He was returning, Ramuntcho, after his three years of absence, discharged from the army in that city of the North where his regiment¹ was in garrison². He was returning with his heart in disarray³, with his heart in a tumult⁴ and in distress⁵.
 
His twenty-two year old face had darkened under the ardent⁶ sun; his mustache, now very long, gave him an air of proud nobility. And, on the lapel of the civilian⁷ coat which he had just bought, appeared the glorious ribbon of his medal.
 
At Bordeaux, where he had arrived after a night of travel, he had taken a place, with some emotion, in that train of Irun which descends⁸ in a direct line toward the South, through the monotony of the interminable moors⁹. Near the right door he had installed himself in order to see sooner the Bay of Biscay open and the highlands of Spain sketch¹⁰ themselves.
 
Then, near Bayonne, he had been startled at the sight of the first Basque caps, at the tall gates, the first Basque houses among the pines and the oaks.
 
And at Saint-Jean-de-Luz at last, when he set foot on the soil, he had felt like one drunk—After the mist and the cold already begun in Northern France, he felt the sudden and voluptuous¹¹ impression of a warmer climate, the sensation of going into a hothouse. There was a festival of sunlight that day; the southern wind, the exquisite¹² southern wind, blew, and the Pyrenees had magnificent tints¹⁴ on the grand, free sky. Moreover, girls passed, whose laughter rang of the South and of Spain, who had the elegance¹⁵ and the grace of the Basques—and who, after the heavy blondes of the North, troubled him more than all these illusions of summer.—But promptly¹⁶ he returned to himself: what was he thinking of, since that regained¹⁷ land was to him an empty land forever? How could his infinite despair be changed by that tempting¹⁸ gracefulness¹⁹ of the girls, by that ironical²⁰ gaiety of the sky, the human beings and the things?—No! He would go home, embrace his mother—!
 
As he had expected, the stage-coach to Etchezar had left two hours ago. But, without trouble, he would traverse on foot this long road so familiar to him and arrive in the evening, before night.
 
So he went to buy sandals, the foot-gear of his former runs. And, with the mountaineer's quick step, in long, nervous strides, he plunged²¹ at once into the heart of the silent country, through paths which were for him full of memories.
 
November was coming to an end in the tepid²² radiance of that sun which lingers always here for a long time, on the Pyrenean slopes. For days, in the Basque land, had lasted this same luminous²³ and pure sky, above woods half despoiled²⁴ of their leaves, above mountains reddened by the ardent tint¹³ of the ferns. From the borders of the paths ascended²⁵ tall grasses, as in the month of May, and large, umbellated flowers, mistaken about the season; in the hedges, privets and briars had come into bloom again, in the buzz of the last bees; and one could see flying persistent²⁶ butterflies, to whom death had given several weeks of grace.
 
The Basque houses appeared here and there among the trees,—very elevated, the roof protruding²⁷, white in their extreme oldness, with their shutters²⁸ brown or green, of a green ancient and faded. And everywhere, on their wooden balconies were drying the yellow gold pumpkins²⁹, the sheafs of pink peas; everywhere, on their walls, like beautiful beads³⁰ of coral, were garlands of red peppers: all the things of the soil still fecund³¹, all the things of the old, nursing soil, amassed³² thus in accordance with old time usage, in provision for the darkened months when the heat departs.
 
And, after the mists of the Northern autumn, that limpidity³³ of the air, that southern sunlight, every detail of the land, awakened³⁴ in the complex mind of Ramuntcho infinite vibrations³⁵, painfully sweet.
 
It was the tardy³⁶ season when are cut the ferns that form the fleece of the reddish hills. And, large ox-carts filled with them rolled tranquilly³⁷, in the beautiful, melancholy³⁹ sun, toward the isolated⁴⁰ farms, leaving on their passage the trail of their fragrance⁴¹. Very slowly, through the mountain paths, went these enormous loads of ferns; very slowly, with sounds of cow-bells. The harnessed oxen, indolent and strong,—all wearing the traditional head-gear of sheepskin, fallow colored, which gives to them the air of bisons or of aurochs, pulled those heavy carts, the wheels of which are solid disks, like those of antique chariots. The cowboys, holding the long stick in their hands, marched in front, always noiselessly, in sandals, the pink cotton shirt revealing the chest, the waistcoat thrown over the left shoulder—and the woolen⁴² cap drawn⁴³ over a face shaven, thin, grave, to which the width of the jaws⁴⁴ and of the muscles of the neck gives an expression of massive solidity.
 
