_July 10th, 1885_.
It is three days now since my marriage was an accomplished fact.
In the lower part of the town, in the middle of one of the new
cosmopolitan districts, in the ugly pretentious building which is a
kind of register office, the deed has been signed and countersigned,
with marvelous hieroglyphics, in a large book, in the presence of
those ridiculous little creatures, formerly silken-robed _Samouraï_,
but now called policemen, and dressed up in tight jackets and Russian
caps.
The ceremony took place in the full heat of mid-day; Chrysanthème and
her mother arrived there together, and I went alone. We seemed to have
met for the purpose of ratifying some discreditable contract, and the
two women trembled in the presence of these ugly little individuals,
who, in their eyes, were the personification of the law.
In the middle of their official scrawl, they made me write in French
my name, Christian name, and profession. Then they gave me an
extraordinary document on a sheet of rice-paper, which set forth the
permission granted me by the civilian Authorities of the Island of
Kiu-Siu, to inhabit a house situated in the suburb of Diou-djen-dji,
with a person called Chrysanthème, the said permission being available
under protection of the police, during the whole of my stay in Japan.
In the evening, however, up there in our own quarter, our little
marriage became a very pretty affair,--a procession carrying lanterns,
a festive tea and some music. It was indeed high time.
Now we are almost an old married couple, and we are gently settling
down into every-day habits.
Chrysanthème tends the flowers in our bronze vases, dresses herself
with studied care, proud of her socks with the divided big toe, and
strums all day on a kind of long-necked guitar, producing therefrom
plaintive and sad sounds.