the febrile and somewhat artificial improvement of the morning had continued. nursed by the old doyanburu, franchita said that she felt better, and, in the fear that ramuntcho might become dreamy, she made him return to the square to attend the sunday ball-game.
the breath of the wind became warm again, blew from the south; none of the shivers of a moment ago remained; on the contrary, a summer sun and atmosphere, on the reddened woods, on the rusty ferns, on the roads where continued to fall the sad leaves. but the sky was gathering thick clouds, which suddenly came out from the rear of the mountains as if they had stayed there in ambush to appear all at the same signal.
the ball-game had not yet been arranged and groups were disputing violently when he reached the square. quickly, he was surrounded, he was welcomed, designated by acclamation to go into the game and sustain the honor of his county. he did not dare, not having played for three years and distrusting his unaccustomed arm. at last, he yielded and began to undress—but to whom would he trust his waistcoat now?—the image reappeared to him, suddenly, of gracieuse, seated on the nearest steps and extending her hands to receive it. to whom would he throw his waistcoat to-day? it is intrusted ordinarily to some friend, as the toreadors do with their gilt silk mantles.—he threw it at random, this time, anywhere, on the granite of the old benches flowered with belated scabwort—
the match began. out of practice at first, uncertain, he missed several times the little bounding thing which is to be caught in the air.
then, he went to his work with a rage, regained his former ease and became himself again superbly. his muscles had gained in strength what they had perhaps lost in skill; again he was applauded, he knew the physical intoxication of moving, of leaping, of feeling his muscles play like supple and violent springs, of hearing around him the ardent murmur of the crowd.
but then came the instant of rest which interrupts ordinarily the long disputed games; the moment when one sits halting, the blood in ebulition, the hands reddened, trembling,—and when one regains the course of ideas which the game suppresses.
then, he realized the distress of being alone.
above the assembled heads, above the woolen caps and the hair ornamented with kerchiefs, was accentuated that stormy sky which the southern winds, when they are about to finish, bring always. the air had assumed an absolute limpidity, as if it had become rarified, rarified unto emptiness. the mountains seemed to have advanced extraordinarily; the pyrenees were crushing the village; the spanish summits or the french summits were there, all equally near, as if pasted on one another, exaggerating their burned, brown colors, their intense and sombre, violet tints. large clouds, which seemed as solid as terrestrial things, were displayed in the form of bows, veiling the sun, casting an obscurity which was like an eclipse. and here and there, through some rent, bordered with dazzling silver, one could see the profound blue green of a sky almost african. all this country, the unstable climate of which changes between a morning and an evening, became for several hours strangely southern in aspect, in temperature and in light.
ramuntcho breathed that dry and suave air, come from the south in order to vivify the lungs. it was the true weather of his native land. it was even the characteristic weather of that land of the bay of biscay, the weather which he liked best formerly, and which to-day filled him with physical comfort—as much as with disturbance of mind, for all that was preparing, all that was amassing above, with airs of ferocious menace, impressed him with the sentiment of a heaven deaf to prayers, without thoughts as without master, a simple focus of storms, of blind forces creating, recreating and destroying. and, during these minutes of halting meditation, where men in basque caps of a temperament other than his, surrounded him to congratulate him, he made no reply, he did not listen, he felt only the ephemeral plenitude of his own vigor, of his youth, of his will, and he said to himself that he wished to use harshly and desperately all things, to try anything, without the obstacle of vain fears, of vain church scruples, in order to take back the young girl whom his soul and his flesh desired, who was the unique one and the betrothed—
when the game had ended gloriously for him, he returned alone, sad and resolute,—proud of having won, of having known how to preserve his agile skilfulness, and realizing that it was a means in life, a source of money and of strength, to have remained one of the chief ball-players of the basque country.
under the black sky, there were still the same tints exaggerated by everything, the same sombre horizon. and still the same breaths from the south, dry and warm, agitors of muscles and of thought.
however, the clouds had descended, descended, and soon this weather, these appearances would change and finish. he knew it, as do all the countrymen accustomed to look at the sky: it was only the announcement of an autumn squall to close the series of lukewarm winds,—of a decisive shake-up to finish despoiling the woods of their leaves. immediately after would come the long showers, chilling everything, the mists making the mountains confused and distant. and it would be the dull rain of winter, stopping the saps, making temporary projects languid, extinguishing ardor and revolt—
now the first drops of water were beginning to fall on the road, separate and heavy on the strewn leaves.
as the day before, when he returned home, at twilight, his mother was alone.
he found her asleep, in a bad sleep, agitated, burning.
rambling in his house he tried, in order to make it less sinister, to light in the large, lower chimney a fire of branches, but it went out smoking. outside, torrents of rain fell. through the windows, as through gray shrouds, the village hardly appeared, effaced under a winter squall. the wind and the rain whipped the walls of the isolated house, around which, once more, would thicken the grand blackness of the country in rainy nights—that grand blackness, that grand silence, to which he had long been unaccustomed. and in his childish heart, came little by little, a cold of solitude and of abandonment; he lost even his energy, the consciousness of his love, of his strength and of his youth; he felt vanishing, before the misty evening, all his projects of struggle and of resistance. the future which he had formed a moment ago became miserable or chimerical in his eyes, that future of a pelota player, of a poor amuser of the crowds, at the mercy of a malady or of a moment of weakness—his hopes of the day-time were going out, based, doubtless, on unstable things, fleeing now in the night—
then he felt transported, as in his childhood, toward that soft refuge which was his mother; he went up, on tiptoe, to see her, even asleep, and to remain there, near her bed, while she slept.
and, when he had lighted in the room, far from her, a discreet lamp, she appeared to him more changed than she had been by the fever of yesterday; the possibility presented itself, more frightful to his mind, of losing her, of being alone, of never feeling again on his cheek the caress of her head.—moreover, for the first time, she seemed old to him, and, in the memory of all the deceptions which she had suffered because of him, he felt a pity for her, a tender and infinite pity, at sight of her wrinkles which he had not before observed, of her hair recently whitened at the temples. oh, a desolate pity and hopeless, with the conviction that it was too late now to arrange life better.—and something painful, against which there was no possible resistance, shook his chest, contracted his young face; objects became confused to his view, and, in the need of imploring, of asking for mercy, he let himself fall on his knees, his forehead on his mother's bed, weeping at last, weeping hot tears—
