e black and
stagnant waters, are the men-of-war, the steamboats and the junks,
with flags flying from every mast. Against the dark green, which is the
dominant shade everywhere, stand out these thousand scraps of bunting,
emblems of the different nationalities, all displayed, all flying in
honor of far-distant France. The colors most prevailing in this motley
assemblage are the white flag with a red ball, emblem of the Empire of
the Rising Sun, where we now are.

With the exception of three or four 'mousmes' at the farther end, who
are practising with bows and arrows, we are today the only people in the
garden, and the mountain round about is silent.

Having finished her cigarette and her cup of tea, Chrysantheme also
wishes to exert her skill; for archery is still held in honor among the
young women.

The old man who keeps the range picks out for her his best arrows tipped
with white and red feathers--and she takes aim with a serious air. The
mark is a circle, traced in the middle of a picture on which is painted,
in flat, gray tones, terrifying chimera flying through the clouds.

Chrysantheme is certainly an adroit markswoman, and we admire her as
much as she expected.

Then Yves, who is usually clever at all games of skill, wishes to try
his luck, and fails. It is amusing to see her, with her mincing ways and
smiles, arrange with the tips of her little fingers the sailor's broad
hands, placing them on the bow and the string in order to teach him the
proper manner. Never have they seemed to get on so well together, Yves
and my doll, and I might even feel anxious, were I less sure of my good
brother, and if, moreover, it was not a matter of perfect indifference
to me.

In the stillness of the garden, amid the balmy peacefulness of these
mountains, a loud noise suddenly startles us; a unique, powerful,
terrible sound, which is prolonged in infinite metallic vibrations. It
begins again, sounding more appalling: 'Boum!' borne to us by the rising
wind.

"Nippon Kane!" exclaims Chrysantheme--and she again takes up her
brightly feathered arrows. "Nippon Kane ('the Japanese brass'); it is
the Japanese brass that is sounding!" It is the monstrous gong of a
monastery, situated in a suburb beneath us. It is powerful indeed, "the
Japanese brass"! When the strokes are ended, when it is no longer heard,
a vibration seems to linger among the suspended foliage, and a prolonged
quiver runs through the air.

I am obliged to