In the language of this exquisitely polite people,
terms of abuse are totally wanting; when very angry,
one is obliged to be satisfied with using the ‘thou’,
a mark of inferiority, and the familiar conjugation,
habitually used toward those of low birth. Sitting
upon the table used for weddings, among the flurried
little policemen, I opened the conversation in the
following terms:
“In order that thou shouldst leave me in peace
in the suburb I am inhabiting, what bribe must I offer
thee, oh, little beings more contemptible than any
mere street porter?”
Great and general dismay, silent consternation, and
low bows greet my words.
They at last reply that my honorable person shall
not be molested, indeed, they ask for nothing better.
Only, in order to subscribe to the laws of the country,
I ought to have come here and given my name and that
of the young person that—with whom—
“Oh! that is going too far! I came here
for that purpose, contemptible creatures, not three
weeks ago!”
Then, taking up myself the civil register, and turning
over the pages rapidly, I found my signature and beside
it the little hieroglyphics drawn by Chrysantheme:
“There, idiots, look at that!”
Arrival of a very high functionary—a ridiculous
little old fellow in a black coat, who from his office
had been listening to the row:
“What is the matter? What is it? What
is this annoyance put upon the French officers?”
I state my case politely to this personage, who can
not make apologies and promises enough. The little
agents prostrate themselves on all fours, sink into
the earth; and we leave them, cold and dignified, without
returning their bows.
M. Sucre and Madame Prune may now make their minds
easy; they will not be disturbed again.
BUTTERFLIES AND BEETLES
August 23d.
The prolonged sojourn of the Triomphante in the dock,
and the distance of our dwelling from the town, have
been my excuse these last two or three days for not
going up to Diou-djen-dji to see Chrysantheme.
It is dreary work in these docks. At early dawn
a legion of little Japanese workmen invade us, bringing
their dinners in baskets and gourds like the workingmen
in our arsenals, but with a poor, shabby appearance,
and a ferreting, hurried manner which reminds one of
rats. Silently they slip under the keel, at the
bottom of the hold, in all the holes, sawing, nailing,
repairing.
The heat is intense in this spot, overshadowed by
the rocks and tangled masses of foliage.
At two o’clock, in the broad sunlight, we have
a new and far prettier invasion: that of the
beetles and butterflies.
There are butterflies as wonderful as those on the
fans. Some, all black, giddily dash up against
us, so light and airy that they seem merely a pair
of quivering wings fastened together without any body.
