glimmer, thrown by us on our passage, discovers the hideous smile of a large stone animal seated at the gate of a pagoda.
At last we arrive at the foot of Osueva's temple, and, leaving our djins with our little gigs, we clamber up the gigantic steps, completely deserted at this hour of the night.
Chrysanthème, who always likes to play the part of a tired little girl, of a spoilt and pouting child, ascends slowly between Yves and myself, clinging to our arms.
Jonquille, on the contrary, skips up like a bird, amusing herself by counting the endless steps:
"Hitôts'! F'tâts'! Mits'! Yôts'!" ("One! two! three! four!") she exclaims, springing up by a series of little light bounds.
"Itsôôts! Moûts'! Nanâts! Yâts! Kokonôts!" ("Five! six! seven! eight! nine!")
She lays a great stress on the accentuations, as though to make the numbers sound even more droll.
A little silver aigrette glitters in her beautiful black chignon; her delicate and graceful figure seems strangely fantastic, and the darkness that envelops us conceals the fact that her face is almost ugly, and almost without eyes.
This evening Chrysanthème and Jonquille really look like little fairies; at certain moments
the most insignificant Japanese have this appearance, by dint of whimsical elegance and ingenious arrangement.