The bell of Etchezar, the same dear, old bell, that
of the tranquil curfew, that of the festivals and
that of the agonies, rang joyously in the beautiful
sun of June. The village was decorated with white
cloths, white embroideries, and the procession of
the Fete-Dieu passed slowly, on a green strewing of
fennel seed and of reeds cut from the marshes.
The mountains seemed near and sombre, somewhat ferocious
in their brown tones, above this white parade of little
girls marching on a carpet of cut leaves and grass.
All the old banners of the church were there, illuminated
by that sun which they had known for centuries but
which they see only once or twice a year, on the consecrated
days.
The large one, that of the Virgin, in white silk embroidered
with pale gold, was borne by Gracieuse, who walked
in white dress, her eyes lost in a mystic dream.
Behind the young girls, came the women, all the women
of the village, wearing black veils, including Dolores
and Franchita, the two enemies. Men, numerous
enough, closed this cortege, tapers in their hands,
heads uncovered—but there were especially
gray hairs, faces with expressions vanquished and
resigned, heads of old men.
Gracieuse, holding high the banner of the Virgin,
became at this hour one of the Illuminati; she felt
as if she were marching, as after death, toward the
celestial tabernacles. And when, at instants,
the reminiscence of Ramuntcho’s lips traversed
her dream, she had the impression, in the midst of
all this white, of a sharp stain, delicious still.
Truly, as her thoughts became more elevated from day
to day, what brought her back to him was less her
senses, capable in her of being tamed, than true,
profound tenderness, the one which resists time and
deceptions of the flesh. And this tenderness
was augmented by the fact that Ramuntcho was less
fortunate than she and more abandoned in life, having
had no father—
“Well, Gatchutcha, you have at last spoken to
your mother of Uncle Ignacio?” asked Ramuntcho,
very late, the same night, in the alley of the garden,
under rays of the moon.
“Not yet, I have not dared.—How could
I explain that I know all these things, since I am
supposed not to talk with you ever, and she has forbidden
me to do so?—Think, if I were to make her
suspicious!—There would be an end to everything,
we could not see each other again! I would like
better to wait until you left the country, then all
would be indifferent to me—”
“It is true!—let us wait, since I
am to go.”
He was going away, and already they could count the
evenings which would be left to them.
