Next comes the trained elephant, the terror of our mousmes, the equilibrists, the menagerie.
It is one o'clock in the morning before we are back at Diou-djen-dji.
We first get Yves to bed in the little paper room he has already once occupied. Then we go to bed ourselves, after the inevitable preparations, the smoking of the little pipe, and the tap! tap! tap! tap! on the edge of the box.
Suddenly Yves begins to move restlessly in his sleep, to toss about, giving great kicks on the wall, and making a frightful noise.
What can be the matter? I imagine at once that he must be dreaming of the old hag and her wolfish shadow. Chrysantheme raises herself on her elbow and listens, with astonishment depicted on her face.
Ah, happy thought! she has guessed what is tormenting him:
"Ka!" ("mosquitoes") she says.
And, to impress the more forcibly her meaning on my mind, she pinches my arm so hard with her little pointed nails, at the same time imitating, with such an amusing play of her features, the grimace of a person who is stung, that I exclaim:
"Oh! stop, Chrysantheme, this pantomime is too expressive, and indeed useless! I know the word 'Ka', and had quite understood, I assure you."
It is done so drolly and so quickly, with such a pretty pout, that in truth I can not think of being angry, although I shall certainly have tomorrow a blue mark on my arm; about that there is no doubt.