Ramuntcho, the next morning, was wandering in the village, under a sun which had pierced the clouds of the night, a sun as radiant as that of yesterday. Careful in his dress, the ends of his mustache turned up, proud in his demeanor¹, elegant, grave and handsome, he went at random², to see and to be seen, a little childishness mingling³ with his seriousness, a little pleasure with his distress⁴. His mother had said to him:
 
“I am better, I assure you. To-day is Sunday; go, walk about I pray you—”
 
And passers-by turned their heads to look at him, whispered the news: “Franchita's son has returned home; he looks very well!”
 
A summer illusion persisted everywhere, with, however, the unfathomable melancholy⁵ of things tranquilly⁶ finishing. Under that impassible radiance of sunlight, the Pyrenean fields seemed dull, all their plants, all their grasses were as if collected in one knows not what resignation weary of living, what expectation of death.
 
The turns of the path, the houses, the least trees, all recalled hours of other times to Ramuntcho, hours wherein Gracieuse was mingled⁷. And then, at each reminiscence, at each step, engraved⁸ itself and hammered itself in his mind, under a new form, this verdict without recourse: “It is finished, you are alone forever, Gracieuse has been taken away from you and is in prison—” The rents in his heart, every accident in the path renewed and changed them. And, in the depth of his being, as a constant basis for his reflections, this other anxiety endured: his mother, his mother very ill, in mortal danger, perhaps—!
 
He met people who stopped him, with a kind and welcoming air, who talked to him in the dear Basque tongue—ever alert and sonorous⁹ despite its incalculable antiquity¹⁰; old Basque caps, old white heads, liked to talk of the ball-game to this fine player returned to his cradle. And then, at once, after the first words of greeting, smiles went out, in spite of this clear sun in this blue sky, and all were disturbed by the thought of Gracieuse in a veil and of Franchita dying.
 
A violent flush of blood went up to his face when he caught sight of Dolores, at a distance, going into her home. Very decrepit¹¹, that one, and wearing a prostrate¹² air! She had recognized him, for she turned quickly her obstinate¹³ and hard head, covered by a mourning mantilla. With a sentiment of pity at seeing her so undone¹⁴, he reflected that she had struck herself with the same blow, and that she would be alone now in her old age and at her death—
 
On the square, he met Marcos Iragola who informed him that he was married, like Florentino—and with the little friend of his childhood, he also.
 
“I did not have to serve in the army,” Iragola explained, “because we are Guipuzcoans, immigrants in France; so I could marry her earlier!”
 
He, twenty-one years old; she eighteen; without lands and without a penny, Marcos and Pilar, but joyfully¹⁵ associated all the same, like two sparrows building their nest. And the very young husband added laughingly:
 
“What would you? Father said: 'As long as you do not marry I warn you that I shall give you a little brother every year.' And he would have done it! There are already fourteen of us, all living—”
 
Oh, how simple and natural they are! How wise and humbly¹⁶ happy!—Ramuntcho quitted him with some haste, with a heart more bruised¹⁷ for having spoken to him, but wishing very sincerely that he should be happy in his improvident¹⁸, birdlike, little home.
 
Here and there, folks were seated in front of their doors, in that sort of atrium of branches which precedes all the houses of this country. And their vaults¹⁹ of plane-trees, cut in the Basque fashion, which in the summer are so impenetrable all open worked in this season, let fall on them sheafs of light. The sun flamed, somewhat destructive and sad, above those yellow leaves which were drying up—
 
And Ramuntcho, in his slow promenade²⁰, felt more and more what intimate ties, singularly persistent²¹, would attach him always to this region of the earth, harsh and enclosed, even if he were there alone, abandoned, without friends, without a wife and without a mother—
 
Now, the high mass rings! And the vibrations²² of that bell impress him with a strange emotion that he did not expect. Formerly²³, its familiar appeal was an appeal to joy and to pleasure—
 
He stops, he hesitates, in spite of his actual religious unbelief and in spite of his grudge²⁴ against that church which has taken his betrothed²⁵ away from him. The bell seems to invite him to-day in so special a manner, with so peaceful and caressing²⁶ a voice: “Come, come; let yourself be rocked as your ancestors were; come, poor, desolate²⁷ being, let yourself be caught by the lure²⁸ which will make your tears fall without bitterness, and will help you to die—”
 
Undecided, resisting still, he walks, however, toward the church—when Arrochkoa appears!
 
Arrochkoa, whose catlike mustache has

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