May! The grass ascends, ascends from everywhere like a sumptuous carpet,
like silky velvet, emanating spontaneously from the earth.
In order to sprinkle this region of the Basques, which remains humid and
green all summer like a sort of warmer Brittany, the errant vapors
on the Bay of Biscay assemble all in this depth of gulf, stop at the
Pyrenean summits and melt into rain. Long showers fall, which are
somewhat deceptive, but after which the soil smells of new flowers and
hay.
In the fields, along the roads, the grasses quickly thicken; all the
ledges of the paths are as if padded by the magnificent thickness of
the bent grass; everywhere is a profusion of gigantic Easter daisies, of
buttercups with tall stems, and of very large, pink mallows like those
of Algeria.
And, in the long, tepid twilights, pale iris or blue ashes in color,
every night the bells of the month of Mary resound for a long time
in the air, under the mass of the clouds hooked to the flanks of the
mountains.
During the month of May, with the little group of black nuns, with
discreet babble, with puerile and lifeless laughter, Gracieuse, at all
hours, went to church. Hastening their steps under the frequent showers,
they went together through the graveyard, full of roses; together,
always together, the little clandestine betrothed, in light colored
gowns, and the nuns, with long, mourning veils; during the day they
brought bouquets of white flowers, daisies and sheafs of tall lilies;
at night they came to sing, in the nave still more sonorous than in the
day-time, the softly joyful canticles of the Virgin Mary:
“Ave, Queen of the Angels! Star of the Sea, ave!--”
Oh, the whiteness of the lilies lighted by the tapers, their white
petals and their yellow pollen in gold dust! Oh, their fragrance in the
gardens or in the church, during the twilights of spring!
And as soon as Gracieuse entered there, at night, in the dying ring of
the bells--leaving the pale half-light of the graveyard full of roses
for the starry night of the wax tapers which reigned already in the
church, quitting the odor of hay and of roses for that of incense and of
the tall, cut lilies, passing from the lukewarm and living air
outside to that heavy and sepulchral cold that centuries amass in old
sanctuaries--a particular calm came at once to her mind, a pacifying of
all her desires, a renunciation of all her terrestrial joys. Then, when
she had knelt, when the first canticles had taken their flight under the
vault, infinitely sonorous, little by little she fell into an ecstasy,
a state of dreaming, a visionary state which confused, white apparitions
traversed: whiteness, whiteness everywhere; lilies, thousands of sheafs
of lilies, and white wings, shivers of white wings of angels--
Oh! to remain for a long time in that state, to forget all things, and
to feel herself pure, sanctified and immaculate, under that glance,
ineffably fascinating and soft, under that glance, irresistibly
appealing, which the Holy Virgin, in long white vestments, let fall from
the height of the tabernacle--!
But, when she went outside, when the night of spring re-enveloped her
with tepid breezes of life, the memory of the meeting which she had
promised the day before, the day before as well as every day, chased
like the wind of a storm the visions of the church. In the expectation
of Ramuntcho, in the expectation of the odor of his hair, of the touch
of his mustache, of the taste of his lips, she felt near faltering, like
one wounded, among the strange companions who accompanied her, among the
peaceful and spectral black nuns.
And when the hour had come, in spite of all her resolutions she was
there, anxious and ardent, listening to the least noise, her heart
beating if a branch of the garden moved in the night--tortured by the
least tardiness of the beloved one.
He came always with his same silent step of a rover at night, his
waistcoat on his shoulder, with as much precaution and artifice as for
the most dangerous act of smuggling.
In the rainy nights, so frequent in the Basque spring-time, she remained
in her room on the first floor, and he sat on the sill of the open
window, not trying to go in, not having the permission to do so. And
they stayed there, she inside, he outside, their arms laced, their heads
touching each other, the cheek of one resting on the cheek of the other.
When the weather was beautiful, she jumped over this low window-sill
to wait for him outside, and their long meetings, almost without words,
occurred on the garden bench. Between them there were not even those
continual whisperings familiar to lovers; no, there were rather
silences. At first they did not dare to talk, for fear of being
discovered, for the least murmurs of voices at night are heard. And
then, as nothing new threatened their lives, what need had they to talk?
What could they have said which would have been better than the long
contact of their joined hands and of their heads resting against each
other?
The possibility of being surprised kept them often on the alert, in an
anxiety which made more delicious afterward the moments when they forgot
themselves more, their confidence having returned.--Nobody frightened
them as much as Arrochkoa, a smart, nocturnal prowler himself, and
always so well-informed about the goings and comings of Ramuntcho--In
spite of his indulgence, what would he do, if he discovered them?--
Oh, the old stone benches, under branches, in front of the doors of
isolated houses, when fall the lukewarm nights of spring!--Theirs was a
real lovers' hiding place, and there was for them, every night, a
music, for, in all the stones of the neighbors' wall lived those singing
tree-toads, beasts of the south, which, as soon as night fell, gave from
moment to moment a little, brief note, discreet, odd, having the tone
of a crystal bell and of a child's throat. Something similar might be
produced by touching here and there, without ever resting on them,
the scales of an organ with a celestial voice. There were tree-toads
everywhere, responding to one another in different tones; even those
which were under their bench, close by them, reassured by their
immobility, sang also from time to time; then that little sound,
brusque and soft, so near, made them start and smile. All the exquisite,
surrounding obscurity was animated by that music, which continued in the
distance, in the mystery of the leaves and of the stones, in the depths
of all the small, black holes of rocks or walls; it seemed like chivies
in miniature, or rather, a sort of frail concert somewhat mocking--oh!
not very mocking, and without any maliciousness--led timidly by
inoffensive gnomes. And this made the night more living and more
loving--
After the intoxicated audacities of the first nights, fright took a
stronger hold of them, and, when one of them had something special to
say, one led the other by the hand without talking; this meant that they
had to walk softly, softly, like marauding cats, to an alley behind the
house where they could talk without fear.
“Where shall we live, Gracieuse?” asked Ramuntcho one night.
“At your house, I had thought.”
“Ah! yes, so thought I--only I thought it would make you sad to be so
far from the parish, from the church and the square--”
“Oh--with you, I could find anything sad?--”
“Then, we would send away those who live on the first floor and take the
large room which opens on the road to Hasparitz--”
It was an increased joy for him to know that Gracieuse would accept his
house, to be sure that she would bring the radiance of her presence into
that old, beloved home, and that they would make their nest there for
life--