We have spent the day,—Yves, Chrysanthème, Oyouki and myself,—wandering through dark and dusty nooks, dragged hither and thither by four quick-footed djins, in search of antiquities in the bric-à-brac shops.
Towards sunset, Chrysanthème, who has wearied me more than ever since the morning, and who doubtless has perceived it, pulls a very long face, declares herself ill, and begs leave to spend the night at her mother's, Madame Renoncule.
I agree to this with the best grace in the world; let her go, tiresome little mousmé! Oyouki will carry a message to her parents, who will shut up our rooms; we shall spend the
evening, Yves and I, in roaming about as fancy takes us, without any mousmé dragging at our heels, and shall afterwards regain our own quarters on board the Triomphante, without having the trouble of climbing up that hill.
First of all, we make an attempt to dine together in some fashionable tea-house. Impossible, there is not a place to be had; all the absurd paper rooms, all the compartments contrived by so many ingenious dodges of slipping and sliding panels, all the nooks and corners in the little gardens are filled with Japanese men and women eating impossible and incredible little dishes! numberless young dandies are dining tête-à-tête with the lady of their choice, and sounds of dancing girls and music issue from the private rooms.
The fact is, that to-day is the third and last day of the great pilgrimage to the temple of the Jumping Tortoise, of which we saw the commencement yesterday, and all Nagasaki is at this time given over to amusement.
At the tea-house of the Indescribable Butterflies, which is also full to overflowing, but where we are well-known, they have had the bright idea of throwing a temporary flooring over the little lake,—the pond where the gold-fish live, and it is here that our meal is served,
in the pleasant freshness of the fountain which continues its murmur under our feet.
After dinner, we follow the faithful and ascend again to the temple.