hout hurting his feelings, and without making myself ridiculous,
I hardly know. However, the pure air playing round me up here, and the
magnificent landscape spread beneath my feet, impart a certain serenity
to my thoughts which makes me feel a contemptuous pity, both for my
suspicions and the cause of them.

We speak, first of all, of the order for departure, which may arrive at
any moment, for China or for France. Soon we shall have to leave this
easy and almost amusing life, this Japanese suburb where chance has
installed us, and our little house buried among flowers. Yves perhaps
will regret all this more than I. I know that well enough; for it is the
first time that any such interlude has broken the rude monotony of his
hard-worked career. Formerly, when in an inferior rank, he was
hardly more often on shore, in foreign countries, than the sea-gulls
themselves; while I, from the very beginning, have been spoiled by
residence in all sorts of charming spots, infinitely superior to
this, in all sorts of countries, and the remembrance still haunts me
pleasurably.

In order to discover how the land lies, I risk the remark:

"You will perhaps be more sorry to leave little Chrysantheme than I."

Silence reigns between us.

After which I go on, and, burning my ships, I add:

"You know, after all, if you have such a fancy for her, I haven't really
married her; one can't really consider her my wife."

In great surprise he looks in my face.

"Not your wife, you say? But, by Jove, though, that's just it; she is
your wife."

There is no need of many words at any time between us two; I know
exactly now, by his tone, by his great good-humored smile, how the case
stands; I understand all that lies in the little phrase: "That's just
it, she is your wife." If she were not, well, then, he could not answer
for what might happen--notwithstanding any remorse he might have in the
depths of his heart, since he is no longer a bachelor and free as air,
as in former days. But he considers her my wife, and she is sacred. I
have the fullest faith in his word, and I experience a positive relief,
a real joy, at finding my stanch Yves of bygone days. How could I have
so succumbed to the demeaning influence of my surroundings as to suspect
him even, and to invent for myself such a mean, petty anxiety?

We never shall even mention that doll again.

We remain up there very late, talking of other things, gazing at the
immense depths belo