“Later,” she said to Ramuntcho, “we shall put it in our house as a souvenir—”
And the image, dazzling in its gold frame, went with them under the long, green vaults—
They went out of their path, for they wished to pass by a certain valley of the Cherry-trees, not in the hope of finding cherries in it, in April, but to show to Gracieuse the place, which is renowned in the entire Basque country.
It was almost five o'clock, the sun was already low, when they reached there. It was a shaded and calm region, where the spring twilight descended like a caress on the magnificence of the April foliage. The air was cool and suave, fragrant with hay, with acacia. Mountains—very high, especially toward the north, to make the climate there softer, surrounded it on all sides, investing it with a melancholy mystery of closed Edens.
And, when the cherry-trees appeared, they were a gay surprise, they were already red.
There was nobody on these paths, above which the grand cherry-trees extended like a roof, their branches dripping with coral.
Here and there were some summer houses, still uninhabited, some deserted gardens, invaded by the tall grass and the rose bushes.
Then, they made their horse walk; then, each one in his turn, transferring the reins and standing in the wagon, amused himself by eating these cherries from the trees while passing by them and without stopping. Afterward, they placed bouquets of them in their buttonholes, they culled branches of them to deck the horse's head, the harness and the lantern. The equipage seemed ornamented for some festival of youth and of joy—
“Now let us hurry,” said Gracieuse. “If only it be light enough, at least, when we reach Etchezar, for people to see us pass, ornamented as we are!”
As for Ramuntcho, he thought of the meeting place in the evening, of the kiss which he would dare to repeat, similar to that of yesterday, taking Gracieuse's lip between his lips like a cherry—