midnight
Chrysantheme sets to work and calls with all her might : `` Hou Oume-San-an-an-an ! '' -LRB- In English : `` Hi ! Madame Pru-u-uu-une ! '' -RRB- These intonations in her little voice are unknown to me ; her long-drawn call in the echoing darkness of midnight has so strange an accent , something so unexpected and wild , that it impresses me with a dismal feeling of far-off exile . At last Madame Prune appears to open the door to us , only half awake and much astonished ; by way of a nightcap she wears a monstrous cotton turban , on the blue ground of which a few white storks are playfully disporting themselves . Holding in the tips of her fingers , with an affectation of graceful fright , the long stalk of her beflowered lantern , she gazes intently into our faces , one after another , to reassure herself of our identity ; but the poor old lady can not get over her surprise at the sight of the mousko I am carrying . At first it was only to Chrysantheme 's guitar that I listened with pleasure now I am beginning to like her singing also .