at which, in the labyrinth of
little gray streets down below, the sacred lamps begin to twinkle in
the ever-open houses, in front of the ancestors' altars and the
familiar Buddhas; while outside, darkness creeps over all, and the
thousand and one indentations and peaks of the old roofs are depicted,
as if in black festoons, on the clear golden sky. At this moment,
there suddenly passes over merry, laughing Japan a somber shadow,
strange, weird, a breath of antiquity, of savagery, of something
indefinable, which casts a gloom of sadness. And then the only gayety
that remains is the gayety of the population of young children, of
little mouskos and little mousmes, who spread themselves like a wave
through the streets filled with shadow, as they swarm out from schools
and workshops. On the dark background of all these wooden buildings,
the little blue and scarlet dresses stand out in startling
contrast,--drolly bedizened, drolly draped; and the fine loops of the
sashes, the flowers, the silver or gold top-knots stuck in these baby
chignons, add to the vivid effect.

They amuse themselves, they chase each other, their great pagoda
sleeves fly widely open, and these tiny little mousmes of ten, of five
years old, or even younger still, have lofty head-dresses and imposing
bows of hair arranged on their little heads, like grown-up women. Oh!
what loves of supremely absurd dolls at this hour of twilight gambol
through the streets, in their long frocks, blowing their crystal
trumpets, or running with all their might to start their fanciful
kites. This juvenile world of Japan--ludicrous by birth, and fated to
become more so as the years roll on--starts in life with singular
amusements, with strange cries and shouts; its playthings are somewhat
ghastly, and would frighten the children of other countries; even the
kites have great squinting eyes and vampire shapes.

And every evening, in the little dark streets, bursts forth this
overflow of joyousness, fresh, childish, but withal grotesque to
excess. It would be difficult to have any idea of the incredible
things which, carried by the wind, float in the evening air.

XXXIX.

Little Chrysantheme is always arrayed in dark colors, a sign here of
aristocratic distinction. While her friends Oyouki-San, Madame Touki
and others delight in loud-striped stuffs, and stick gorgeous
ornaments in their chignons, she always wears navy-blue or neutral
gray, fastened round her waist