the parting day, good-byes to friends here and there; joyful wishes of former soldiers returned from the regiment. since the morning, a sort of intoxication or of fever, and, in front of him, everything unthought-of in life.
arrochkoa, very amiable on that last day, had offered to drive him in a wagon to saint-jean-de-luz, and had arranged to go at sunset, in order to arrive there just in time for the night train.
the night having come, inexorably, franchita wished to accompany her son to the square, where the detcharry wagon was waiting for him, and here her face, despite her will, was drawn by sorrow, while he straightened himself, in order to preserve the swagger which becomes recruits going to their regiment:
“make a little place for me, arrochkoa,” she said abruptly. “i will sit between you to the chapel of saint-bitchentcho; i will return on foot—”
and they started at the setting sun, which, on them as on all things, scattered the magnificence of its gold and of its red copper.
after a wood of oaks, the chapel of saint-bitchentcho passed, and the mother wished to remain. from one turn to another, postponing every time the great separation, she asked to be driven still farther.
“mother, when we reach the top of the issaritz slope you must go down!” he said tenderly. “you hear, arrochkoa, you will stop where i say; i do not want mother to go further—”
at this issaritz slope the horse had himself slackened his pace. the mother and the son, their eyes burned with suppressed tears, held each other's hands, and they were going slowly, slowly, in absolute silence, as if it were a solemn ascent toward some calvary.
at last, at the top of the slope, arrochkoa, who seemed mute also, pulled the reins slightly, with a simple little: “ho!—” discreet as a lugubrious signal which one hesitates to give—and the carriage was stopped.
then, without a word, ramuntcho jumped to the road, helped his mother to descend, gave a long kiss to her, then remounted briskly to his seat:
“go, arrochkoa, quickly, race, let us go!”
and in two seconds, in the rapid descent, he lost sight of the one whose face at last was covered with tears.
now they were going away from one another, franchita and her son. in different directions, they were walking on that etchezar road,—in the splendor of the setting sun, in a region of pink heather and of yellow fern. she was going up slowly toward her home, meeting isolated groups of farmers, flocks led through the golden evening by little shepherds in basque caps. and he was going down quickly, through valleys soon darkened, toward the lowland where the railway train passes—
