M. Kangourou relates, without seeing anything wrong
in it whatever, that formerly this talent was of great
service to M. Sucre. It appears that Madame Prune,—how
shall I say such a thing, and who could guess it now,
on beholding so devout and sedate an old lady, with
eyebrows so scrupulously shaven!—however,
it appears that Madame Prune used to receive a great
many visits from gentlemen,—gentlemen who
always came alone, and it led to some gossip.
Therefore, when Madame Prune was engaged with one
visitor, if a new arrival made his appearance, the
ingenious husband, to make him wait patiently, and
to while away the time in the ante-room, immediately
offered to paint him some storks in a variety of attitudes.
And this is how, in Nagasaki, all the Japanese gentlemen
of a certain age, have in their collections two or
three of these little pictures, for which they are
indebted to the delicate and original talent of M.
Sucre.
Sunday, August 25th.
At about six o’clock, while I was on duty, the
Triomphante left her prison walls between the
mountains and came out of dock. After a great
uproar of maneuvering we took up our old moorings in
the roadstead, at the foot of the Diou-djen-dji hills.
The weather was again calm and cloudless, the sky
presenting a peculiar clearness as though it had been
swept clean by the cyclone, an exceeding transparency
bringing out the minutest details of the far distance
till then unseen; as if the terrible blast had blown
away every vestige of the floating mists and left
behind it nothing but void and boundless space.
The coloring of woods and mountains stood out again
in the resplendent verdancy of spring after the torrents
of rain, like the wet colors of some freshly washed
painting. The sampans and junks, which for the
last three days had been lying under shelter, had
now put out to sea, and the bay was covered with their
white sails, which looked like an immense flight of
seabirds.
At eight o’clock, at nightfall, our maneuver
being at an end, I embarked with Yves on board a sampan;
this time it is he who is carrying me off and taking
me back to my home.
On land, a delicious perfume of new-mown hay greets
us, and the road across the mountains lies bathed
in glorious moonlight. We go straight up to Diou-djen-dji
to join Chrysantheme; I feel almost remorseful, although
I hardly show it, for my neglect of her.
Looking up, I recognize from afar my little house,
perched on high. It is wide open and lit up;
I even hear the sound of guitar. Then I perceive
the gilt head of my Buddha between: the little
bright flames of its two hanging night lamps.
Now Chrysantheme appears on the verandah, looking
out as if she expected us; and with her wonderful
bows of hair and long falling sleeves, her silhouette
is thoroughly Niponese.
As I enter, she comes forward to kiss me, in a graceful,
though rather hesitating manner, while Oyouki, more
demonstrative, throws her arms around me.
