And I promise.
They stop at a certain turn, from whence we have a bird's-eye view of the whole roadstead; the black stagnant waters reflect innumerable distant fires, and the ships—tiny immovable little 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 going to turn back home, for the night is already far advanced, and lower 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 mousmés.
Now I am very curious to see the parting between Yves and Chrysanthème; I listen with all my ears, I look with all my eyes, it takes place in the simplest and quietest fashion: none of that heartbreaking which will be inevitable between Madame Prune and myself; I even notice in my mousmé an indifference, an unconcern which puzzles me; I positively am at a loss to understand what it all means.
And I muse to myself as I continue to descend towards the sea. "Her appearance of sadness was not, therefore, on Yves' account. On whose, then?" and the phrase runs through my head:
"Come back to-morrow before setting sail, to bid me good-by; I shall only return to my mother in the evening; you will find me still up there."
Japan is indeed most delightful this evening, so fresh and so sweet; and little Chrysan
thème was very charming just now, as she silently walked beside me through the darkness of the lane.
It is about two o'clock when we reach the Triomphante in a hired sampan, where I have heaped up all my cases till there is danger of sinking. The very tall friend gives over to me the watch that I must keep till four o'clock; and the sailors on duty, but half awake, make a chain in the darkness, to haul on board all my fragile luggage.