expect, and we will immediately set to work to
ascertain the truth, for something is decidedly moving on Madame
Prune's roof; some one is walking upon it.

I open one of our wooden panels and look out.

I can see only a vast expanse, calm, peaceful, and exquisite under the
full brilliancy of the moonlight; sleeping Japan lulled by the
sonorous song of the grasshoppers is charming indeed to-night, and the
free pure air is delicious to breathe.

Chrysantheme, half hidden behind my shoulder, listens tremblingly,
peering forward to examine the gardens and the roofs with dilated eyes
like a frightened cat. No, nothing! not a thing moves. Here and there
are a few strangely substantial shadows, which at the first glance
were not easy to explain, but which turn out to be real shadows,
thrown by bits of wall, by boughs of trees, and which preserve an
extremely reassuring stillness. Everything seems absolutely tranquil,
and profound silence reigns in the dreamy vagueness which moonlight
sheds over all.

Nothing; nothing to be seen anywhere. It was Messrs, the cats after
all, or perhaps my ladies the owls; sounds increase in volume in the
most amazing manner at night, in this house of ours.

Let us close the panel again carefully, as a measure of prudence, and
then light a lantern and go downstairs to see if there may be any one
hidden in corners, and if the doors are tightly shut: in short, to
reassure Chrysantheme we will go the round of the house.

Behold us then, on tip-toe, searching together every hole and corner
of the house, which, to judge by its foundations, must be very
ancient, notwithstanding the fragile appearance of its panels of white
paper. It contains the blackest of cavities, little vaulted cellars
with worm-eaten beams; cupboards for rice which smell of mould and
decay; mysterious hollows where lies accumulated the dust of
centuries. In the middle of the night, and during a hunt for thieves,
this part of the house, as yet unknown to me, has an ugly look.

Noiselessly we step across the apartment of our landlord and landlady.
Chrysantheme drags me by the hand, and I allow myself to be led.
There they are, sleeping in a row under their blue gauze tent, lighted
by the night-lamps burning before the altars of their ancestors. Ha! I
observe that they are arranged in an order which might give rise to
gossip. First comes Mdlle. Oyouki, very taking in her attitude of
rest. Then Madame Prune, who sleeps with he