he depths beneath, to fall with the
dizzy rapidity of a dream into the abyss below. On the sloping steps
the black shadows of the gateways through which we must pass stretch
out inordinately; and the shadows, which seem to be broken at each
projecting step, bear on all their extent the regular creases of a
fan. The porticos stand up separately, rising one above the other;
their wonderful shapes are at once remarkably simple and studiously
affected; their outlines stand out sharp and distinct, having
nevertheless the vague appearance of all very large objects in the
pale moonlight. The curved architraves rise up at each extremity like
two menacing horns, pointing upwards towards the far-off blue canopy
of sky bespangled with stars, as thought they would communicate to the
gods the knowledge they have acquired in the depths of their
foundations from the earth, full of sepulchers and death, which
surrounds them.

We are, indeed, a very small group, lost now in the immensity of the
colossal acclivity as we move onwards, lighted partly by the wan moon
on high, partly by the red lanterns we hold in our hands, ever
floating at the end of their long sticks.

A deep silence reigns in the precincts of the temple, the sound of the
insects even is hushed as we ascend higher. A sort of reverence, a
kind of religious fear steals over us, and, at the same moment, a
delicious coolness suddenly pervades the air, and passes over us.

On entering the courtyard above, we feel a little daunted. Here we
find the horse in jade, and the china turrets. The enclosing walls
make it the more gloomy, and our arrival seems to disturb I know not
what mysterious council held between the spirits of the air and the
visible symbols that are there, chimeras and monsters lit up by the
blue rays of the moon.

We turn to the left, and go through the terraced gardens, to reach the
tea-house "of the Toads," which this evening is our goal; we find it
shut up--expected as much--closed and dark, at this hour! We drum all
together on the door; in the most coaxing tones we call by name the
waiting-maids we know so well: Mdlle. Transparente, Mdlle. Etoile,
Mdlle. Roseematinale, and Mdlle. Marguerite-reine. Not an answer.
Goodbye perfumed sherbets and frosted beans!

In front of the little archery-house, our mousmes suddenly start on
one side, terrified, and declaring that there is a dead body on the
ground. Yes, indeed, someone is lying there. We cautiously ex