ing their muscular legs, hold back with all their
might the heavily loaded little cars which would run down by
themselves if let alone, and that so rapidly, that they would rush
into empty space with my most valuable chattels. Chrysantheme walks by
my side, and expresses, in a soft and winning manner, her regret that
the _wonderfully tall friend_ did not offer to replace me for the
whole of my night-watch, as that would have allowed me to spend this
last night, even till morning, under our roof.

"Listen," she says, "come back to-morrow in the daytime, before
getting under way, to bid me good-by; I shall only return to my mother
in the evening; you will find me still up there."

And I promise.

They stop at a certain turn, from whence we have a bird's-eye view of
the whole roadstead; the black stagnant waters reflect innumerable
distant fires, and the ships--tiny immovable little objects, which
seen from our point of view take the shape of fish, seem also to
slumber,--little objects which serve to bear us _elsewhere_, to go far
away, and to forget.

The three ladies are going to turn back home, for the night is
already far advanced, and lower down, the cosmopolitan quarters near
the quays are not safe at this unusual hour.

The moment has therefore come for Yves--who will not land again--to
make his last tragic farewells to his friends the little mousmes.

Now I am very curious to see the parting between Yves and
Chrysantheme; I listen with all my ears, I look with all my eyes, it
takes place in the simplest and quietest fashion: none of that
heartbreaking which will be inevitable between Madame Prune and
myself; I even notice in my mousme an indifference, an unconcern which
puzzles me; I positively am at a loss to understand what it all means.

And I muse to myself as I continue to descend towards the sea. "Her
appearance of sadness was not, therefore, on Yves' account. On whose,
then?" and the phrase runs through my head:

"Come back to-morrow before setting sail, to bid me good-by; I shall
only return to my mother in the evening; you will find me still up
there."

Japan is indeed most delightful this evening, so fresh and so sweet;
and little Chrysantheme was very charming just now, as she silently
walked beside me through the darkness of the lane.

It is about two o'clock when we reach the _Triomphante_ in a hired
sampan, where I have heaped up all my cases till there is danger of
sinking. The _very tal