Then, there were intervals⁴⁵ of solitude⁴⁶ when one heard, in these paths, only the buzz of flies, in the yellowed and finishing shade of the trees.
 
Ramuntcho looked at them, at these rare passers-by who crossed his road, surprised at not meeting somebody he knew who would stop before him. But there were no familiar faces. And the friends whom he met were not effusive⁴⁷, there were only vague good-days exchanged with folks who turned round a little, with an impression of having seen him sometime, but not recalling when, and fell back into the humble⁴⁸ dream of the fields.—And he felt more emphasized than ever the primary differences between him and those farm laborers⁵⁰.
 
Over there, however, comes one of those carts whose sheaf is so big that branches of oaks in its passage catch it. In front, walks the driver, with a look of soft resignation, a big, peaceful boy, red as the ferns, red as the autumn, with a reddish fur in a bush on his bare chest; he walks with a supple⁵¹ and nonchalant manner, his arms extended like those of a cross on his goad⁵², placed across his shoulders. Thus, doubtless, on these same mountains, marched his ancestors, farm laborers and cowboys like him since numberless centuries.
 
And this one, at Ramuntcho's aspect, touches the forehead of his oxen, stops them with a gesture and a cry of command, then comes to the traveller, extending to him his brave hands.—Florentino! A Florentino much changed, having squarer shoulders, quite a man now, with an assured and fixed⁵³ demeanor⁵⁴.
 
The two friends embrace each other. Then, they scan each other's faces in silence, troubled suddenly by the wave of reminiscences which come from the depth of their minds and which neither the one nor the other knows how to express; Ramuntcho, not better than Florentino, for, if his language be infinitely⁵⁵ better formed, the profoundness and the mystery of his thoughts are also much more unfathomable.
 
And it oppresses them to conceive things which they are powerless to tell; then their embarrassed looks return absent-mindedly to the two beautiful, big oxen:
 
“They are mine, you know,” says Florentino. “I was married two years ago.—My wife works. And, by working—we are beginning to get along.—Oh!” he adds, with naive⁵⁶ pride, “I have another pair of oxen like these at the house.”
 
Then he ceases to talk, flushing suddenly under his sunburn, for he has the tact⁵⁷ which comes from the heart, which the humblest possess often by nature, but which education never gives, even to the most refined people in the world: considering the desolate⁵⁸ return of Ramuntcho, his broken destiny, his betrothed⁵⁹ buried over there among the black nuns⁶⁰, his mother dying, Florentino is afraid to have been already too cruel in displaying too much his own happiness.
 
Then the silence returned; they looked at each other for an instant with kind smiles, finding no words. Besides, between them, the abyss of different conceptions has grown deeper in these three years. And Florentino, touching⁶² anew the foreheads of his oxen, makes them march again with a call of his tongue, and presses tighter the hand of his friend:
 
“We shall see each other again, shall we not?”
 
And the noise of the cow-bells is soon lost in the calm of the road more shady, where begins to diminish the heat of the day—
 
“Well, he has succeeded in life, that one!” thinks Ramuntcho lugubriously⁶³, continuing his walk under the autumn branches—
 
The road which he follows ascends⁶⁴, hollowed here and there by springs and sometimes crossed by big roots of oaks.
 
Soon Etchezar will appear to him and, before seeing it, the image of it becomes more and more precise in him, recalled and enlivened in his memory by the aspect of the surroundings.
 
Empty now, all this land, where Gracieuse is no more, empty and sad as a beloved home where the great Reaper⁶⁵ has passed!—And yet Ramuntcho, in the depths of his being, dares to think that, in some small convent over there, under the veil of a nun⁶¹, the cherished black eyes still exist and that he will be able at least to see them; that taking the veil is not quite like dying, and that perhaps the last word of his destiny has not been said irrevocably.—For, when he reflects, what can have changed thus the soul of Gracieuse, formerly⁶⁶ so uniquely devoted⁶⁷ to him?—Oh, terrible, foreign pressure, surely—And then, when they come face to face again, who knows?—When they talk, with his eyes in her eyes?—But what can he expect that is reasonable and possible?—In his native land has a nun ever broken her eternal vows⁶⁸ to follow one to whom she was engaged? And besides, where would they go to live together

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