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From the balcony she had watched the 'Triomphante' leave the dock, and, in the expectation of our prompt return, she had made her preparations; then, to wile away the time, she was studying a duet on the guitar with Oyouki. Not a question did she ask, nor a reproach did she make. Quite the contrary.
Now Chrysanthème appears on the verandah, looking out as if she expected us; and with her wonderful bows of hair and long falling sleeves, her silhouette is thoroughly Niponese. As I enter, she comes forward to kiss me, in a graceful, though rather hesitating manner, while Oyouki, more demonstrative, throws her arms around me.
Mademoiselle Oyouki dashes upstairs, with half a tear in each of her babyish eyes; kisses me with her full red lips, which always leave a wet ring on my cheek; then quickly draws from her wide sleeve a square of tissue-paper, wipes away her stealthy tears, blows her little nose, rolls the bit of paper in a ball, and throws it into the street on the parasol of a passer-by.
Although Oyouki has a heavy heart, she cannot prevent herself from indulging in a few bursts of childish laughter while she works. Madame Prune, bathed in tears, no longer restrains her feelings; poor lady, I really very much regret.... Chrysanthème is absent-minded and silent. But what a fearful amount of luggage!
There are groups of women of every age, decked out in their smartest clothes, crowds of mousmes with aigrettes of flowers in their hair, or little silver topknots like Oyouki pretty little physiognomies, little, narrow eyes peeping between their slits like those of new-born kittens, fat, pale, little cheeks, round, puffed-out, half-opened lips.
Yves, Chrysanthème, and little Oyouki have struck up a friendship so great that it amuses me: I even think, that in my home life, this intimacy is what affords me the greatest entertainment. They form a contrast which gives rise to the most absurd jokes, and most unforeseen situations.
With little shrieks of admiration, they point out to one another the different things, as little by little their shape and form are outlined in black on my paper. Mademoiselle Oyouki is carried away by her admiration, and exclaims, in a burst of enthusiasm: "Anata bakari!"
There are groups of women of every age, decked out in their smartest clothes, crowds of mousmes with aigrettes of flowers in their hair, or little silver topknots like Oyouki pretty little physiognomies, little, narrow eyes peeping between their slits like those of new-born kittens, fat, pale, little cheeks, round, puffed-out, half-opened lips.
Oyouki dashes upstairs, with half a tear in each of her babyish eyes; kisses me with her full red lips, which always leave a wet ring on my cheek; then quickly draws from her wide sleeve a square of tissue-paper, wipes away her stealthy tears, blows her little nose, rolls the bit of paper in a ball, and throws it into the street on the parasol of a passer-by.
As to Oyouki, she rushes upon us ten times a day whether we are sleeping or dressing like a whirlwind on a visit, flashing upon us, a very gust of dainty youthfulness and droll gayety a living peal of laughter.
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