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He makes one for each word I utter, as if he were a mechanical toy pulled by a string; when he is seated before me on the ground, he limits himself to a duck of the head always accompanied by the same hissing noise of the saliva. "A cup of tea, Monsieur Kangourou?" Fresh salute and an extra affected gesticulation with the hands, as if to say, "I should hardly dare.
I feel as if I were acting, for my own benefit, some wretchedly trivial and third-rate comedy; and whenever I try to consider my home in a serious spirit, the scoffing figure of M. Kangourou rises up before me, the matrimonial agent, to whom I am indebted for my happiness. July 12th. Yves comes up to us whenever he is free, in the evening at five o'clock, after his work on board.
Later, no doubt, when I understand Japanese affairs better, I shall appreciate myself the enormity of my proposal: one would really suppose I had talked of marrying the devil. At this point M. Kangourou suddenly calls to mind one Mademoiselle Jasmin. Heavens! how was it he had not thought of her at once?
It seemed extraordinary that the quaint words, the curious phrases I had learned during our exile at the Pescadores Islands by sheer dint of dictionary and grammar, without attaching the least sense to them should mean anything. But so it seemed, however, for I was at once understood. I wished in the first place to speak to one M. Kangourou, who is interpreter, laundryman, and matrimonial agent.
M. Kangourou brought a little laundry bill, which he wished respectfully to hand to me, with a profound bend of the whole body, the correct pose of the hands on the knees, and a long, snake-like hiss.
I feel as if I were acting, for my own benefit, some wretchedly trivial and third-rate comedy; and whenever I try to consider my home in a serious spirit, the scoffing figure of M. Kangourou rises before me the matrimonial agent, to whom I am indebted for my happiness. July 12th Yves visits us whenever he is free, in the evening at five o'clock, after his duties on board are fulfilled.
She wore an expression of ennui, also of a little contempt, as if she regretted her attendance at a spectacle which dragged so much, and was so little amusing. "M. Kangourou, who is that young lady over there, in dark blue?" "Over there, sir? A young lady called Mdlle. Chrysanthème. She came with the others you see here; she is only here as a spectator.
Nevertheless, my discomfited air does not escape my visitors. M. Kangourou anxiously inquires: "How do you like her?" And I reply in a low voice, but with great resolution: "Not at all! I won't have that one. Never!" I believe that this remark was almost understood in the circle around me. Consternation was depicted on every face, jaws dropped, and pipes went out.
Really, short of marrying a china ornament, I should find it difficult to choose better. At this moment enters M. Kangourou, clad in a suit of gray tweed, which might have come from La Belle Jardiniere or the Pont Neuf, with a pot-hat and white thread gloves. His countenance is at once foolish and cunning; he has hardly any nose or eyes. "You speak French, Monsieur Kangourou?"
It is ten o'clock when all is finally settled, and M. Kangourou comes to tell me: "All is arranged, Monsieur: her parents will give her up for twenty dollars a month the same price as Mademoiselle Jasmin."
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