s, turns back to smile at him, to
send to him with her hand a gentle adios in the Spanish fashion. He is a
young god in this moment, Ramuntcho; people are proud to know him, to
be among his friends, to get his waistcoat for him, to talk to him, to
touch him.

Now, with the other pelotaris, he goes to the neighboring inn, to a
room where are placed the clean clothes of all and where careful friends
accompany them to rub their bodies, wet with perspiration.

And, a moment afterward, elegant in a white shirt, his cap on the side,
he comes out of the door, under the plane-trees shaped like vaults,
to enjoy again his success, see the people pass, continue to gather
compliments and smiles.

The autumnal day has declined, it is evening at present. In the lukewarm
air, bats glide. The mountaineers of the surrounding villages depart
one by one; a dozen carriages are harnessed, their lanterns are lighted,
their bells ring and they disappear in the little shady paths of the
valleys. In the middle of the limpid penumbra may be distinguished the
women, the pretty girls seated on benches in front of the houses, under
the vaults of the plane-trees; they are only clear forms, their Sunday
costumes make white spots in the twilight, pink spots--and the pale blue
spot which Ramuntcho looks at is the new gown of Gracieuse.--Above all,
filling the sky, the gigantic Gizune, confused and sombre, is as if
it were the centre and the source of the darkness, little by little
scattered over all things. And at the church, suddenly the pious bells
ring, recalling to distracted minds the enclosure where the graves are,
the cypress trees around the belfry, and the entire grand mystery of the
sky, of prayer, of inevitable death.

Oh! the sadness of ends of festivals in very isolated villages, when the
sun ceases to illuminate, and when it is autumn--

They know very well, these men who were so ardent a moment ago in
the humble pleasures of the day, that in the cities there are other
festivals more brilliant, more beautiful and less quickly ended; but
this is something separate; it is the festival of the country, of their
own country, and nothing can replace for them these furtive instants
whereof they have thought for so many days in advance--Lovers who will
depart toward the scattered houses flanking the Pyrenees, couples who
to-morrow will begin over their monotonous and rude life, look at one
another before separating, look at one another under