of these
mountains, a loud noise suddenly startles us; a unique, powerful,
terrible sound, which is prolonged in infinite metallic vibrations. It
begins again, sounding more appalling: 'Boum!' borne to us by the rising
wind.

"Nippon Kane!" exclaims Chrysantheme--and she again takes up her brightly
feathered arrows. "Nippon Kane ('the Japanese brass'); it is the Japanese
brass that is sounding!" It is the monstrous gong of a monastery,
situated in a suburb beneath us. It is powerful indeed, "the Japanese
brass"! When the strokes are ended, when it is no longer heard, a
vibration seems to linger among the suspended foliage, and a prolonged
quiver runs through the air.

I am obliged to admit that Chrysantheme looks very charming shooting her
arrows, her figure well bent back the better to bend her bow; her
loose-hanging sleeves caught up to her shoulders, showing the graceful
bare arms polished like amber and very much the same color. Each arrow
whistles by with the rustle of a bird's wing--then a short, sharp little
blow is heard, the target is hit, always.

At nightfall, when Chrysantheme has gone up to Diou-djen-dji, we cross,
Yves and I, the European concession, on our way to the ship, to take up
our watch till the following day. The cosmopolitan quarter, exhaling an
odor of absinthe, is dressed up with flags, and squibs are being fired
off in honor of France. Long lines of djins pass by, dragging, as fast as
their naked legs can carry them, the crew of the 'Triomphante,' who are
shouting and fanning themselves. The Marseillaise is heard everywhere;
English sailors are singing it, gutturally, with a dull and slow cadence
like their own "God Save." In all the American bars, grinding organs are
hammering it with many an odious variation and flourish, in order to
attract our men.

One amusing recollection comes back to me of that evening. On our return,
we had by mistake turned into a street inhabited by a multitude of ladies
of doubtful reputation. I can still see that big fellow Yves, struggling
with a whole band of tiny little 'mousmes' of twelve or fifteen years of
age, who barely reached up to his waist, and were pulling him by the
sleeves, eager to lead him astray. Astonished and indignant, he repeated,
as he extricated himself from their clutches, "Oh, this is too much!" so
shocked was he at seeing such mere babies, so young, so tiny, already so
brazen and shameless.

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