I look over his shoulder, and I see a back view of a little doll, the finishing touches to whose toilette are being put in the solitary street; a last maternal glance is given the enormous bows of the sash, the folds at the waist.  Her dress is of pearl-gray silk, her obi (sash) of mauve satin; a sprig of silver flowers trembles in her black hair; a parting ray of sunlight touches the little figure; five or six persons accompany her.  Yes! it is undoubtedly Mademoiselle Jasmin; they are bringing me my fiancee!

I rush to the ground floor, inhabited by old Madame Prune, my landlady, and her aged husband; they are absorbed in prayer before the altar of their ancestors.

“Here they are, Madame Prune,” I cry in Japanese; “here they are!  Bring at once the tea, the lamp, the embers, the little pipes for the ladies, the little bamboo pots!  Bring up, as quickly as possible, all the accessories for my reception!”

I hear the front door open, and hasten upstairs again.  Wooden clogs are deposited on the floor, the staircase creaks gently under 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 entire 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 another; it is a polite dispute, all eager 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 the little aigrette of silver flowers, the ebony coiffure, the gray silk robe and mauve sash of Mademoiselle Jasmin, my fiancee!

Heavens! why, I know her already!  Long before setting foot in Japan, I had met her, on every fan, on every teacup with her silly air, her puffy little face, her tiny eyes, mere gimlet-holes above those expanses of impossible pink and white 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 leaves me suddenly, and instead, a profound chill seizes my heart.  What! share even an hour of my life with that little doll?  Never!

The next question is, how to get rid of her.