ain our own quarters on board the 'Triomphante', without
having the trouble of climbing up that hill.

First of all, we make an attempt to dine together in some fashionable
tea-house. Impossible! not a place is to be had; all the absurd paper
rooms, all the compartments contrived by so many ingenious tricks of
slipping and sliding panels, all the nooks and corners in the little
gardens are filled with Japanese men and women eating impossible and
incredible little dishes. Numberless young dandies are dining tete-a-tete
with the ladies of their choice, and sounds of dancing-girls and music
issue from the private rooms.

The fact is, to-day is the third and last day of the great pilgrimage to
the temple of the jumping Tortoise, of which we saw the beginning
yesterday; and all Nagasaki is at this time given over to amusement.

At the tea-house of the Indescribable Butterflies, which is also full to
overflowing, but where we are well known, they have had the bright idea
of throwing a temporary flooring over the little lake--the pond where the
goldfish live--and our meal is served here, in the pleasant freshness of
the fountain which continues its murmur under our feet.

After dinner, we follow the faithful and ascend again to the temple.

Up there we find the same elfin revelry, the same masks, the same music.
We seat ourselves, as before, under a gauze tent and sip odd little
drinks tasting of flowers. But this evening we are alone, and the absence
of the band of mousmes, whose familiar little faces formed a bond of
union between this holiday-making people and ourselves, separates and
isolates us more than usual from the profusion of oddities in the midst
of which we seem to be lost. Beneath us lies always the immense blue
background: Nagasaki illumined by moonlight, and the expanse of silvered,
glittering water, which seems like a vaporous vision suspended in
mid-air. Behind us is the great open temple, where the bonzes officiate,
to the accompaniment of sacred bells and wooden clappers-looking, from
where we sit, more like puppets than anything else, some squatting in
rows like peaceful mummies, others executing rhythmical marches before
the golden background where stand the gods. We do not laugh to-night, and
speak but little, more forcibly struck by the scene than we were on the
first night; we only look on, trying to understand. Suddenly, Yves,
turning round, says:

"Hullo! brother, there is your mousme!"

Actua