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.

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 about 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 you like her?" And I reply in a low voice, but with great
resolution:

"Not at all! I won't have that one. Never!"