Chapter XXXVI: Tuesday, August 27th

We have spent the day,--Yves, Chrysanthème, Oyouki and myself,--wandering through dark and dusty nooks, dragged hither and thither by four quick-footed djins, in search of antiquities in the bric-à-brac shops.

Towards sunset, Chrysanthème, who has wearied me more than ever since the morning, and who doubtless has perceived it, pulls a very long face, declares herself ill, and begs leave to spend the night at her mother's, Madame Renoncule.

I agree to this with the best grace in the world; let her go, tiresome little mousmé! Oyouki will carry a message to her parents, who will shut up our rooms; we shall spend the evening, Yves and I, in roaming about as fancy takes us, without any mousmé dragging at our heels, and shall afterwards regain our own quarters on board the _Triomphante_, without having the trouble of climbing up that hill.

First of all, we make an attempt to dine together in some fashionable tea-house. Impossible, there is not a place to be had; all the absurd paper rooms, all the compartments contrived by so many ingenious dodges of slipping and sliding panels, all the nooks and corners in the little gardens are filled with Japanese men and women eating impossible and incredible little dishes! numberless young dandies are dining _tête-à-tête_ with the lady of their choice, and sounds of dancing girls and music issue from the private rooms.

The fact is, that to-day is the third and last day of the great pilgrimage to the temple of the _Jumping Tortoise_, of which we saw the commencement yesterday, and all Nagasaki is at this time given over to amusement.

At the tea-house of the _Indescribable Butterflies_, which is also full to overflowing, but where we are well-known, they have had the bright idea of throwing a temporary flooring over the little lake,--the pond where the gold-fish live, and it is here that our meal is served, in the pleasant freshness of the fountain which continues its murmur under our feet.

After dinner, we follow the faithful and ascend again to the temple.

Up there we find the same elfin revelry, the same masks, the same music. We seat ourselves, as before, under a gauze tent and sip odd little drinks tasting of flowers. But this evening we are alone, and the absence of the band of mousmés, whose familiar little faces formed a bond of union between this holiday-making people and ourselves, separates and isolates us more than usual from the profusion of oddities in the midst of which we seem to be lost. Beneath us, lies always the immense blue background: Nagasaki illumined by moonlight, and the expanse of silvered, glittering water, which seems like a vaporous vision suspended in mid-air. Behind us is the great open temple, where the bonzes officiate to the accompaniment of sacred bells and wooden clappers,--looking, from where we sit, more like puppets than anything else, some squatting in rows like peaceful mummies, others executing rhythmical marches before the golden background where stand the gods. We do not laugh to-night, and speak but little, more forcibly struck by the scene than we were on the first night; we only look on, trying to understand. Suddenly, Yves turning round, says:

"Hullo! brother, your mousmé!!"

Actually there she is, behind him; Chrysanthème almost on all fours, hidden between the paws of a great granite beast, half tiger, half dog, against which our fragile tent is leaning.

"She pulled my trousers with her nails, for all the world like a little cat," said Yves, still full of surprise, "positively like a cat!"

She remains bent double in the most humble form of salutation; she smiles timidly, afraid of being ill received, and the head of my little brother-in-law, Bambou, appears smiling too, just above her own. She has brought this little _mousko_[I] with her, perched astride on her back; he looks as absurd as ever, with his shaven head, his long frock and the great bows of his silken sash. There they both stand gazing at us, anxious to know how their joke will be taken.

[Footnote I: _Mousko_ is the masculine of _mousmé_, and signifies little boy. Excessive politeness makes it _mousko-san_ (Mr. little boy).]

For my part, I have not the least idea of giving them a cold reception; on the contrary, the meeting amuses me. It even strikes me that it is rather pretty of Chrysanthème to come round in this way, and to bring Bambou-San to the festival; though it savors somewhat of her low breeding, to tell the truth, to have tacked him on to her back, as the poorer Japanese women do with their little ones.

However, let her sit down between Yves and myself: and let them bring her those iced beans she loves so much; and we will take the jolly little _mousko_ on our knees and cram him with sugar and sweetness to his heart's content.

* * * * *

The evening over, when we begin to think of leaving, and of going down again, Chrysanthème replaces her little Bambou astride upon her back, and sets forth, bending forward under his weight and painfully dragging her Cinderella slippers over the granite steps and flagstones. Yes, decidedly low this conduct! but low in the best sense of the word: nothing in it displeases me; I even consider Chrysanthème's affection for Bambou-San engaging and attractive in its simplicity.

One cannot deny this merit to the Japanese,--a great love for little children, and a talent for amusing them, for making them laugh, inventing comical toys for them, making the morning of their life happy; for a specialty in dressing them, arranging their heads, and giving to the whole little personage the most diverting appearance possible. It is the only thing I really like about this country: the babies and the manner in which they are understood.

* * * * *

On our way we meet our married friends of the _Triomphante_, who, much surprised at seeing me with this _mousko_, chaffingly exclaim:

"What! a son already?"

Down in the town, we make a point of bidding good-by to Chrysanthème at the turning of the street where her mother lives. She smiles undecided, declares herself well again, and begs to return to our house on the heights. This did not precisely enter into my plans, I confess. However, it would look very ungracious to refuse.

So be it! But we must carry the _mousko_ home to his mamma, and then begin, by the flickering light of a new lantern bought afresh from Madame Très-Propre, our weary homeward ascent.

Here, however, we find ourselves in another predicament: this ridiculous little Bambou insists upon coming with us! No, he will take no denial, we must take him with us. This is out of all reason, quite impossible!

However, it will not do to make him cry, on the night of a great festival too, poor little _mousko_. So we must send a message to Madame Renoncule, that she may not be uneasy about him, and as there will soon not be a living creature on the footpaths of Diou-djen-dji to laugh at us, we will take it in turn, Yves and I, to carry him on our back, all the way up that climb in the darkness.

* * * * *

And here am I, who did not wish to return this way to-night, dragging a mousmé by the hand, actually carrying an extra burden in the shape of a _mousko_ on my back. What an irony of fate!

As I had expected, all our shutters and doors are closed, bolted and barred; no one expects us, and we have to make a prodigious noise at the door. Chrysanthème sets to work and calls with all her might:

"Ho! Oumé-San-an-an-an!" (In English: "Hi! Madame Pru-u-u-u-une!")

These intonations in her little voice are unknown to me; her longdrawn call in the echoing darkness of midnight has so strange an accent, something so unexpected and wild, that it impresses me with a dismal feeling of far-off exile.

At last Madame Prune appears to open the door to us, only half awake and much astonished; by way of a night-cap she wears a monstrous cotton turban, on the blue ground of which a few white storks are playfully disporting themselves. Holding in the tips of her fingers with an affectation of graceful fright, the long stalk of her beflowered lantern, she gazes intently into our faces, one after another, to assure herself of our identity; but the poor old lady cannot get over the _mousko_ I am carrying.