recognize,--the arm of a little child. We now go on to see the _great salamander_ of Japan, an animal rare in this country, and quite unknown elsewhere, a great cold mass; sluggish and benumbed, looking like some antediluvian _experiment_, forgotten in the inner seas of this archipelago. Next comes the trained elephant, the terror of our mousmés, the equilibrists, the menagerie. It is one o'clock in the morning before we are back at Diou-djen-dji. We first get Yves to bed in the little paper room he has already once occupied. Then we go to bed ourselves, after the inevitable preparations, the smoking of the little pipe, and the _pan! pan! pan! pan!_ on the edge of the box. Suddenly Yves begins to move restlessly in his sleep, to toss about, giving great kicks on the wall, and making a frightful noise. What can be the matter? I at once imagine that he must be dreaming of the old hag and her wolfish shadow. Chrysanthème raises herself on her elbow and listens, with astonishment depicted on her face. Ah! happy thought! she has discovered what is tormenting him: "Ka!" (mosquitoes) she says. And, to impress the more forcibly her meaning on my mind, she pinches my arm so hard with her little pointed nails, at the same time imitating, with such an amusing play of her features, the grimace of a person who is stung, that I exclaim-- "Oh! stop, Chrysanthème, this pantomime is too expressive, and indeed useless! I know the word _Ka_, and had quite understood, I assure you." It is done so drolly and so quickly, with such a pretty pout, that in truth I cannot think of being angry, although I shall certainly have to-morrow a blue mark on my arm; about that there is no doubt. "Come, we must get up and go to Yves' rescue; he cannot be allowed to go on thumping in that manner. Let us take a lantern, and see what has happened." It was indeed the mosquitoes. They are hovering in a thick cloud about him; those of the house and those of the garden all seem collected together, swarming and buzzing. Chrysanthème indignantly burns several at the flame of her lantern, and shows me others: "Hou!" covering the white paper walls. He, tired out with his day's amusement, sleeps on; but his slumbers are restless, as can be easily imagined. Chrysanthème gives him a shake, wishing him to get up and share our blue mosquito net. After a little pressing he does as he is bid and follows us, looking like an overgrown boy only half awake. I make no objection to this singular hospitality; after all, it looks so little like a bed, the matting we are to share, and we sleep in our clothes, as we always do according to the Niponese fashion. After all, on a journey in a railway, do not the most estimable ladies stretch themselves without demur by the side of gentlemen unknown to them? I have however placed Chrysanthème's little wooden block in the center of the gauze tent, between our two pillows.