Our dwelling is open all the night through, and the lamps burning before the gilded Buddha bring us the company of the insect inhabitants of every garden in the neighborhood. Moths, mosquitoes, cicalas, and other extraordinary insects of which I don’t even know the names — all this company assembles around us.
It is extremely funny, when some unexpected grasshopper, some free-and-easy beetle presents itself without invitation or excuse, scampering over our white mats, to see the manner in which Chrysanthème indicates it to my righteous vengeance — merely pointing her finger at it, without another word than “Hou!” said with bent head, a particular pout, and a scandalised air.
There is a fan kept expressly for the purpose of blowing them out of doors again.
Last updated Sunday, March 27, 2016 at 11:57