Over this poor 415, my friends on board crack no end of jokes,—one in particular, who, less than any one has the right to make them, little Charles N——, for his mother-in-law was once a porter, or something of the kind, at the gateway of a pagoda.
I, however, who have a great respect for strength and agility, much appreciate this new relative of mine. His legs are undoubtedly the best in all Nagasaki, and whenever I am in a hurry, I always beg Madame Prune to send down to the djin stand, and engage my cousin.
I arrived unexpectedly to-day at Diou-djen-dji, in the midst of a burning noonday heat. At the foot of the stairs lay Chrysanthème's wooden clogs and her sandals of varnished leather.
In our rooms, up above, all was open to the air; bamboo blinds lowered on the sunny side, and through their transparency came warm air and golden threads of light. To-day, the flowers Chrysanthème had placed in our bronze vases were lotus, and my eyes fell, as I entered, upon their great rosy cups.
According to her usual custom, she was lying flat on the floor enjoying her daily siesta.
What a singular originality these bouquets of Chrysanthème always have: a something difficult to define, a Japanese slimness, a man
nered grace which we should never succeed in imparting to them.
She was sleeping flat on her face upon the mats, her high headdress and tortoiseshell pins standing out boldly from the rest of the horizontal figure. The train of her tunic prolonged her delicate little body, like the tail of a bird; her arms were stretched crosswise, the sleeves spread out like wings,—and her long guitar lay beside her.
She looked like a dead fairy; or still more did she resemble some great blue dragon-fly, which, having alighted on that spot, some unkind hand had pinned to the floor.