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. And I muse to myself as I continue to descend towards the sea. "Her appearance of sadness was not, therefore, on Yves' account. On whose, then?" and the phrase runs through my head: "Come back to-morrow before setting sail, to bid me good-by; I shall only return to my mother in the evening; you will find me still up there." Japan is indeed most delightful this evening, so fresh and so sweet; and little Chrysanthème was very charming just now, as she silently walked beside me through the darkness of the lane. It is about two o'clock when we reach the _Triomphante_ in a hired sampan, where I have heaped up all my cases till there is danger of sinking. The _very tall friend_ gives over to me the watch that I must keep till four o'clock; and the sailors on duty, but half awake, make a chain in the darkness, to haul on board all my fragile luggage. LII. _September 18th_. I had planned to sleep late this morning, in order to make up for my lost sleep of last night. But behold, at eight o'clock, three persons of the most singular appearance, led by M. Kangourou, present themselves with endless bows at the door of my cabin. They are dressed in long robes bedizened with dark patterns; they have the flowing locks, high foreheads and pallid countenances of persons too exclusively devoted to the fine arts; and, perched on the top of their chignons, they wear sailor hats of English shape stuck jauntily on one side. Under their arms, they carry portfolios filled with sketches; in their hands, boxes of water-colors, pencils, and, tied together like fasces, a bundle of fine stylets the sharp points of which glitter ostensibly. At the first glance, even in the bewilderment of waking, I gather from their appearance what their errand is, and guessing with what visitors I have to deal, I say:--"Come in, Messieurs the tattooers!" These are the specialists most in renown in Nagasaki; I had engaged them two days ago, not knowing that we were about to leave, and since they are come I will not turn them away. My friendly and intimate relations with primitive man, in Oceania and elsewhere, have imbued me with a deplorable taste for tattoo work; and I had wished to carry away on me, as a curiosity, an ornament, a specimen of the work of the Japanese tattooers, who have a delicacy of finish which is unequaled.