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And on the negative we are shown we look like a supremely ridiculous little family drawn up in a line by a common photographer at a fair. September 13th. This evening Yves is off duty three hours earlier than myself; from time to time this is the case, according to the arrangement of the watches. On those occasions he lands the first, and goes up to wait for me at Diou-djen-dji.
So of course he had followed her, feeling as if he had been very drunk. But he had not had a drop. She had gone to a bleary man who sat at a little table, with others, and tried to make him come out with her. But the man swore at her, and the woman left, crying, and Yves had followed her out into the street, and when he spoke she knew him, and cried harder.
In such weather it is impossible to allow Yves to return down hill, and wander along the shore in quest of a sampan. No, he shall not return on board to-night; we will put him up in our house. His little room has indeed been already provided for in the conditions of our lease, and notwithstanding his discreet refusal, we immediately set to work to make it.
Yves leans toward me and whispers: "Look over there, brother, in that corner by the last panel; have you noticed the one who is sitting down?" Not I. In my annoyance I had not observed her; she had her back to the light, was dressed in dark colors, and sat in the careless attitude of one who keeps in the background. The fact is, this one pleased me much better.
I feel terribly dreary in this room to-night; the noise of the little pipe irritates me more than usual, and as Chrysantheme crouches in front of her smoking-box, I suddenly discover in her an air of low breeding, in the very worst sense of the word. I should hate her, my mousme, if she were to entice Yves into committing a fault a fault which I should perhaps never be able to forgive.
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.
Yves, whose impatience shows itself the most freely, from time to time takes a look out of the window. As for myself, a chill suddenly seizes me, at the idea that I have chosen, and purpose to inhabit this lonely house, lost in the midst of the suburb of a totally strange town, perched high on the mountain and almost opening upon the woods.
Now I am very curious to see the parting between Yves and Chrysanthème; I listen with all my ears, I look with all my eyes, it takes place in the simplest and quietest fashion: none of that heartbreaking which will be inevitable between Madame Prune and myself; I even notice in my mousmé an indifference, an unconcern which puzzles me; I positively am at a loss to understand what it all means.
But Yves it would be decidedly wrong on his part, and would greatly diminish my faith in him. We hear the rain falling on our old roof; the cicalas are mute; odors of wet earth reach us from the gardens and the mountain.
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.
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