rs talk, aspects somewhat harsh and
hostile.

Ramuntcho has never seen his little friend made so pink by the sun: on
her cheeks, there is the beautiful, red blood which flushes the skin,
the fine and transparent skin; she is pink as the foxglove flowers.

Flies, mosquitoes buzz in their ears. Now Gracieuse has been bitten on
the chin, almost on the mouth, and she tries to touch it with the end of
her tongue, to bite the place with the upper teeth. And Ramuntcho, who
looks at this too closely, feels suddenly a langour, to divert himself
from which he stretches himself like one trying to awake.

She begins again, the little girl, her lip still itching--and he again
stretches his arms, throwing his chest backward.

"What is the matter, Ramuntcho, and why do you stretch yourself like a
cat?--"

But when, for the third time, Gracieuse bites the same place, and shows
again the little tip of her tongue, he bends over, vanquished by the
irresistible giddiness, and bites also, takes in his mouth, like a
beautiful red fruit which one fears to crush, the fresh lip which the
mosquito has bitten--

A silence of fright and of delight, during which both shiver, she as
much as he; she trembling also, in all her limbs, for having felt the
contact of the growing black mustache.

"You are not angry, tell me?"

"No, my Ramuntcho.--Oh, I am not angry, no--"

Then he begins again, quite frantic, and in this languid and warm air,
they exchange for the first time in their lives, the long kisses of
lovers--

CHAPTER XVII.

The next day, Sunday, they went together religiously to hear one of the
masses of the clear morning, in order to return to Etchezar the same
day, immediately after the grand ball-game. It was this return, much
more than the game, that interested Gracieuse and Ramuntcho, for it
was their hope that Pantchika and her mother would remain at Erribiague
while they would go, pressed against each other, in the very small
carriage of the Detcharry family, under the indulgent and slight
watchfulness of Arrochkoa, five or six hours of travel, all three
alone, on the spring roads, under the new foliage, with amusing halts in
unknown villages--

At eleven o'clock in the morning, on that beautiful Sunday, the square
was encumbered by mountaineers come from all the summits, from all
the savage, surrounding hamlets. It was an international match,
three players of France against three of Spain, and, in the crowd of
looke