CHAPTER XXI.
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--
