nnot picture this personage to myself; the Japanese are so
grotesque in life, that it is almost impossible to imagine them in the
calm majesty of death. Nevertheless, let us move further on, we might
disturb him; he is too recently dead, his presence unnerves us. We
will go and seat ourselves on one of these other tombs, so unutterably
ancient that there can no longer be anything within it but dust. And
there, seated yet in the dying sunlight, while the valleys and plains
of the earth below are already lost in shadow, we will talk together.

I wish to speak to Yves about Chrysantheme; it is indeed somewhat in
view of this that I have persuaded him to sit down; but how to set
about it without hurting his feelings, and without making myself
ridiculous, I hardly know. However, the pure air playing round me up
here, and the magnificent landscape spread beneath my feet, impart a
certain serenity to my thoughts which makes me feel a contemptuous
pity, both for my suspicions and the cause of them.

We speak, first of all, of the order for departure which may arrive at
any moment, for China or for France. Soon we shall have to leave this
easy and almost amusing life, this Japanese suburb where chance has
installed us, and our little house buried among flowers. Yves perhaps
will regret all this more than I shall, I know that well enough; for
it is the first time that any such interlude has broken the rude
monotony of his hard-worked career. Formerly, when in an inferior
rank, he was scarcely more often on shore, in foreign countries, than
the sea-gulls themselves; whilst I have, from the very beginning, been
spoilt by residence in all sorts of charming spots, infinitely
superior to this, in all sorts of countries, and the remembrance
pleasurably haunts me still.

In order to discover how the land lies, I risk the remark:

"You will perhaps be more sorry to leave this little Chrysantheme than
I am?"

Silence reigns between us.

After which I pursue, and, burning my ships, I add:

"You know, after all, if you have such a fancy for her, I haven't
really married her; one can't really consider her my wife."

In great surprise he looks in my face:

"Not your wife, you say? But, by Jove, though, that's just it; she is
your wife."

There is no need of many words at any time between us two; I know
exactly now, by his tone, by his great good-humored smile, how the
case stands; I understand all that lies in the little phrase: "