In our dwelling, open as it is all the night through, the lamps
burning before the gilded Buddha procure us the company of the insect
inhabitants of every garden in the neighborhood. Moths, mosquitoes,
cicalas, and other extraordinary insects of which I don't even know
the names,--all this company assembles around us.
It is extremely funny, when some unexpected grasshopper, some
free-and-easy beetle presents itself without invitation or excuse,
scampering over our white mats, to see the manner in which
Chrysanthème indicates it to my righteous vengeance,--merely pointing
her finger at it, without another word than "Hou!" said with bent
head, a particular pout, and a scandalized air.
There is a fan kept expressly for the purpose of blowing them out of
doors again.