We are, indeed, a very small group, lost now in the
immensity of the colossal acclivity as we move onwards,
lighted partly by the wan moon on high, partly by
the red lanterns we hold in our hands, ever floating
at the end of their long sticks.
A deep silence reigns in the precincts of the temple,
the sound of the insects even is hushed as we ascend
higher. A sort of reverence, a kind of religious
fear steals over us, and, at the same moment, a delicious
coolness suddenly pervades the air, and passes over
us.
On entering the courtyard above, we feel a little
daunted. Here we find the horse in jade, and
the china turrets. The enclosing walls make it
the more gloomy, and our arrival seems to disturb I
know not what mysterious council held between the
spirits of the air and the visible symbols that are
there, chimeras and monsters lit up by the blue rays
of the moon.
We turn to the left, and go through the terraced gardens,
to reach the tea-house “of the Toads,”
which this evening is our goal; we find it shut up—expected
as much—closed and dark, at this hour!
We drum all together on the door; in the most coaxing
tones we call by name the waiting-maids we know so
well: Mdlle. Transparente, Mdlle. Etoile,
Mdlle. Roseematinale, and Mdlle. Marguerite-reine.
Not an answer. Goodbye perfumed sherbets and
frosted beans!
In front of the little archery-house, our mousmes
suddenly start on one side, terrified, and declaring
that there is a dead body on the ground. Yes,
indeed, someone is lying there. We cautiously
examine the place by the light of our red balloons,
carefully held out at arm’s length for fear
of this dead man; it is only the marksman, he who on
the 14th of July chose such magnificent arrows for
Chrysantheme; and he sleeps, good man, with his chignon
somewhat dishevelled, a sound sleep, which it would
be cruel to disturb.
Let us go to the end of the terrace, contemplate the
roadstead at our feet, and then return home.
To-night the harbor looks only like a dark and sinister
rent, which the moonbeams cannot fathom,—a
yawning crevasse opening into the very bowels of the
earth, at the bottom of which lie faint and small
glimmers, an assembly of glow-worms in a ditch—the
lights of the different vessels lying at anchor.
It is the middle of the night, somewhere about two
in the morning. Our night-lamps are burning still,
a little dimly, in front of our peaceful idols.
Chrysantheme wakes me suddenly, and I turn to look
at her: she has raised herself on one arm, and
her face expresses the most intense terror; she makes
me a sign, without daring to speak, that someone is
near, or something, creeping up to us. What ill-timed
visit is this? A feeling of fear gains possession
of me also. I have a rapid impression of some
immense unknown danger, in this isolated spot, in
this strange country of which I do not even yet comprehend
the inhabitants and the mysteries. It must be
something very frightful, to hold her there, rooted
to the spot, half dead with fright, she who does
comprehend all these things.
