The Flood | Page 3

was seven o'clock; the sun was setting. The
sky was blue, an immense blue sheet of profound purity, in which the
rays of the setting sun were like a golden dust. Never had I seen the
village drowsing in so sweet a peace. Upon the tiled roofs a rosy tint
was fading. I heard a neighbor's laugh, then the voices of children at the
turn in the road in front of our place. Farther away and softened by the
distance, rose the sounds of flocks entering their sheds. The great voice
of the Garonne roared continually; but it was to me as the voice of the
silence, so accustomed to it was I.
Little by little the sky paled; the village became more drowsy. It was
the evening of a beautiful day; and I thought that all our good
fortune--the big harvests, the happy house, the betrothal of
Veronique--came to us from above in the purity of the dying light. A
benediction spread over us with the farewell of the evening.
Meanwhile I had returned to the center of the room. The girls were

chattering. We listened to them, smiling. Suddenly, across the serenity
of the country, a terrible cry sounded, a cry of distress and death:
"The Garonne! The Garonne!"
II.
We rushed out into the yard.
Saint-Jory is situated at the bottom of a slope at about five hundred
yards from the Garonne. Screens of tall poplars that divide the
meadows, hide the river completely.
We could see nothing. And still the cry rang out:
"The Garonne! The Garonne!"
Suddenly, on the wide road before us, appeared two men and three
women, one of them holding a child in her arms. It was they who were
crying out, distracted, running with long strides. They turned at times,
looking behind with terrified faces, as if a band of wolves was pursuing
them.
"What's the matter with them?" demanded Cyprien. "Do you see
anything, grandfather?"
"No," I answered. "The leaves are not even moving."
I was still talking when an exclamation burst from us. Behind the
fugitives there appeared, between the trunks of the poplars, amongst the
large tufts of grass, what looked like a pack of gray beasts speckled
with yellow. They sprang up from all directions, waves crowding
waves, a helter-skelter of masses of foaming water, shaking the sod
with the rumbling gallop of their hordes.
It was our turn to send forth the despairing cry:
"The Garonne! The Garonne!"
The two men and the three women were still running on the road. They
heard the terrible gallop gaining on them. Now the waves arrived in a
single line, rolling, tumbling with the thunder of a charging battalion.
With their first shock they had broken three poplars; the tall foliage
sank and disappeared. A wooden cabin was swallowed up, a wall was
demolished; heavy carts were carried away like straws. But the water
seemed, above all, to pursue the fugitives. At the bend in the road,
where there was a steep slope, it fell suddenly in an immense sheet and
cut off retreat. They continued to run, nevertheless, splashing through
the water, no longer shouting, mad with terror. The water swirled about
their knees. An enormous wave felled the woman who was carrying the

child. Then all were engulfed.
"Quick! Quick!" I cried. "We must get into the house. It is solid--we
have nothing to fear."
We took refuge upstairs. The house was built on a hillock above the
road. The water invaded the yard, softly, with a little rippling noise. We
were not much frightened.
"Bah!" said Jacques, to reassure every one, "this will not amount to
anything. You remember, father, in '55, the water came up into the yard.
It was a foot deep. Then it receded."
"It is disastrous for the crops, just the same," murmured Cyprien.
"No, it will not be anything," I said, seeing the large questioning eyes
of our girls.
Aimee had put her two children into the bed. She sat beside them, with
Veronique and Marie. Aunt Agathe spoke of heating some wine she
had brought up, to give us courage.
Jacques and Rose were looking out of a window. I was at the other,
with my brother Pierre, Cyprien and Gaspard.
"Come up!" I cried to our two servants, who were wading in the yard.
"Don't stay there and get all wet."
"But the animals?" they asked. "They are afraid. They are killing each
other in the barn."
"No, no; come up! After a while we'll see to them."
The rescue of the animals would be impossible, if the disaster was to
attain greater proportions. I thought it unnecessary to frighten the
family. So I forced myself to appear hopeful. Leaning on the
windowsill, I indicated the progress of the flood. The