site, where we stop every evening; it is that of Madame
L'Heure, the woman who sells waffles; we always buy a provision from
her, to refresh us on the way. A very lively young woman is this
pastry-cook, and most eager to make herself agreeable; she looks quite
like a screen picture behind her piled-up cakes, ornamented with little
posies. We will take shelter under her roof while we wait; and, to
avoid the drops that fall heavily from the waterspouts, wedge
ourselves tightly against her display of white and pink sweetmeats, so
artistically spread out on fresh and delicate branches of cypress.

Poor Number 415, what a providence he is to us! Already he reappears,
most excellent cousin! ever smiling, ever running, while the water
streams down his handsome bare legs; he brings us two umbrellas,
borrowed from a China merchant, who is also a distant relative of ours.
Like me, Yves has till now never consented to use such a thing, but
he now accepts one because it is droll: of paper, of course, with
innumerable folds waxed and gummed, and the inevitable flight of storks
forming a wreath around it.

Chrysantheme, yawning more and more in her kitten-like fashion, becomes
coaxing in order to be helped along, and tries to take my arm.

"I beg you, mousme, this evening to take the arm of Yves-San; I am sure
that will suit us all three."

And there they go, she, tiny figure, hanging on to the big fellow, and
so they climb up. I lead the way, carrying the lantern that lights
our steps, whose flame I protect as well as I can under my fantastic
umbrella. On each side of the road is heard the roaring torrent of
stormy waters rolling down from the mountain-side. To-night the way
seems long, difficult, and slippery; a succession of interminable
flights of steps, gardens, and houses piled up one above another; waste
lands, and trees which in the darkness shake their dripping foliage on
our heads.

One would say that Nagasaki is ascending at the same time as ourselves;
but yonder, and very far away, is a vapory mist which seems luminous
against the blackness of the sky, and from the town rises a confused
murmur of voices and laughter, and a rumbling of gongs.

The summer rain has not yet refreshed the atmosphere. On account of the
stormy heat, the little suburban houses have been left open like sheds,
and we can see all that is going on. Lamps burn perpetually before the
altars dedicated to Buddha and to the souls of the ancestors; b