricane. At the end, when these girlish voices, generally so soft, give out their hoa.r.s.e and guttural notes, Chrysantheme's hands fly wildly and convulsively over the quivering strings. Both of them lower their heads, pout their under-lips in the effort of bringing out these astonishingly deep notes. And at these moments, their little narrow eyes open and seem to reveal an unexpected something, almost a soul, under these trappings of marionnettes.

But it is a soul which more than ever appears to me of a different species to my own; I feel my thoughts to be far removed from theirs, as from the flitting conceptions of a bird, or the dreams of a monkey; I feel there is betwixt them and myself a great gulf, mysterious and awful.

Other sounds of music, wafted to us from the distance outside, interrupt for a moment that of our mousmes. From the depths below, down in Nagasaki, arises a sudden noise of gongs and guitars; we rush to the balcony of the verandah to hear it better.

It is a _matsouri_, a fete, a procession pa.s.sing through the quarter which is not so virtuous as our own, so our mousmes tell us, with a disdainful toss of the head. Nevertheless, from the heights on which we dwell, seen thus in a bird's-eye view, by the uncertain light of the stars, this district has a singularly chaste air, and the concert going on therein, purified in its ascent from the depths of the abyss to our lofty alt.i.tudes, reaches us confusedly, a smothered, enchanted, enchanting sound.

Then it diminishes, and dies away into silence.

The two little friends return to their seats on the mats, and once more take up their melancholy duet. An orchestra, discreetly subdued but innumerable, of crickets and cicalas, accompanies them in an unceasing tremolo,--the immense far-reaching tremolo, which, gentle and eternal, never ceases on j.a.panese land.

LI.

_September 17th_.

During the hour of siesta, the abrupt order arrives to start to-morrow for China, for Tchefou (a horrid place in the gulf of Pekin). It is Yves who comes to wake me in my cabin to bring me the news.

"I must positively get leave to go on sh.o.r.e this evening," he says, while I endeavor to shake myself awake, "if it is only to help you to dismantle and pack up there."

He gazes through my port-hole, raising his glance towards the green summits, in the direction of Diou-djen-dji and our echoing old cottage, hidden from us by a turn of the mountain.

It is very nice of him to wish to help me in my packing; but I think he also counts upon saying farewell to his little j.a.panese friends up there, and I really cannot find fault with that.

He gets through his work, and does in fact get leave without help from me, to go on sh.o.r.e at five o'clock, after drill and manuvres.

As for myself, I start off at once, in a hired sampan. In the vast flood of midday sunshine, to the quivering noise of the cicalas, I mount up to Diou-djen-dji.

The paths are solitary, the plants drooping in the heat. Here, however, is Madame Jonquille, taking the air, in the bright sunshine of the gra.s.shoppers, sheltering her dainty figure and her charming face under an immense paper parasol, a huge circle, closely ribbed and fantastically striped.

She recognizes me from afar, and laughing as usual, runs to meet me.

I announce our departure, and a tearful pout suddenly contracts her childish face. After all, does this news grieve her? Is she going to shed tears over it? No! it turns to a fit of laughter, a little nervous perhaps, but unexpected and disconcerting,--dry and clear, pealing through the silence and warmth of the narrow paths, like a cascade of little mock pearls.

Ah, there indeed is a marriage tie which will be broken without much pain! But she fills me with impatience, poor empty-headed linnet, with her laughter, and I turn my back upon her to continue my journey.

Up above, Chrysantheme sleeps, stretched out on the floor; the house is wide open, and the soft mountain breeze rustles gently through it.

That same evening we had intended to give a tea-party, and by my orders flowers had already been placed in every nook and corner of the house. There were lotus in our vases, beautiful rose-colored lotus, the last of the season, I verily believe. They must have been ordered from a special gardener, out yonder near the Great Temple, and they will cost me dear.

With a few gentle taps of a fan I awake my surprised mousme; and, curious to catch her first impressions, I announce my departure. She starts up, rubs her eyelids with the back of her little hands, looks at me, and hangs her head: something like an expression of sadness pa.s.ses in her eyes.

This little sinking at the heart is for Yves, no doubt.

The news spreads through the house.

Mdlle. Oyouki dashes upstairs, with half a tear in each of her babyish eyes; kisses me with her full red lips, which always leave a wet ring on my cheek; then quickly draws from her wide sleeve a square of tissue-paper, wipes away her stealthy tears, blows her little nose, rolls the bit of paper in a ball, and throws it into the street on the parasol of a pa.s.ser-by.

Then Madame Prune makes her appearance; in an agitated and discomposed manner she successively adopts every att.i.tude expressive of utter dismay. What on earth is the matter with the old lady, and why will she keep getting closer and closer to me, till she is almost in my way?

It is wonderful all I still have to do this last day, and the endless drives I have to make to the old curiosity shops, to my tradespeople, and to the packers.

Nevertheless before my rooms are dismantled, I intend making a sketch of them, as I did formerly at Stamboul. It really seems to me as if all I do here is a bitter parody of all I did over there.

This time, however, it is not that I care for this dwelling; it is only because it is pretty and uncommon, and the sketch will be an interesting souvenir.

I fetch, therefore, a leaf out of my alb.u.m, and begin at once, seated on the floor and leaning on my desk, ornamented with gra.s.shoppers in relief, while behind me, very, very close to me, the three women follow the movements of my pencil with an astonished attention.

j.a.panese art being entirely conventional, they have never before seen anyone draw from nature, and my style delights them. I may not perhaps possess the steady and nimble touch of M. Sucre, as he groups his charming storks, but I am master of a few notions of perspective which are wanting in him; and I have been taught to draw things as I see them, without giving them ingeniously distorted and grimacing att.i.tudes; and the three j.a.panese are amazed at the air of _reality_ thrown in my sketch.

With little shrieks of admiration, they point out to each other the different things, as little by little their shape and form are outlined in black on my paper. Chrysantheme gazes at me with a new kind of interest: "_Anata itchi-ban_!" she says (literally "Thou first!" meaning: "You are really quite a swell!") Mdlle. Oyouki is carried away by her admiration and exclaims in a burst of enthusiasm:

_"Anata bakari!"_ ("Thou alone!" that is to say: "There is no one like you in the world, all the rest are mere rubbish!")

Madame Prune says nothing, but I can see that she does not think the less; her languishing att.i.tudes, her hand that at each moment gently touches mine, confirm the suspicions that her look of dismay a few moments ago awoke within me: evidently my physical charms speak to her imagination, which in spite of years has remained full of romance! I shall leave with the regret of having understood her too late!!