it went very quickly now, with the drying fevers that made her cheeks red, her nostrils pinched, or with the exhaustion of baths of perspiration, her pulse hardly beating.

and ramuntcho had no other thought than his mother; the image of gracieuse ceased to visit him during these funereal days.

she was going, franchita; she was going, mute and as if indifferent, asking for nothing, never complaining—

once, however, as he was watching, she called him suddenly with a poor voice of anguish, to throw her arms around him, to draw him to her, lean her head on his cheek. and, in that minute, ramuntcho saw pass in her eyes the great terror—that of the flesh which feels that it is finishing, that of the men and that of the beasts, the horrible and the same for all.—a believer, she was that a little; practising rather, like so many other women around her; timid in the face of dogmas, of observances, of services, but without a clear conception of the world beyond, without a luminous hope.—heaven, all the beautiful things promised after life.—yes, perhaps.—but still, the black hole was there, near and certain, where she would have to turn into dust.—what was sure, what was inexorable, was the fact that never, never more would her destroyed visage lean in a real manner on that of ramuntcho; then, in the doubt of having a mind which would fly, in the horror and the misery of annihilation, of becoming powder and nothing, she wanted again kisses from that son, and she clutched at him as clutch the wrecked who fall into the black and deep waters—

he understood all this, which the poor, fading eyes said so well. and the pity so tender, which he had already felt at seeing the wrinkles and the white hairs of his mother, overflowed like a flood from his very young heart; he responded to this appeal with all that one may give of desolate clasps and embraces.

but it did not last long. she had never been one of those who are enervated for long, or at least, let it appear. her arms unclasped, her head fallen back, she closed her eyes again, unconscious now,—or stoical—

and ramuntcho, standing, not daring to touch her, wept heavy tears, without noise, turning his head,—while, in the distance, the parish bell began to ring the curfew, sang the tranquil peace of the village, filled the air with vibrations soft, protective, advising sound sleep to those who have morrows—

the following morning, after having confessed, she passed out of life, silent and haughty, having felt a sort of shame for her suffering,—while the same bell rang slowly her agony.

and at night, ramuntcho found himself alone, beside that thing in bed and cold, which is preserved and looked at for several hours, but which one must make haste to bury in the earth—