BOOK 4.

CHAPTER XLVII. A MIDNIGHT ALARM

It is the middle of the night, perhaps about two o'clock in the
morning. Our lamps are burning somewhat dimly before our placid idols.
Chrysantheme wakes me suddenly, and I turn to look at her: she has
raised herself on one arm, and her face expresses the most intense
terror; she makes a sign, without daring to speak, that some one or
something is near, creeping up to us. What ill-timed visit is this? A
feeling of fear gains possession of me also. I have a rapid impression
of some great unknown danger, in this isolated spot, in this strange
country of which I do not even yet comprehend the inhabitants and the
mysteries. It must be something very frightful to hold her there, rooted
to the spot, half dead with fright, she who does comprehend all these
things.

It seems to be outside; it is coming from the garden; with trembling
hand she indicates to me that it will come through the veranda, over
Madame Prune's roof. Certainly, I hear faint noises, and they do
approach us.

I suggest to her

"Neko-San?" ("It is Messieurs the cats?")

"No!" she replies, still terrified, and in an alarmed tone.

"Bakemono-Sama?" ("Is it my lords the ghosts?") I have already the
Japanese habit of expressing myself with excessive politeness.

"No! 'Dorobo'!" ("Thieves!")

Thieves! Ah! this is better; I much prefer this to a visit such as I
have just been dreading in the sudden awakening from sleep: from ghosts
or spirits of the dead; thieves, that is to say, worthy fellows very
much alive, and having, undoubtedly, inasmuch as they are Japanese
thieves, faces of the most meritorious oddity. I am not in the least
frightened, now that I know precisely what to expect, and we will
immediately set to work to ascertain the truth, for something is
certainly moving on Madame Prune's roof; some one is walking upon it.

I open one of our wooden panels and look out.

I can see only a vast expanse, calm, peaceful, and exquisite under the
full brilliance 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.

Chrysantheme, 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 first glance were not
easy to