Eight o'clock in the evening
the sadness of ends of festivals in very isolated villages , when the sun ceases to illuminate , and when it is autumn -- They know very well , these men who were so ardent a moment ago in the humble pleasures of the day , that in the cities there are other festivals more brilliant , more beautiful and less quickly ended ; but this is something separate ; it is the festival of the country , of their own country , and nothing can replace for them these furtive instants whereof they have thought for so many days in advance -- Lovers who will depart toward the scattered houses flanking the Pyrenees , couples who to-morrow will begin over their monotonous and rude life , look at one another before separating , look at one another under the falling night , with regretful eyes that say : `` Then , it is finished already ? Then , that is all ? -- '' Eight o'clock in the evening . They have dined at the cider mill , all the players except the vicar , under the patronage of Itchoua ; they have lounged for a long time afterward , languid in the smoke of smuggled cigarettes and listening to the marvellous improvisations of the two Iragola brothers , of the Mendiazpi mountain -- while outside , on the street , the girls in small groups holding one another 's arms , looked at the windows , found pleasure in observing on the smoky panes the round shadows of the heads of the men covered with similar caps -- Now , on the square , the brass band plays the first measures of the fandango , and the young men , the young girls , all those of the village and several also of the mountain who have remained to dance , arrive in impatient groups . There are some dancing already on the road , not to lose anything . And soon the fandango turns , turns , in the light of the new moon the horns of which seem to pose , lithe and light , on the enormous and heavy mountain .