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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 clean breast of it. Suddenly from below, clac! clac! two dry hands are clapped together; it is Madame Prune's warning to the Great Spirit.
It seems to be outside; it is coming from the garden; with trembling hand she indicates to me that it will come through the veranda, over Madame Prune's roof. Certainly, I hear faint noises, and they do approach us. I suggest to her "Neko-San?" "No!" she replies, still terrified, and in an alarmed tone. "Bakemono-Sama?" "No! Thieves!
Meantime, we, with the aid of a sort of secret key, open the door of our garden, where Madame Prune's pots of flowers, ranged in the darkness, send forth delicious odors in the night air. We cross the garden by moonlight or starlight, and mount to our own rooms.
It would seem to be outside: it is coming from the garden; with trembling hand she indicates to me that it will come through the verandah, over Madame Prune's roof. Certainly, I can hear faint noises, and they do approach nearer. I suggest to her: "Neko-San?" "No!" she replies, still terrified and in an alarming tone. "Bakémono-Sama?"
I am not in the least frightened, now that I know precisely what to expect, and we will immediately set to work to ascertain the truth, for something is decidedly moving on Madame Prune's roof; some one is walking upon it. I open one of our wooden panels and look out.
At intervals during the day the meals are continued by two little dinners of the drollest description. They are brought up on a tray of red lacquer, in microscopic cups with covers, from Madame Prune's apartment, where they are cooked: a hashed sparrow, a stuffed prawn, seaweed with a sauce, a salted sweetmeat, a sugared chili!
In order to keep them cool, the tubs are kept out of doors on Madame Prune's roof, at a place where we can, from the top of our projecting balcony, easily reach them by stretching out an arm.
It seems to be outside; it is coming from the garden; with trembling hand she indicates to me that it will come through the veranda, over Madame Prune's roof. Certainly, I hear faint noises, and they do approach us. I suggest to her "Neko-San?" "No!" she replies, still terrified, and in an alarmed tone. "Bakemono-Sama?" "No! Thieves!
As for Madame Prune's comb, I confess it left me indifferent, and I turned a deaf ear, thinking it very insignificant and expensive. Then Chrysantheme answered, mournfully: "No, thank you, I don't want it; take it away, dear Madame Prune." And at the same time she heaved a deep sigh, full of meaning, which plainly said: "He is not so fond of me as all that. Useless to bother him."
Meantime, we, with the aid of a sort of secret key, open the door of our garden, where Madame Prune's pots of flowers, ranged in the darkness, send forth delicious odors in the night air. We cross the garden by moonlight or starlight, and mount to our own rooms.
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