now they open, to the beautiful april morning, the shutters of their narrow windows, pierced like portholes in the thickness of the very old wall.

and suddenly, it is a flood of light that dazzles their eyes. outside, the spring is resplendent. never had they seen, before this, summits so high and so near. but along the slopes full of leaves, along the mountains decked with trees, the sun descends to radiate in this valley on the whiteness of the village, on the kalsomine of the ancient houses with green shutters.

both awakened with veins full of youth and hearts full of joy. they have formed the project this morning to go into the country, to the house of madame dargaignaratz's cousins, and see the two little girls, who must have arrived the night before in the carriage, gracieuse and pantchika.—after a glance at the ball-game square, where they shall return to practice in the afternoon, they go on their way through small paths, magnificently green, hidden in the depths of the valleys, skirting the cool torrents. the foxglove flowers start everywhere like long, pink rockets above the light and infinite mass of ferns.

it is at a long distance, it seems, that house of the olhagarray cousins, and they stop from time to time to ask the way from shepherds, or they knock at the doors of solitary houses, here and there, under the cover of branches. they had never seen basque houses so old nor so primitive, under the shade of chestnut trees so tall.

the ravines through which they advance are strangely enclosed. higher than all these woods of oaks and of beeches, which seem as if suspended above, appear ferocious, denuded summits, a zone abrupt and bald, sombre brown, making points in the violent blue of the sky. but here, underneath, is the sheltered and mossy region, green and deep, which the sun never burns and where april has hidden its luxury, freshly superb.

and they also, the two who are passing through these paths of foxglove and of fern, participate in this splendor of spring.

little by little, in their enjoyment at being there, and under the influence of this ageless place, the old instincts to hunt and to destroy are lighted in the depths of their minds. arrochkoa, excited, leaps from right to left, from left to right, breaks, uproots grasses and flowers; troubles about everything that moves in the green foliage, about the lizards that might be caught, about the birds that might be taken out of their nests, and about the beautiful trout swimming in the water; he jumps, he leaps; he wishes he had fishing lines, sticks, guns; truly he reveals his savagery in the bloom of his robust eighteen years.—ramuntcho calms himself quickly; after breaking a few branches, plucking a few flowers, he begins to meditate; and he thinks—

here they are stopped now at a cross-road where no human habitation is visible. around them are gorges full of shade wherein grand oaks grow thickly, and above, everywhere, a piling up of mountains, of a reddish color burned by the sun. there is nowhere an indication of the new times; there is an absolute silence, something like the peace of the primitive epochs. lifting their heads toward the brown peaks, they perceive at a long distance persons walking on invisible paths, pushing before them donkeys of smugglers: as small as insects at such a distance, are these silent passers-by on the flank of the gigantic mountain; basques of other times, almost confused, as one looks at them from this place, with this reddish earth from which they came—and where they are to return, after having lived like their ancestors without a suspicion of the things of our times, of the events of other places—

they take off their caps, arrochkoa and ramuntcho, to wipe their foreheads; it is so warm in these gorges and they have run so much, jumped so much, that their entire bodies are in a perspiration. they are enjoying themselves, but they would like to come, nevertheless, near the two little, blonde girls who are waiting for them. but of whom shall they ask their way now, since there is no one?

“ave maria,” cries at them from the thickness of the branches an old, rough voice.

and the salutation is prolonged by a string of words spoken in a rapid decrescendo, quick; quick; a basque prayer rattled breathlessly, begun very loudly, then dying at the finish. and an old beggar comes out of the fern, all earthy, all hairy, all gray, bent on his stick like a man of the woods.

“yes,” says arrochkoa, putting his hand in his pocket, “but you must take us to the olhagarray house.”

“the olhagarray house,” replies the old man. “i have come from it, my children, and you are near it.”

in truth, how had they failed to see, at a hundred steps further, that black gable among branches of chestnut trees?

at a point where sluices rustle, it is bathed by a torrent, that olhagarray house, antique and large, among antique chestnut trees. around, the red soil is denuded and furrowed by the waters of the mountain; enormous roots are interlaced in it like monstrous gray serpents; and the entire place, overhung on all sides by the pyrenean masses, is rude and tragic.

but two young girls are there, seated in the shade; with blonde hair and elegant little pink waists; astonishing little fairies, very modern in the midst of the ferocious and old scenes.—they rise, with cries of joy, to meet the visitors.

it would have been better, evidently, to enter the house and salute the old people. but the boys say to themselves that they have not been seen coming, and they prefer to sit near their sweethearts, by the side of the brook, on the gigantic roots. and, as if by chance, the two couples manage not to bother one another, to remain hidden from one another by rocks, by branches.

there then, they talk at length in a low voice, arrochkoa with pantchika, ramuntcho with gracieuse. what can they be saying, talking so much and so quickly?

although their accent is less chanted than that of the highland, which astonished them yesterday, one would think they were speaking scanned stanzas, in a sort of music, infinitely soft, where the voices of the boys seem voices of children.

what are they saying to one another, talking so much and so quickly, beside this torrent, in this harsh ravine, under the heavy sun of noon? what they are saying has not much sense; it is a sort of murmur special to lovers, something like the special song of the swallows at nesting time. it is childish, a tissue of incoherences and repetitions. no, what they are saying has not much sense—unless it be what is most sublime in the world, the most profound and truest things which may be expressed by terrestrial words.—it means nothing, unless it be the eternal and marvellous hymn for which alone has been created the language of men and beasts, and in comparison with which all is empty, miserable and vain.

the heat is stifling in the depth of that gorge, so shut in from all sides; in spite of the shade of the chestnut trees, the rays, that the leaves sift, burn still. and this bare earth, of a reddish color, the extreme oldness of this nearby house, the antiquity of these trees, give to the surroundings, while the lovers 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—