ad daylight, like
a rare and surprising moth, the dancing-girl from the other compartment,
the child who wore the horrible mask. No doubt she wishes to have a
look at me. She rolls her eyes like a timid kitten, and then all at once
tamed, nestles against me, with a coaxing air of childishness, which is
a delightfully transparent assumption. She is slim, elegant, delicate,
and smells sweet; she is drolly painted, white as plaster, with a little
circle of rouge marked very precisely in the middle of each cheek, the
mouth reddened, and a touch of gilding outlining the under lip. As they
could not whiten the back of her neck on account of all the delicate
little curls of hair growing there, they had, in their love of
exactitude, stopped the white plaster in a straight line, which might
have been cut with a knife, and in consequence at the nape appears a
square of natural skin of a deep yellow.

An imperious note sounds on the guitar, evidently a summons! Crac! Away
she goes, the little fairy, to entertain the drivelling fools on the
other side of the screens.

Suppose I marry this one, without seeking any further. I should respect
her as a child committed to my care; I should take her for what she is:
a fantastic and charming plaything. What an amusing little household I
should set up! Really, short of marrying a china ornament, I should find
it difficult to choose better.

At this moment enters M. Kangourou, clad in a suit of gray tweed,
which might have come from La Belle Jardiniere or the Pont Neuf, with a
pot-hat and white thread gloves. His countenance is at once foolish
and cunning; he has hardly any nose or eyes. He makes a real Japanese
salutation: an abrupt dip, the hands placed flat on the knees, the body
making a right angle to the legs, as if the fellow were breaking in two;
a little snake-like hissing (produced by sucking the saliva between the
teeth, which is the highest expression of obsequious politeness in this
country).

"You speak French, Monsieur Kangourou?"

"Yes, Monsieur" (renewed bows).

He makes one for each word I utter, as if he were a mechanical toy
pulled by a string; when he is seated before me on the ground, he limits
himself to a duck of the head--always accompanied by the same hissing
noise of the saliva.

"A cup of tea, Monsieur Kangourou?"

Fresh salute and an extra affected gesticulation with the hands, as if
to say, "I should hardly dare. It is too great a condescension on your