. By
the glimmer of the reception-lamps, which are still burning, every one
wraps, rolls, and ties up expeditiously, for it is already late.

Although Oyouki has a heavy heart, she can not prevent herself from
indulging in a few bursts of childish laughter while she works.

Madame Prune, bathed in tears, no longer restrains her feelings; poor old
lady, I really very much regret . . . .

Chrysantheme is absent-minded and silent.

But what a fearful amount of luggage! Eighteen cases or parcels,
containing Buddhas, chimeras, and vases, without mentioning the last
lotus that I carry away tied up in a pink cluster.

All this is piled up in the djins' carts, hired at sunset, which are
waiting at the door, while their runners lie asleep on the grass.

A starlit and exquisite night. We start off with lighted lanterns,
followed by the three sorrowful ladies who accompany us, and by abrupt
slopes, dangerous in the darkness, we descend toward the sea.

The djins, stiffening their muscular legs, hold back with all their might
the heavily loaded little cars which would run down by themselves if let
alone, and that so rapidly that they would rush into empty space with my
most valuable chattels. Chrysantheme walks by my side, and expresses, in
a soft and winning manner, her regret that the "wonderfully tall friend"
did not offer to replace me for the whole of my night-watch, as that
would have allowed me to spend this last night, even till morning, under
our roof.

"Listen!" she says, "come back to-morrow in the daytime, before getting
under way, to bid one good-by; I shall not return to my mother until
evening; you will find me still up there."

And I promise.

They stop at a certain turn, whence we have a bird's-eye view of the
whole harbor. The black, stagnant waters reflect innumerable distant
fires, and the ships--tiny, immovable objects, which, seen from our point
of view, take the shape of fish, seem also to slumber,--little objects
which serve to bear us elsewhere, to go far away, and to forget.

The three ladies are about to turn back home, for the night is already
far advanced and, farther down, the cosmopolitan quarters near the quays
are not safe at this unusual hour.

The moment has therefore come for Yves--who will not land again--to make
his last tragic farewells to his friends the little mousmes.

I am very curious to see the parting between Yves and Chrysantheme; I
listen with all my ears, I look with a