The febrile and somewhat artificial improvement of the morning had continued. Nursed by the old Doyanburu, Franchita said that she felt better, and, in the fear that Ramuntcho might become dreamy, she made him return to the square to attend the Sunday ball-game.  
The breath of the wind became warm again, blew from the south; none of the shivers of a moment ago remained; on the contrary, a summer sun and atmosphere, on the reddened woods, on the rusty¹ ferns, on the roads where continued to fall the sad leaves. But the sky was gathering² thick clouds, which suddenly came out from the rear of the mountains as if they had stayed there in ambush³ to appear all at the same signal.
 
The ball-game had not yet been arranged and groups were disputing violently when he reached the square. Quickly, he was surrounded, he was welcomed, designated by acclamation to go into the game and sustain the honor of his county. He did not dare, not having played for three years and distrusting his unaccustomed arm. At last, he yielded and began to undress—but to whom would he trust his waistcoat now?—The image reappeared to him, suddenly, of Gracieuse, seated on the nearest steps and extending her hands to receive it. To whom would he throw his waistcoat to-day? It is intrusted ordinarily to some friend, as the toreadors do with their gilt⁴ silk mantles⁵.—He threw it at random⁶, this time, anywhere, on the granite⁷ of the old benches flowered with belated scabwort—
 
The match began. Out of practice at first, uncertain, he missed several times the little bounding thing which is to be caught in the air.
 
Then, he went to his work with a rage, regained⁸ his former ease and became himself again superbly. His muscles had gained in strength what they had perhaps lost in skill; again he was applauded, he knew the physical intoxication⁹ of moving, of leaping, of feeling his muscles play like supple¹⁰ and violent springs, of hearing around him the ardent¹¹ murmur¹² of the crowd.
 
But then came the instant of rest which interrupts ordinarily the long disputed games; the moment when one sits halting, the blood in ebulition, the hands reddened, trembling,—and when one regains¹³ the course of ideas which the game suppresses.
 
Then, he realized the distress¹⁴ of being alone.
 
Above the assembled heads, above the woolen¹⁵ caps and the hair ornamented¹⁶ with kerchiefs, was accentuated¹⁷ that stormy sky which the southern winds, when they are about to finish, bring always. The air had assumed an absolute limpidity¹⁸, as if it had become rarified, rarified unto emptiness. The mountains seemed to have advanced extraordinarily¹⁹; the Pyrenees were crushing the village; the Spanish summits or the French summits were there, all equally near, as if pasted on one another, exaggerating their burned, brown colors, their intense and sombre, violet tints²⁰. Large clouds, which seemed as solid as terrestrial things, were displayed in the form of bows, veiling the sun, casting an obscurity which was like an eclipse. And here and there, through some rent, bordered with dazzling silver, one could see the profound blue green of a sky almost African. All this country, the unstable²¹ climate of which changes between a morning and an evening, became for several hours strangely southern in aspect, in temperature and in light.
 
Ramuntcho breathed that dry and suave²² air, come from the South in order to vivify the lungs. It was the true weather of his native land. It was even the characteristic weather of that land of the Bay of Biscay, the weather which he liked best formerly²³, and which to-day filled him with physical comfort—as much as with disturbance²⁴ of mind, for all that was preparing, all that was amassing²⁵ above, with airs of ferocious²⁶ menace, impressed him with the sentiment of a heaven deaf to prayers, without thoughts as without master, a simple focus of storms, of blind forces creating, recreating and destroying. And, during these minutes of halting meditation²⁷, where men in Basque caps of a temperament^{28<............}