Despite the increased distance, I continue my regular visits to
Diou-djen-dji. When night has fallen, and the four couples who compose
our society have joined us, as well as Yves and the “amazingly tall
friend”--we descend again into the town, stumbling by lantern-light down
the steep stairways and slopes of the old suburb.
This nocturnal ramble is always the same, and is accompanied always by
the same amusements: we pause before the same queer booths, we drink
the same sugared drinks served to us in the same little gardens. But our
troop is often more numerous: to begin with, we chaperon Oyouki, who
is confided to our care by her parents; then we have two cousins of my
wife’s--pretty little creatures; and lastly friends--guests of sometimes
only ten or twelve years old, little girls of the neighborhood to whom
our mousmes wish to show some politeness.
Thus a singular company of tiny beings forms our suite and follows us
into the tea-gardens in the evenings! The most absurd faces, with sprigs
of flowers stuck in the oddest fashion in their comical and childish
heads. One might suppose it was a whole school of mousmes out for an
evening’s frolic under our care.
Yves returns with us, when the time comes to remount our hill;
Chrysantheme heaves great sighs like a tired child, and stops on every
step, leaning on our arms.
When we have reached our destination he says “Goodnight,” just touches
Chrysantheme’s hand, and descending once more by the slope which leads
to the quays and the shipping, he crosses the roadstead in a sampan, to
get on board the ‘Triomphante.’
Meantime, we, with the aid of a sort of secret key, open the door of our
garden, where Madame Prune’s pots of flowers, ranged in the darkness,
send forth delicious odors in the night air. We cross the garden by
moonlight or starlight, and mount to our own rooms.
If it is very late--a frequent occurrence--we find all our wooden panels
drawn and tightly shut by the careful M. Sucre (as a precaution against
thieves), and our apartment is as close and as private as if it were a
real European house.
In this dwelling, when every chink is thus closed, a strange odor
mingles with the musk and the lotus--an odor essential to Japan, to
the yellow race, belonging to the soil or emanating from the venerable
woodwork; almost an odor of wild beasts. The mosquito-curtain of
dark-blue gauze, ready hung for the night, falls from the ceiling with
the air of a mysterious vellum. The gilded Buddha smiles eternally
at the night-lamps burning before him; some great moth, a constant
frequenter of the house, which during the day sleeps clinging to our
ceiling, flutters at this hour under the very nose of the god, turning
and flitting round the thin, quivering flames. And, motionless on the
wall, its feelers spread out star-like, sleeps some great garden spider,
which one must not kill because it is night. “Hou!” says Chrysantheme,
indignantly, pointing it out to me with levelled finger. Quick! where is
the fan kept for the purpose, wherewith to hunt it out of doors?
Around us reigns a silence which is almost oppressive after all the
joyous noises of the town, and all the laughter, now hushed, of our band
of mousmes--a silence of the country, of some sleeping village.