by the drooping lashes; his expression is that of exceeding melancholy, a supreme lassitude, a supreme ennui. He has an appearance of benignity, and is really kind-hearted, according to what they say who know him. (If the people of Fez are to be believed, he is even too much so; he does not chop off as many heads as he ought for the holy cause of Islam.) But his kind-heartedness, no doubt, is relative in degree, as was often the case with ourselves in the middle ages; a mildness which is not over-sensitive in the face of shedding blood when there is a necessity for it, nor in the face of a string of human heads set up in a row over the fine gateway at the entrance to the palace. Assuredly, he is not cruel; he could not be so with that gentle, sad expression. He punishes with severity sometimes, as his divine authority gives him the right to do, but it is said that he finds a still keener pleasure in pardoning. He is a priest and a warrior, and carries each of these characters, perhaps, to excess; feeling as deeply as a prophet the responsibility of his heavenly mission, chaste in the midst of his seraglio, strict in his attention to onerous religious observances, and hereditarily very much of a fanatic, he aims to form himself upon Mohammed as perfectly as may be; all this, moreover, is legible in his eyes, upon his fine countenance, in the upright majesty of his bearing. He is a man whom we can neither understand nor judge in the times we live in, but he is surely a great man, a man of mark.

The minister presents his credentials to the Sultan in a bag of velvet embroidered with gold, which is received by one of the fly drivers. Then the customary short speeches are exchanged; that of the minister first, then that of the Sultan in reply, declaring his friendship for the French nation, spoken in a low tone of voice, with a wearied, condescending, extremely gentlemanly manner. Then come the presentation of individuals; our salutations, which the sovereign acknowledges by a courteous movement of the head—and it is all over. The Commander of the Faithful has displayed himself sufficiently to Nazarenes such as we. The handsome charger with the silken trappings is turned by the black slaves, the Scheriffian majesty turns his back on us, looking like a tall phantom in his cloudy wrappings. The music, which has been playing softly while the speeches are going on, bursts into a funereal crescendo, another band of pipes and tambourines yelps and squeaks at the same time on a higher key; the artillery commences to thunder

close to our ears, startling the horses; the Sultan's steed rears and kicks, endeavoring to rid himself of his white mummy, who remains impassible; all the others, the six beautiful animals that were led in by the bit, make their escape with furious bounds; the one that is harnessed to the state carriage rears upright on his hind legs; the fifty little black boys again run madly hither and thither without any apparent object to their course; (this is a bit of etiquette that is always observed whenever the Sultan is on horseback).

While the bands maintain their exasperating crescendo, while the guns continue their deafening racket, the Caliph and his suite retire rapidly, like an apparition driven away by an excess of noise and stir; they disappear down yonder in the shadows of the archway that is bordered with arabesques of pink and blue. We behold one last plunge of the handsome white steed as he tries to the last to shake off his impassible rider, then they all disappear, including the red umbrella, and the fifty choir boys who pour in through the gateway like a wave of the sea. A shower begins to come down, and we have to run through the tall, wet grass after our horses, among the red-uniformed negro soldiers, who have broken ranks, among all this pitiful army of monkeys. A strange riot and disorder succeed the religious awe that but lately prevailed in this gigantic inclosure of ruinous walls and towers.

66

LOTI SELECTS A JAPANESE BRIDE.

(From "Madame Chrysanthemum.")

"AH! at last, brother," said Yves, "I believe, yes, I really believe she is coming at last."

I look over his shoulder, and I see a back view of a little doll, the finishing touches to whose toilet are being put in the solitary street; a last maternal glance given to the enormous bows of the sash, the folds at the waist. Her dress is a 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 Mlle. Jasmain; they are bringing me my fiancée!

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

"Here they are, Mme. 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 for spittoons! 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 upon 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, become 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 Mlle. Jasmin, my fiancée!

Heavens! why, I know her already! Long before setting foot in Japan I had met with her, on every fan, on every teacup 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 an hour of my life even 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!

The old ladies (the mamma, no doubt, and aunts) prick up their ears, and M. Kangourou translates to them, softening as much as possible, my heart-rending decision. I feel really almost sorry for them; and I endeavor to present the matter in the most flattering light:

"She is very young," I say; "and then she is too white, too much like our own women. I wished for a yellow one, just for a change."

"But that is only the paint they have put on her, sir. Beneath it, I assure you, she is yellow."

Yves leans towards me and whispers:

"Look over there, brother, in that corner by the last panel; have you seen the one who is sitting down?"

Not I. In my annoyance I had not observed her; she had her back to the light, was dressed in dark colors, and sat in the careless attitude of one who keeps in the background. The fact is, this one pleased me much better. Eyes with long lashes, rather narrow, but which would have been called good in any country in the world; almost an expression, almost a thought. A coppery tint on her rounded cheeks; a straight nose; slightly thick lips; but well modeled and with pretty corners. Less young than Mlle. Jasmin, about eighteen years of age perhaps,

already more of a woman. She wore an expression of ennui, also of a little contempt, as if she regretted her attendance at a spectacle which dragged so much, and was so little amusing.

“M. Kangourou, who is that young lady over there, in dark blue?"

"Over there, sir. A young lady called Mlle. Chrysanthème. She came with the others you see here; she is only here as a spectator. She pleases you?" said he, with eager suddenness, espying a way out of his difficulty. Then, forgetting all his politeness, all his Japanesery, he takes her by the hand, forces her to rise, to stand in the dying daylight, to let herself be seen. And she, who has followed our eyes and begins to guess what is on foot, lowers her head in confusion, with a more decided but more charming pout, and tries to step back, half sulky, half smiling.

"It makes no difference," continues M. Kangourou, “it can be arranged just as well with this one; she is not married either, sir."

She is not married! Then why didn't the idiot propose her to me at once, instead of the other, for whom I have a feeling of the greatest pity, poor little soul, with her pearl-gray dress, her sprig of flowers, her expression which grows sadder, and her eyes which twinkle like those of a child about to cry.

"It can be arranged, sir!" repeats Kangourou again, and then ensue long discourses in Japanese arguments without end. While they talk Yves and I pass on to the verandah and we gaze down into the depths below us upon a misty and vague Nagasaki, a Nagasaki melting into a blue haze of darkness.

It is ten o'clock when all is finally settled and M. Kangourou comes to tell me :

"All is arranged, sir: her parents consent to her marriage with you for twenty dollars a month, the same as Mlle. Jasmin."

On hearing this I am possessed suddenly with extreme vexation that I should have made up my mind so quickly to link myself with this little creature and dwell with her in this isolated house.

We come back into the room; she is the center of the circle and seated; and they have placed the aigrette of flowers in her hair.

Chrysanthème and I join hands. Yves, too, advances and touches the dainty little paw;-after all, if I wed her, it is