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For the third time, we have Yves sleeping beside us under our blue tent. There is a great noise shortly after midnight in the apartment beneath us: our landlord's family have returned from a pilgrimage to a far-distant temple of the Goddess of Grace. Hardly rousing ourselves, we absorb these little edibles flavored with sugar and pepper, and return a great many sleepy thanks.
Will there be any touch of sadness on the part of my mousmé, or on my own, just a tightening of the heart-strings at the moment of our final farewell? At this moment I can imagine nothing of the sort. And then the adieux of Yves and Chrysanthème, what will they be? This question preoccupies me more than all.
These quarters, and this excessive liberty, give me some uneasiness about my poor Yves; for this country of frivolous pleasure has a little turned his head. Moreover, I am more and more convinced that he is in love with Chrysantheme. It is really a pity that the sentiment has not occurred to me instead, since it is I who have gone the length of marrying her.
Then Yves, who is usually clever at all games of skill, wishes to try his luck, and fails. It is amusing to see her, with her mincing ways and smiles, arrange with the tips of her little fingers the sailor's broad hands, placing them on the bow and the string in order to teach him the proper manner.
We were dashing on, at a safe distance from the rocks, and suddenly there was an opening in the cliffs, with a tiny bay within. Yves pulled in the sheets a little and we sailed into the deep, clear water of the tiny cove. There was a small beach of rolling shingle and, beyond this, clinging like barnacles to the rocky hillside, were a couple of decrepit houses.
During this whole day we Yves, Chrysantheme, Oyouki and myself have spent the time wandering through dark and dusty nooks, dragged hither and thither by four quick-footed djins, in search of antiquities in the bric-a-brac shops.
At nightfall, when Chrysanthème has gone up to Diou-djen-dji, we cross, Yves and myself, the European concession, on our way to the ship, to take up our watch till the following day. The cosmopolitan quarter exhaling an odor of absinthe, is dressed up with flags, and squibs are being fired off in honor of France.
"Oh!" he replied, rather surprised, "cats do you say? they are not dirty!" On this point Chrysanthème and I agree with him: we do not consider cats as unclean animals, and we do not object to drink after them. Yves considers Chrysanthème much in the same light.
The following week Yves de Cornault rode back to Kerfol, sent for his vassals and tenants, and told them he was to be married at All Saints to Anne de Barrigan of Douarnenez. And on All Saints' Day the marriage took place. As to the next few years, the evidence on both sides seems to show that they passed happily for the couple.
On the partitions of white paper which form the walls, are scattered tiny, microscopic, blue-feathered tortoises. "They are late," said Yves, who is still looking out into the street. As to being late, that they certainly are, by a good hour already, and night is falling, and the boat which should take us back to dine on board will be gone.
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