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 pan! pan! pan! pan! 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 at once imagine that he must be dreaming of the old hag and her wolfish shadow. Chrysanthème raises herself on her elbow and listens, with astonishment depicted on her face.
Ah! happy thought! she has discovered 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, Chrysanthème, 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 cannot think of being angry, although I shall certainly have to-morrow a blue mark on my arm; about that there is no doubt.