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And passers-by turned their heads to look at him, whispered the news: "Franchita's son has returned home; he looks very well!" A summer illusion persisted everywhere, with, however, the unfathomable melancholy of things tranquilly finishing.
In front of Franchita's door, the geraniums, the dahlias had just died, and the path which led to the house, which no one cared for, disappeared under the mass of yellow leaves. For Ramuntcho, this first week of mourning had been occupied by the thousand details that rock sorrow. Proud also, he had desired that all should be done in a luxurious manner, according to the old usages of the parish.
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