ip on almost imperceptible accessories, and all to produce an
effect which is absolutely nil, an effect of the most complete bareness
and nudity.

Yves still continues to gaze forth, like Sister Anne. From the side on
which he leans, my veranda overlooks a street, or rather a road bordered
with houses, which climbs higher and higher, and loses itself almost
immediately in the verdure of the mountain, in the fields of tea, the
underwood and the cemeteries. As for myself, this delay finally irritates
me thoroughly, and I turn my glances to the opposite side. The other end
of my house, also a veranda, opens first of all upon a garden; then upon
a marvellous panorama of woods and mountains, with all the venerable
Japanese quarters of Nagasaki lying confusedly like a black ant-heap, six
hundred feet below us. This evening, in a dull twilight, notwithstanding
that it is a twilight of July, these things are melancholy. Great clouds
heavy with rain and showers, ready to fall, are travelling across the
sky. No, I can not feel at home in this strange dwelling I have chosen; I
feel sensations of extreme solitude and strangeness; the mere prospect of
passing the night in it gives me a shudder of horror.

"Ah! at last, brother," said Yves, "I believe--yes, I really believe she
is coming at last."

I look over his shoulder, and I see a back view of a little doll, the
finishing touches to whose toilette are being put in the solitary street;
a last maternal glance is given the enormous bows of the sash, the folds
at the waist. Her dress is of pearl-gray silk, her obi (sash) of mauve
satin; a sprig of silver flowers trembles in her black hair; a parting
ray of sunlight touches the little figure; five or six persons accompany
her. Yes! it is undoubtedly Mademoiselle Jasmin; they are bringing me my
fiancee!

I rush to the ground floor, inhabited by old Madame Prune, my landlady,
and her aged husband; they are absorbed in prayer before the altar of
their ancestors.

"Here they are, Madame Prune," I cry in Japanese; "here they are! Bring
at once the tea, the lamp, the embers, the little pipes for the ladies,
the little bamboo pots! Bring up, as quickly as possible, all the
accessories for my reception!"

I hear the front door open, and hasten upstairs again. Wooden clogs are
deposited on the floor, the staircase creaks gently under little bare
feet. Yves and I look at each other, with a longing to laugh.

An old lady enters--two old