M. Sucre and Madame Prune, my landlord and his wife, two perfectly
unique personages recently escaped from the panel of some screen,
live below us on the ground floor; and very old they seem to have this
daughter of fifteen, Oyouki, who is Chrysantheme’s inseparable friend.
Both of them are entirely absorbed in the practices of Shinto religion:
perpetually on their knees before their family altar, perpetually
occupied in murmuring their lengthy orisons to the spirits, and clapping
their hands from time to time to recall around them the inattentive
essences floating in the atmosphere. In their spare moments they
cultivate, in little pots of gayly painted earthenware, dwarf shrubs and
unheard-of flowers which are delightfully fragrant in the evening.
M. Sucre is taciturn, dislikes society, and looks like a mummy in his
blue cotton dress. He writes a great deal (his memoirs, I fancy), with
a paint-brush held in his fingertips, on long strips of rice-paper of a
faint gray tint.
Madame Prune is eagerly attentive, obsequious, and rapacious; her
eyebrows are closely shaven, her teeth carefully lacquered with black,
as befits a lady of gentility, and at all and no matter what hours, she
appears on all fours at the entrance of our apartment, to offer us her
services.
As to Oyouki, she rushes upon us ten times a day--whether we are
sleeping or dressing--like a whirlwind on a visit, flashing upon us,
a very gust of dainty youthfulness and droll gayety--a living peal of
laughter. She is round of figure, round of face; half baby, half girl;
and so affectionate that she bestows kisses on the slightest occasion
with her great puffy lips--a little moist, it is true, like a child’s,
but nevertheless very fresh and very red.