Arrochkoa and Ramuntcho, companions in continual expeditions through the surrounding country, travelled for the entire day, in the little wagon2 of the Detcharry family, in order to organize that ball-game, which to them is a considerable event.
In the first place, they had to consult Marcos, one of the Iragola brothers. Near a wood, in front of his house in the shade, they found him seated on a stump3 of a chestnut4 tree, always grave and statuesque, his eyes inspired and his gesture noble, in the act of making his little brother, still in swaddling clothes, eat soup.
“Is he the eleventh?” they have asked, laughing.
“Oh! Go on!” the big eldest5 brother has replied, “the eleventh is running already like a hare in the heather. This is number twelve!—little John the Baptist, you know, the latest, who, I think, will not be the last.”
And then, lowering their heads not to strike the branches, they had traversed the woods, the forests of oaks under which extends infinitely6 the reddish lace of ferns.
And they have traversed several villages also,—Basque villages, all grouped around these two things which are the heart of them and which symbolize7 their life: the church and the ball-game. Here and there, they have knocked at the doors of isolated8 houses, tall and large houses, carefully whitewashed9, with green shades, and wooden balconies where are drying in the sun strings10 of red peppers. At length they have talked, in their language so closed to strangers of France, with the famous players, the titled champions, the ones whose odd names have been seen in all the journals of the southwest, on all the posters of Biarritz or of Saint-Jean-de-Luz, and who, in ordinary life, are honest country inn-keepers, blacksmiths, smugglers, with waistcoat thrown over the shoulder and shirt sleeves rolled on bronze arms.
Now that all is settled and that the last words have been exchanged, it is too late to return that night to Etchezar; then, following their errant habits, they select for the night a village which they like, Zitzarry, for example, where they have gone often for their smuggling11 business. At the fall of night, then, they turn toward this place, which is near Spain. They go by the same little Pyrenean routes, shady and solitary12 under the old oaks that are shedding their leaves, among slopes richly carpeted with moss13 and rusty14 ferns. And now there are ravines where torrents15 roar, and then heights from which appear on all sides the tall, sombre peaks.
At first it was cold, a real cold, lashing16 the face and the chest. But now gusts17 begin to pass astonishingly warm and perfumed with the scent18 of plants: the southern wind, rising again, bringing back suddenly the illusion of summer. And then, it becomes for them a delicious sensation to go through the air, so brusquely changed, to go quickly under the lukewarm breaths, in the noise of their horse's bells galloping19 playfully in the mountains.
Zitzarry, a smugglers' village, a distant village skirting the frontier. A dilapidated inn where, according to custom, the rooms for the men are directly above the stables, the black stalls. They are well-known travelers there, Arrochkoa and Ramuntcho, and while men are lighting20 the fire for them they sit near an antique, mullioned window, which overlooks the square of the ball-game and the church; they see the tranquil21, little life of the day ending in this place so separated from the world.
On this solemn square, the children practice the national game; grave and ardent22, already strong, they throw their pelota against the wall, while, in a singing voice and with the needful intonation23, one of them counts and announces the points, in the mysterious tongue of the ancestors. Around them, the tall houses, old and white, with warped24 walls, with projecting rafters, contemplate25 through their green or red windows those little players, so lithe26, who run in the twilight27 like young cats. And the carts drawn28 by oxen return from the fields, with the noise of bells, bringing loads of wood, loads of gorse or of dead ferns—The night falls, falls with its peace and its sad cold. Then, the angelus rings—and there is, in the entire village, a tranquil, prayerful meditation—
Then Ramuntcho, silent, worries about his destiny, feels as if he were a prisoner here, with his same aspirations29 always, toward something unknown, he knows not what, which troubles him at the approach of night. And his heart also fills up, because he is alone and without support in the world, because Gracieuse is in a situation different from his and may never be given to him.
But Arrochkoa, very brotherly this time, in one of his good moments, slaps him on the shoulder as if he had understood his reverie, and says to him in a tone of light gaiety:
“Well! it seems that you talked together, last night, sister and you—she told me about it—and that you are both prettily30 agreed!—”
Ramuntcho lifts toward him a long look of anxious and grave interrogation, which is in contrast with the beginning of their conversation:
“And what do you think,” he asks, “of what we have said?”
“Oh, my friend,” replied Arrochkoa, become more serious also, “on my word of honor, it suits me very well—And even, as I fear that there shall be trouble with mother, I promise to help you if you need help—”
And Ramuntcho's sadness is dispelled31 as a little dust on which one has blown. He finds the supper delicious, the inn gay. He feels himself much more engaged to Gracieuse, now, when somebody is in the secret, and somebody in the family who does not repulse32 him. He had a presentiment33 that Arrochkoa would not be hostile to him, but his co-operation, so clearly offered, far surpasses Ramuntcho's hope—Poor little abandoned fellow, so conscious of the humbleness34 of his situation, that the support of another child, a little better established in life, suffices to return to him courage and confidence!
