I can see only a vast expanse, calm, peaceful, and exquisite under the
full brilliancy of the moonlight; sleeping Japan lulled by the
sonorous song of the grasshoppers is charming indeed to-night, and the
free pure air is delicious to breathe.
Chrysanthème, half hidden behind my shoulder, listens tremblingly,
peering forward to examine the gardens and the roofs with dilated eyes
like a frightened cat. No, nothing! not a thing moves. Here and there
are a few strangely substantial shadows, which at the first glance
were not easy to explain, but which turn out to be real shadows,
thrown by bits of wall, by boughs of trees, and which preserve an
extremely reassuring stillness. Everything seems absolutely tranquil,
and profound silence reigns in the dreamy vagueness which moonlight
sheds over all.
Nothing; nothing to be seen anywhere. It was Messrs, the cats after
all, or perhaps my ladies the owls; sounds increase in volume in the
most amazing manner at night, in this house of ours.
Let us close the panel again carefully, as a measure of prudence, and
then light a lantern and go downstairs to see if there may be any one
hidden in corners, and if the doors are tightly shut: in short, to
reassure Chrysanthème we will go the round of the house.
Behold us then, on tip-toe, searching together every hole and corner
of the house, which, to judge by its foundations, must be very
ancient, notwithstanding the fragile appearance of its panels of white
paper. It contains the blackest of cavities, little vaulted cellars
with worm-eaten beams; cupboards for rice which smell of mould and
decay; mysterious hollows where lies accumulated the dust of
centuries. In the middle of the night, and during a hunt for thieves,
this part of the house, as yet unknown to me, has an ugly look.
Noiselessly we step across the apartment of our landlord and landlady.
Chrysanthème drags me by the hand, and I allow myself to be led.
There they are, sleeping in a row under their blue gauze tent, lighted
by the night-lamps burning before the altars of their ancestors. Ha! I
observe that they are arranged in an order which might give rise to
gossip. First comes Mdlle. Oyouki, very taking in her attitude of
rest. Then Madame Prune, who sleeps with her mouth wide open, showing
her rows of blackened teeth; from her throat arises an intermittent
sound like the grunting of a sow. Oh! poor Madame Prune! how hideous
she is!! Next, M. Sucre, a mere mummy for the time being. And finally,
at his side, last of the row, is their servant, Mdlle. Dédé!!!
The gauze hanging over them throws reflections as of the sea upon
them; one might suppose them victims drowned in an aquarium. And
withal the sacred lamps, the altar crowded with strange Shintoist
symbols, give a mock religious air to this family picture.
_Honi soit qui mal y pense_, but why is not that servant-girl rather
laid by the side of her mistresses? Now, when we on the floor above
offer our hospitality to Yves, we are careful to place ourselves under
our mosquito-net in a more correct style.
One corner, which as a last resort we inspect, inspires me with a
certain amount of apprehension. It is a low, mysterious loft, against
the door of which is stuck, as a thing no longer wanted, a very old
pious image: _Kwanon with the thousand arms, and Kwanon with the
horses' head_, seated among clouds and flames, and horrible both of
them to behold, with their spectral grin.
We open the door, and Chrysanthème starts back uttering a fearful cry.
I should have thought the robbers were there, had I not seen a little
grey creature, rapid and noiseless, rush by her and disappear; a young
rat that had been eating rice on the top of a shelf, and, in its
alarm, had dashed in her face.