Yves sleeps quietly on this occasion, without dealing
any blows to the floor or the panels either with fists
or feet. He has hung his watch on one of the
hands of our gilded idol in order to be more sure of
seeing the hour at any time of the night, by the light
of the sacred lamps. He gets up betimes in the
morning, asking: “Well, did I behave properly?”
and dresses in haste, preoccupied about duty and the
roll-call.
Outside, no doubt, it is daylight already: through
the tiny holes which time has pierced in our wooden
panels, threads of morning light penetrate our chamber,
and in the atmosphere of our room where night still
lingers, they trace vague white rays. Soon, when
the sun shall have risen, these rays will lengthen
and become beautifully golden. The cocks and
the cicalas make themselves heard, and now Madame Prune
will begin her mystic drone.
Nevertheless, out of politeness for Yves-San, Chrysantheme
lights a lantern and escorts him to the foot of the
dark staircase. I even fancy that, on parting,
I hear a kiss exchanged. In Japan this is of
no consequence, that I know; it is very usual, and
quite admissible; no matter where one goes, in houses
one enters for the first time, one is quite at liberty
to kiss any mousme who may be present, without any
notice being taken of it. But with regard to Chrysantheme,
Yves is in a delicate position, and he ought to understand
it better. I begin to feel uneasy about the hours
they have so often spent together alone; and I make
up my mind, that this very day I will not play the
spy upon them, but speak frankly to Yves, and make
a clear breast of it.
All at once from below, clac! clac! two dry
hands clapped together; it is Madame Prune’s
warning to the Great Spirit. And immediately
after her prayer breaks forth, soars upwards in a shrill
nasal falsetto, like a morning alarm when the hour
for waking has come, the mechanical noise of a spring
let go and running down.
"The richest woman in the world. Cleansed
from all my sins, O Ama-Terace-Omi-Kami, in the river
of Kamo."
And this extraordinary bleating, scarcely human, scatters
and changes my ideas, which were very nearly clear
at the moment I awoke.
September 15th.
There is a rumor of departure in the air. Since
yesterday there has been vague talk of our being sent
to China, to the gulf of Pekin; one of those rumors
which spread, no one knows how, from one end of the
ship to the other, two or three days before the official
orders arrive, and which generally turn out tolerably
correct. What will the last act of my little
Japanese comedy be like? the denouement, the separation?
Will there be any touch of sadness on the part of my
mousme, or on my own, just a tightening of the heart-strings
at the moment of our final farewell? At this
moment I can imagine nothing of the sort. And
then the adieux of Yves and Chrysantheme, what will
they be? This question preoccupies me more than
all.
