The changeable month of March had arrived, and with it the intoxication¹ of spring, joyful² for the young, sad for those who are declining.
 
And Gracieuse had commenced again to sit, in the twilight³ of the lengthened⁴ days, on the stone bench in front of her door.
 
Oh! the old stone benches, around the houses, made, in the past ages, for the reveries of the soft evenings and for the eternally similar conversations of lovers—!
 
Gracieuse's house was very ancient, like most houses in that Basque country, where, less than elsewhere, the years change the things.—It had two stories; a large projecting roof in a steep slope; walls like a fortress⁵ which were whitewashed⁶ every summer; very small windows, with settings of cut granite⁷ and green blinds. Above the front door, a granite lintel bore an inscription⁸ in relief; words complicated and long which, to French eyes resembled nothing known. It said: “May the Holy Virgin⁹ bless this home, built in the year 1630 by Peter Detcharry, beadle, and his wife Damasa Irribarne, of the village of Istaritz.” A small garden two yards wide, surrounded by a low wall so that one could see the passers-by, separated the house from the road; there was a beautiful rose-laurel, extending its southern foliage¹⁰ above the evening bench, and there were yuccas, a palm tree, and enormous bunches of those hortensias which are giants here, in this land of shade, in this lukewarm climate, so often enveloped¹¹ by clouds. In the rear was a badly closed orchard¹² which rolled down to an abandoned path, favorable to escalades of lovers.
 
What mornings radiant with light there were in that spring, and what tranquil¹³, pink evenings!
 
After a week of full moon which kept the fields till day-light blue with rays, and when the band of Itchoua ceased to work,—so clear was their habitual¹⁴ domain¹⁵............