MADAME CHRYSANTHEME
By PIERRE LOTI
BOOK 4.
CHAPTER XLVII
A MIDNIGHT ALARM
It is the middle of the night, perhaps about two o'clock in the morning.
Our lamps are burning somewhat dimly before our placid idols.
Chrysantheme wakes me suddenly, and I turn to look at her: she has raised
herself on one arm, and her face expresses the most intense terror; she
makes a sign, without daring to speak, that some one or something is
near, creeping up to us. What ill-timed visit is this? A feeling of
fear gains possession of me also. I have a rapid impression of some
great unknown danger, in this isolated spot, in this strange country of
which I do not even yet comprehend the inhabitants and the mysteries.
It must be something very frightful to hold her there, rooted to the
spot, half dead with fright, she who does comprehend all these things.
It seems to be outside; it is coming from the garden; with trembling hand
she indicates to me that it will come through the veranda, over Madame
Prune's roof. Certainly, I hear faint noises, and they do approach us.
I suggest to her
"Neko-San?" ("It is Messieurs the cats?")
"No!" she replies, still terrified, and in an alarmed tone.
"Bakemono-Sama?" ("Is it my lords the ghosts?") I have already the
Japanese habit of expressing myself with excessive politeness.
"No! 'Dorobo'!" ("Thieves!")
Thieves! Ah! this is better; I much prefer this to a visit such as I
have just been dreading in the sudden awakening from sleep: from ghosts
or spirits of the dead; thieves, that is to say, worthy fellows very much
alive, and having, undoubtedly, inasmuch as they are Japanese thieves,
faces of the most meritorious oddity. I am not in the least frightened,
now that I know precisely what to expect, and we will immediately set to
work to ascertain the truth, for something is certainly moving on Madame
Prune's roof; some one is walking upon it.
I open one of our wooden panels and look out.
I can see only a vast expanse, calm, peaceful, and exquisite under the
full brilliance of the moonlight; sleeping Japan, lulled by the sonorous
song of the grasshoppers, is charming indeed to-night, and the free, pure
air is delicious.
Chrysantheme, half hidden behind my shoulder, listens tremblingly,
peering forward to examine the gardens and the roofs with dilated eyes
like a frightened cat. No, nothing! not a thing moves. Here and there
are a few strangely substantial shadows, which at first glance were not
easy to explain, but which turn out to be real shadows, thrown by bits of
wall, by boughs of trees, and which preserve an extremely reassuring
stillness. Everything seems absolutely tranquil, and profound silence
reigns in the dreamy vagueness which moonlight sheds over all.
Nothing; nothing to be seen anywhere. It was Messieurs the cats after
all, or perhaps my ladies the owls; sounds increase in volume in the most
amazing manner at night, in this house of ours.
Let us close the panel again carefully, as a measure of prudence, and
then light a lantern and go downstairs to see whether there may be any
one hidden in corners, and whether the doors are tightly shut; in short,
to reassure Chrysantheme we will go the round of the house.
Behold us, then, on tiptoe, searching together every hole and corner of
the house, which, to judge by its foundations, must be very ancient,
notwithstanding the fragile appearance of its panels of white paper. It
contains the blackest of cavities, little vaulted cellars with worm-eaten
beams; cupboards for rice which smell of mould and decay; mysterious
hollows where lies accumulated the dust of centuries. In the middle of
the night, and during a hunt for thieves, this part of the house, as yet
unknown to me, has an ugly look.
Noiselessly we step across the apartment of our landlord and landlady.
Chrysantheme drags me by the hand, and I allow myself to be led. There
they are, sleeping in a row under their blue gauze tent, lighted by the
night-lamps burning before the altars of their ancestors. Ha! I observe
that they are arranged in an order which might give rise to gossip.
First comes Mademoiselle Oyouki, very taking in her attitude of rest!
Then Madame Prune, who sleeps with her mouth wide open, showing her rows
of blackened teeth; from her throat arises an intermittent sound like the
grunting of a sow. Oh! poor Madame Prune! how hideous she is!! Next,
M. Sucre, a mere mummy for the time being. And finally, at his side,
last of the row, is their servant, Mademoiselle Dede!
The gauze hanging over them throws reflections as of the sea upon them;
one might suppose them victims drowned in an aquarium. And withal the
sacred lamps, the altar crowded with strange Shintoist symbols, give a
mock religious air to this family tableau.
'Honi soit qui mal y pense', but why is not that maidservant rather laid
by the side of her mistresses? Now, when we on the floor above offer our
hospitality to Yves, we are careful to place ourselves under our
mosquito-net in a more correct style!
One corner, which as a last resort we inspect, inspires me with a certain
amount of apprehension. It is a low, mysterious loft, against the door
of which is stuck, as a thing no longer wanted, a very old, pious image
Kwanon with the thousand arms, and Kwanon with the horses' head, seated
among clouds and flames, both horrible to behold with their spectral
grins.
We open the door, and Chrysantheme starts back uttering a fearful cry. I
should have thought the robbers were there, had I not seen a little gray
creature, rapid and noiseless, rush by her and disappear; a young rat
that had been eating rice on the top of a shelf, and, in its alarm, had
dashed in her face.
