she passed out of
life, silent and haughty, having felt a sort of shame for her
suffering,--while the same bell rang slowly her agony.

And at night, Ramuntcho found himself alone, beside that thing in bed
and cold, which is preserved and looked at for several hours, but which
one must make haste to bury in the earth--

CHAPTER VIII.

Eight days after.

At the fall of night, while a bad mountain squall twisted the branches
of the trees, Ramuntcho entered his deserted house where the gray of
death seemed scattered everywhere. A little of winter had passed over
the Basque land, a little frost, burning the annual flowers, ending
the illusory summer of December. In front of Franchita's door, the
geraniums, the dahlias had just died, and the path which led to the
house, which no one cared for, disappeared under the mass of yellow
leaves.

For Ramuntcho, this first week of mourning had been occupied by the
thousand details that rock sorrow. Proud also, he had desired that all
should be done in a luxurious manner, according to the old usages of
the parish. His mother had been buried in a coffin of black velvet
ornamented with silver nails. Then, there had been mortuary masses,
attended by the neighbors in long capes, the women enveloped and hooded
with black. And all this represented a great deal of expense for him,
who was poor.

Of the sum given formerly, at the time of his birth, by his unknown
father, little remained, the greater part having been lost through
unfaithful bankers. And now, he would have to quit the house, sell the
dear familiar furniture, realize the most money possible for the flight
to America--

This time, he returned home peculiarly disturbed, because he was to do a
thing, postponed from day to day, about which his conscience was not
at rest. He had already examined, picked out, all that belonged to his
mother; but the box containing her papers and her letters was still
intact--and to-night he would open it, perhaps.

He was not sure that death, as many persons think, gives the right to
those who remain to read letters, to penetrate the secrets of those who
have just gone. To burn without looking seemed to him more respectful,
more honest. But it was also to destroy forever the means of discovering
the one whose abandoned son he was.--Then what should he do?--And from
whom could he take advice, since he had no one in the world?

In the large chimney he lit the evening fire: then he got fr