minishes, and dies away into silence.

The two little friends return to their seats on the mats, and once more
take up their melancholy duet. An orchestra, discreetly subdued but
innumerable, of crickets and cicalas, accompanies them in an unceasing
tremolo--the immense, far-reaching tremolo, which, gentle and eternal,
never ceases in Japan.

CHAPTER LI

THE LAST DAY

September 17th

At the hour of siesta, a peremptory order arrives to start tomorrow for
China, for Tche-fou (a terrible place, in the gulf of Pekin). Yves comes
to wake me in my cabin to bring me the news.

"I must positively get leave to go on shore this evening," he says, while
I endeavor to shake myself awake, "if it is only to help you to dismantle
and pack up."

He gazes through my port-hole, raising his glance toward the green
summits, in the direction of Diou-djen-dji and our echoing old cottage,
hidden from us by a turn of the mountain.

It is very nice of him to wish to help me in my packing; but I think he
counts also upon saying farewell to his little Japanese friends up there,
and I really can not find fault with that.

He finishes his work, and does in fact obtain leave, without help from
me, to go on shore at five o'clock, after drill and manoeuvres.

As for myself I start at once, in a hired sampan. In the vast flood of
midday sunshine, to the quivering noise of the cicalas, I mount to
Diou-djen-dji.

The paths are solitary, the plants are drooping in the heat. Here,
however, is Madame Jonquille, taking the air in the bright, grasshoppers'
sunshine, sheltering her dainty figure and her charming face under an
enormous paper parasol, a huge circle, closely ribbed and fantastically
striped.

She recognizes me from afar, and, laughing as usual, runs to meet me.

I announce our departure, and a tearful pout suddenly contracts her
childish face. After all, does this news grieve her? Is she about to shed
tears over it? No! it turns to a fit of laughter, a little nervous
perhaps, but unexpected and disconcerting--dry and clear, pealing through
the silence and warmth of the narrow paths, like a cascade of little mock
pearls.

Ah, there indeed is a marriage-tie which will be broken without much
pain! But she fills me with impatience, poor empty-headed linnet, with
her laughter, and I turn my back upon her to continue my journey.

Above-stairs, Chrysantheme sleeps, stretched out on the floor; the house
is wide open, and the so