The bell of Etchezar, the same dear, old bell, that of the tranquil¹ curfew, that of the festivals and that of the agonies, rang joyously² in the beautiful sun of June. The village was decorated with white cloths, white embroideries³, and the procession of the Fete-Dieu passed slowly, on a green strewing⁴ of fennel seed and of reeds cut from the marshes⁵.
 
The mountains seemed near and sombre, somewhat ferocious⁶ in their brown tones, above this white parade of little girls marching on a carpet of cut leaves and grass.
 
All the old banners of the church were there, illuminated⁷ by that sun which they had known for centuries but which they see only once or twice a year, on the consecrated⁸ days.
 
The large one, that of the Virgin9

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