_July 13th_.
Last night, as we lay under the Japanese roof of Diou-djen-dji,--under
the thin and ancient wooden roof scorched by a hundred years of
sunshine, vibrating at the least sound, like the stretched-out
parchment of a tamtam,--in the silence which prevails at two o'clock
in the morning, we heard overhead a regular wild huntsman's chase
passing at full gallop:
"Nidzoumi!" ("the mice!"), said Chrysanthème.
Suddenly, the word brings back to my mind yet another, spoken in a
very different language, in a country far away from here: "Setchan!" a
word heard elsewhere, a word that has likewise been whispered in my
ear by a woman's voice, under similar circumstances, in a moment of
nocturnal terror--"Setchan!" It was during one of our first nights at
Stamboul spent under the mysterious roof of Eyoub, when danger
surrounded us on all sides; a noise on the steps of the black
staircase had made us tremble, and she also, my dear little Turkish
companion, had said to me in her beloved language, "Setchan!" ("the
mice!").
At that fond recollection, a thrill of sweet memories coursed through
my veins; it was as though I had been startled out of a long ten
years' sleep; I looked down upon the doll beside me with a sort of
hatred, wondering why I was there, and I arose, with almost a feeling
of remorse, to escape from that blue gauze net.
I stepped out upon the verandah, and there I paused, gazing into the
depths of the starlit night. Beneath me Nagasaki lay asleep, wrapt in
a soft light slumber, hushed by the murmuring sound of a thousand
insects in the moonlight, and fairylike with its roseate hues. Then,
turning my head, I saw behind me the gilded idol with our lamps
burning in front of it; the idol smiling its impassive Buddha smile;
and its presence seemed to cast around it something, I know not what,
strange and incomprehensible. Never until now had I slept under the
eye of such a god.
In the midst of the calm and silence of the night, I strove to recall
my poignant impressions of Stamboul; but alas, I strove in vain, they
would not return to me in this strange, far-off world. Through the
transparent blue gauze appeared my little Japanese, as she lay in her
somber night-dress with all the fantastic grace of her country, the
nape of her neck resting on its wooden block, and her hair arranged in
large shiny bows. Her amber-colored arms, pretty and delicate,
emerged, bare up to the shoulders, from her wide sleeves.
"What can those mice on the roof have done to him?" thought
Chrysanthème. Of course she could not understand. In a coaxing manner,
like a playful kitten, she glanced at me with her half-closed eyes,
inquiring why I did not come back to sleep,--and I returned to my
place by her side.