CHAPTER XXXI

BUTTERFLIES AND BEETLES

August 23d.

The prolonged sojourn of the 'Triomphante' in the dock, and the distance
of our dwelling from the town, have been my excuse these last two or
three days for not going up to Diou-djen-dji to see Chrysantheme.

It is dreary work in these docks. At early dawn a legion of little
Japanese workmen invade us, bringing their dinners in baskets and gourds
like the workingmen in our arsenals, but with a poor, shabby appearance,
and a ferreting, hurried manner which reminds one of rats. Silently they
slip under the keel, at the bottom of the hold, in all the holes, sawing,
nailing, repairing.

The heat is intense in this spot, overshadowed by the rocks and tangled
masses of foliage.

At two o'clock, in the broad sunlight, we have a new and far prettier
invasion: that of the beetles and butterflies.

There are butterflies as wonderful as those on the fans. Some, all
black, giddily dash up against us, so light and airy that they seem
merely a pair of quivering wings fastened together without any body.