I hear the front door open, and hasten upstairs again.  Wooden clogs are deposited on the floor, the staircase creaks gently under the little bare feet.  Yves and I look at each other, with a longing to laugh.

An old lady enters,—­two old ladies,—­three old ladies, emerging from the doorway one after another with jerking and mechanical salutations, which we return as best we can, fully conscious of our inferiority in this particular style.  Then come persons of intermediate age,—­then quite young ones, a dozen at least, friends, neighbors, the whole quarter in fact.  And the whole company, on arriving, becomes confusedly engaged in reciprocal salutations:  I salute you,—–­ you salute me,—­I salute you again, and you return it,—­and I re-salute you again, and I express that I shall never, never be able to return it according to your high merit,—­and I bang my forehead against the ground, and you stick your nose between the planks of the flooring, and there they are, on all fours one before the other; it is a polite dispute, all anxious to yield precedence as to sitting down, or passing first, and compliments without end are murmured in low tones, with faces against the floor.

They seat themselves at last, smiling, in a ceremonious circle; we two remaining standing, our eyes fixed on the staircase.  And at length emerges, in due turn, the little aigrette of silver flowers, the ebony chignon, the gray silk robe and mauve sash of Mdlle.  Jasmin, my fiancee!

Heavens! why, I know her already!  Long before setting foot in Japan, I had met with her, on every fan, on every tea-cup—­with her silly air, her puffy little visage, her tiny eyes, mere gimlet-holes above those expanses of impossible pink and white which are her cheeks.

She is young, that is all I can say in her favor; she is even so young that I should almost scruple to accept her.  The wish to laugh quits me suddenly, and instead, a profound chill fastens on my heart.  What! share even an hour of my life with that little doll?  Never!

The next question is, how to get out of it?

She advances smiling, with an air of repressed triumph, and behind her looms M. Kangourou, in his suit of gray tweed.  Fresh salutes, and behold her on all fours, she too, before my landlady and before my neighbors.  Yves, the big Yves, who is not going to be married, stands behind me, with a comical grimace, hardly repressing his laughter,—­while to give myself time to collect my ideas, I offer tea in little cups, little spittoons and embers to the company.

Nevertheless, my discomfited air does not escape my visitors.  M. Kangourou anxiously inquires: 

“How do I 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, the jaws dropped, the pipes went out.  And now I address my reproaches to Kangourou:  “Why had he brought her to me in such pomp, before friends and neighbors of both sexes, instead of showing her to me discreetly as if by chance, as I had wished?  What an affront he will compel me now to put upon all these polite persons!”