At the frontier, in a mountain hamlet. A black night, about one o'clock in the morning; a winter night inundated1 by cold and heavy rain. At the front of a sinister3 house which casts no light outside, Ramuntcho loads his shoulders with a heavy smuggled4 box, under the rippling5 rain, in the midst of a tomb-like obscurity. Itchoua's voice commands secretly,—as if one hardly touched with a bow the last strings6 of a bass7 viol,—and around him, in the absolute darkness, one divines the presence of other smugglers similarly loaded, ready to start on an adventure.
It is now more than ever Ramuntcho's life, to run almost every night, especially on the cloudless and moonless nights when one sees nothing, when the Pyrenees are an immense chaos8 of shade. Amassing9 as much money as he can for his flight, he is in all the smuggling10 expeditions, as well in those that bring a suitable remuneration as in those where one risks death for a hundred cents. And ordinarily, Arrochkoa accompanies him, without necessity, in sport and for a whim11.
They have become inseparable, Arrochkoa, Ramuntcho,—and they talk freely of their projects about Gracieuse, Arrochkoa seduced12 especially by the attraction of some fine prowess, by the joy of taking a nun2 away from the church, of undoing13 the plans of his old, hardened mother,—and Ramuntcho, in spite of his Christian15 scruples16 which affect him still, making of this dangerous project his only hope, his only reason for being and for acting17. For a month, almost, the attempt has been decided18 upon in theory and, in their long talks in the December nights, on the roads where they walk, or in the corners of the village cider mills where they sit apart, the means of execution are discussed by them, as if the question was a simple frontier undertaking19. They must act very quickly, concludes Arrochkoa always, they must act in the surprise of a first interview which shall be for Gracieuse a very disturbing thing; they must act without giving her time to think or to recant, they must try something like kidnapping—
“If you knew,” he says, “what is that little convent of Amezqueta where they have placed her: four old, good sisters with her, in an isolated20 house!—I have my horse, you know, who gallops21 so quickly; once the nun is in a carriage with you, who can catch her?—”
And to-night they have resolved to take into their confidence Itchoua himself, a man accustomed to suspicious adventures, valuable in assaults at night, and who, for money, is capable of everything.
The place from which they start this time for the habitual22 smuggling expedition is named Landachkoa, and it is situated23 in France at ten minutes' distance from Spain. The inn, solitary24 and old, assumes as soon as the night falls, the air of a den14 of thieves; at this moment while the smugglers come out of one door, it is full of Spanish carbineers who have familiarly crossed the frontier to divert themselves here and who drink while singing. And the hostess, accustomed to these nocturnal affairs, has said joyfully25, a moment ago, in Basque tongue to Itchoua's folks:
“It is all right! They are all drunk, you can go out!”
Go out! It is easier to advise than to do! You are drenched26 at the first steps and your feet slip on the mud, despite the aid of your sticks, on the stiff slopes of the paths. They do not see one another; they see nothing, neither the walls of the hamlet along which they pass nor the trees afterward27, nor the rocks; they are like blind men, groping and slipping under a deluge28, with the music of rain in their ears which makes them deaf.
And Ramuntcho, who makes this trip for the first time, has no idea of the passages which they are to go through, strikes here and there his load against black things which are branches of beeches29, or slips with his two feet, falters30, straightens up, catches himself by planting at random31 his iron-pointed stick in the soil. They are the last on the march, Arrochkoa and Ramuntcho, following the band by ear;—and those who precede them make no more noise with their sandals than wolves in a forest.
In all, fifteen smugglers on a distance of fifty metres, in the thick black of the mountain, under the incessant32 sprinkling of the shower; they carry boxes full of jewels, of watches, of chains, of rosaries, or bundles of Lyons silk, wrapped in oilcloth; in front, loaded with merchandise less valuable, walk two men who are the skirmishers, those who will attract, if necessary, the guns of the Spaniards and will then take flight, throwing away everything. All talk in a low voice, despite the drumming of the rain which already stifles33 sounds—
The one who precedes Ramuntcho turns round to warn him:
“Here is a torrent34 in front of us—” (Its presence would have been guessed by its noise louder than that of the rain—) “We must cross it!”
“Ah!—Cross it how? Wade35 in the water?—”
“No, the water is too deep. Follow us. There is a tree trunk over it.”
Groping, Ramuntcho finds that tree trunk, wet, slippery and round. He stands, advancing on this monkey's bridge in a forest, carrying his heavy load, while under him the invisible torrent roars. And he crosses, none knows how, in the midst of this intensity36 of black and of this noise of water.
On the other shore they have to increase precaution and silence. There are no more mountain paths, frightful37 descents, under the night, more oppressing, of the woods. They have reached a sort of plain wherein the feet penetrate39; the sandals attached to nervous legs cause a noise of beaten water. The eyes of the smugglers, their cat-like eyes, more and more dilated40 by the obscurity, perceive confusedly that there is free space around, that there is no longer the closing in of branches. They breathe better also and walk with a more regular pace that rests them—
But the bark of dogs immobilizes them all in a sudden manner, as if petrified42 under the shower. For a quarter of an hour they wait, without talking or moving; on their chests, the perspiration43 runs, mingled44 with the rain that enters by their shirt collars and falls to their belts.
By dint45 of listening, they hear the buzz of their ears, the beat of their own arteries46.
And this tension of their senses is, in their trade, what they all like; it gives to them a sort of joy almost animal, it doubles the life of the muscles in them, who are beings of the past; it is a recall of the most primitive47 human impressions in the forests or the jun............