Well, let us fix upon Mdlle. Jasmin then,—and
now we must part; time presses. M. Kangourou
will come on board to-morrow to communicate to me
the result of his first proceedings and to arrange
with me for the interview. For the present he
refuses to accept any remuneration; but I am to give
him my washing, and to procure him the custom of my
brother officers of the Triomphante. It
is all settled. Profound bows,—they
put on my boots again at the door. My djin, profiting
by the interpreter kind fortune has placed in his
way, begs to be recommended to me for future custom;
his stand is on the quay; his number is 415, inscribed
in French characters on the lantern of his vehicle
(we have a number 415 on board, one Le Goelec, gunner,
who serves the left of one of my guns; happy thought,
I shall remember this); his price is sixpence the
journey, or five pence an hour, for his customers.
Capital; he shall have my custom, that is promised.
And now, let us be off. The waiting-maids, who
have escorted me to the door, fall on all fours as
a final salute, and remain prostrate on the threshold—as
long as I am still in sight down the dark pathway,
where the rain trickles off the great over-arching
bracken upon my head.
IV.
Three days have passed. Night is closing, in
an apartment which has been mine since yesterday.
Yves and I, on the first floor, move restlessly over
the white mats, striding up and down the great bare
room, of which the thin, dry flooring cracks beneath
our footsteps; we are both of us rather irritated
by prolonged expectation. Yves, whose impatience
shows itself the most freely, from time to time takes
a look out of the window. As for myself, a chill
suddenly seizes me, at the idea that I have chosen,
and purpose to inhabit this lonely house, lost in
the midst of the suburb of a totally strange town,
perched high on the mountain and almost opening upon
the woods.
What wild notion can have taken possession of me,
to settle myself in surroundings so utterly foreign
and unknown, breathing of isolation and sadness?
The waiting unnerves me, and I beguile the time by
examining all the little details of the building.
The woodwork of the ceiling is complicated and ingenious.
On the partitions of white paper which form the walls,
are scattered tiny, microscopic, blue-feathered tortoises.
“They are late,” said Yves, who is still
looking out into the street.
As to being late, that they certainly are, by a good
hour already, and night is falling, and the boat which
should take us back to dine on board will be gone.
Probably we shall have to sup, Japanese fashion to-night,
heaven only knows where. The people of this country
have no sense of punctuality, or of the value of time.
Copyrights
Madame Chrysantheme from Project Gutenberg. Public domain.
