The two little friends return to their seats on the
mats, and once more take up their melancholy duet.
An orchestra, discreetly subdued but innumerable,
of crickets and cicalas, accompanies them in an unceasing
tremolo,—the immense far-reaching tremolo,
which, gentle and eternal, never ceases on Japanese
land.
September 17th.
During the hour of siesta, the abrupt order arrives
to start to-morrow for China, for Tchefou (a horrid
place in the gulf of Pekin). It is Yves who comes
to wake me in my cabin to bring me the news.
“I must positively get leave to go on shore
this evening,” he says, while I endeavor to
shake myself awake, “if it is only to help you
to dismantle and pack up there.”
He gazes through my port-hole, raising his glance
towards the green summits, in the direction of Diou-djen-dji
and our echoing old cottage, hidden from us by a turn
of the mountain.
It is very nice of him to wish to help me in my packing;
but I think he also counts upon saying farewell to
his little Japanese friends up there, and I really
cannot find fault with that.
He gets through his work, and does in fact get leave
without help from me, to go on shore at five o’clock,
after drill and manoeuvres.
As for myself, I start off at once, in a hired sampan.
In the vast flood of midday sunshine, to the quivering
noise of the cicalas, I mount up to Diou-djen-dji.
The paths are solitary, the plants drooping in the
heat. Here, however, is Madame Jonquille, taking
the air, in the bright sunshine of the grasshoppers,
sheltering her dainty figure and her charming face
under an immense paper parasol, a huge circle, closely
ribbed and fantastically striped.
She recognizes me from afar, and laughing as usual,
runs to meet me.
I announce our departure, and a tearful pout suddenly
contracts her childish face. After all, does
this news grieve her? Is she going to shed tears
over it? No! it turns to a fit of laughter, a
little nervous perhaps, but unexpected and disconcerting,—dry
and clear, pealing through the silence and warmth
of the narrow paths, like a cascade of little mock
pearls.
Ah, there indeed is a marriage tie which will be broken
without much pain! But she fills me with impatience,
poor empty-headed linnet, with her laughter, and I
turn my back upon her to continue my journey.
Up above, Chrysantheme sleeps, stretched out on the
floor; the house is wide open, and the soft mountain
breeze rustles gently through it.
That same evening we had intended to give a tea-party,
and by my orders flowers had already been placed in
every nook and corner of the house. There were
lotus in our vases, beautiful rose-colored lotus,
the last of the season, I verily believe. They
must have been ordered from a special gardener, out
yonder near the Great Temple, and they will cost me
dear.
