m thoroughly annoyed. To what purpose do I
clamber up every evening to that suburb, when it offers me no attractions
whatever?

The rain increases; what are we to do? Outside, djins pass rapidly,
calling out: "Take care!" splashing the foot-passengers and casting
through the shower streams of light from their many-colored lanterns.
Mousmes and elderly ladies pass, tucked up, muddy, laughing nevertheless
under their paper umbrellas, exchanging greetings, clacking their wooden
pattens on the stone pavement. The whole street is filled with the noise
of the pattering feet and pattering rain.

As good luck will have it, at the same moment passes Number 415, our poor
relative, who, seeing our distress, stops and promises to help us out of
our difficulty; as soon as he has deposited on the quay an Englishman he
is conveying, he will come to our aid and bring all that is necessary to
relieve us from our lamentable situation.

At last our lantern is unhooked, lighted, and paid for. There is another
shop opposite, where we stop every evening; it is that of Madame L'Heure,
the woman who sells waffles; we always buy a provision from her, to
refresh us on the way. A very lively young woman is this pastry-cook, and
most eager to make herself agreeable; she looks quite like a screen
picture behind her piled-up cakes, ornamented with little posies. We will
take shelter under her roof while we wait; and, to avoid the drops that
fall heavily from the waterspouts, wedge ourselves tightly against her
display of white and pink sweetmeats, so artistically spread out on fresh
and delicate branches of cypress.

Poor Number 415, what a providence he is to us! Already he reappears,
most excellent cousin! ever smiling, ever running, while the water
streams down his handsome bare legs; he brings us two umbrellas, borrowed
from a China merchant, who is also a distant relative of ours. Like me,
Yves has till now never consented to use such a thing, but he now accepts
one because it is droll: of paper, of course, with innumerable folds
waxed and gummed, and the inevitable flight of storks forming a wreath
around it.

Chrysantheme, yawning more and more in her kitten-like fashion, becomes
coaxing in order to be helped along, and tries to take my arm.

"I beg you, mousme, this evening to take the arm of Yves-San; I am sure
that will suit us all three."

And there they go, she, tiny figure, hanging on to the big fellow, and so
they climb up. I l