The Flood | Page 4

river, after its
attack on the village, was in possession even to the narrowest streets. It
was no longer a galloping charge, but a slow and invincible
strangulation. The hollow in the bottom of which Saint-Jory is built
was changed into a lake. In our yard the water was soon three feet deep.
But I asserted that it remained stationary--I even went so far as to
pretend that it was going down.
"Well, you will be obliged to sleep here to-night, my boy," I said,
turning to Gaspard. "That is, unless the roads are free in a couple of
hours--which is quite possible."
He looked at me without answering, his face quite pale; and I saw him
look at Veronique with an expression of anguish.

It was half-past eight o'clock. It was still daylight--a pale, sad light
beneath the blanched sky. The servants had had the forethought to
bring up two lamps with them. I had them lighted, thinking that they
would brighten up the somber room. Aunt Agathe, who had rolled a
table to the middle of the room, wished to organize a card party. The
worthy woman, whose eyes sought mine momentarily, thought above
all of diverting the children. Her good humor kept up a superb bravery;
and she laughed to combat the terror that she felt growing around her.
She forcibly placed Aimee, Veronique, and Marie at the table. She put
the cards into their hands, took a hand herself with an air of intense
interest, shuffling, cutting, dealing with such a flow of talk that she
almost drowned the noise of the water. But our girls could not be
diverted; they were pale, with feverish hands, and ears on the alert.
Every few moments there was a pause in the play. One of them would
turn to me, asking in a low voice:
"Grandpa, is it still rising?"
"No, no. Go on with the game. There is no danger."
Never had my heart been gripped by such agony. All the men placed
themselves at the windows to hide the terrifying sight. We tried to
smile, turned toward the peaceful lamps that threw discs of light upon
the table. I recalled our winter evenings, when we gathered around the
table. It was the same quiet interior, filled with the warmth of affection.
And while peace was there I heard behind me the roaring of the
escaped river, that was constantly rising.
"Louis," said my brother Pierre, "the water is within three feet of the
window. We ought to tell them."
I hushed him up by pressing his arm. But it was no longer possible to
hide the peril. In our barns the animals were killing each other. There
were bleatings and bellowings from the crazed herds; and the horses
gave the harsh cries that can be heard at great distances when they are
in danger of death.
"My God! My God!" cried Aimee, who stood up, pressing her hands to
her temples.
They all ran to the windows. There they remained, mute, their hair
rising with fear. A dim light floated above the yellow sheet of water.
The pale sky looked like a white cloth thrown over the earth. In the
distance trailed some smoke. Everything was misty. It was the terrified

end of a day melting into a night of death. And not a human sound,
nothing but the roaring of that sea stretching to infinity; nothing but the
bellowings and the neighings of the animals.
"My God! My God!" repeated the women, in low voices, as if they
feared to speak aloud.
A terrible cracking silenced the exclamations. The maddened animals
had burst open the doors of the stables. They passed in the yellow flood,
rolled about, carried away by the current. The sheep were tossed about
like dead leaves, whirling in bands in the eddies. The cows and the
horses struggled, tried to walk, and lost their footing. Our big gray
horse fought long for life. He stretched his neck, he reared, snorting
like a forge. But the enraged waters took him by the crupper, and we
saw him, beaten, abandon himself.
Then we gave way for the first time. We felt the need of tears. Our
hands stretched out to those dear animals that were being borne away,
we lamented, giving vent to the tears and the sobs that we had
suppressed. Ah! what ruin! The harvests destroyed, the cattle drowned,
our fortunes changed in a few hours! God was not just! We had done
nothing against Him, and He was taking everything from us! I shook
my fist at the horizon. I spoke of our walk that afternoon, of our
meadows, our wheat and vines that we had found so full of promise. It
was all a lie, then! The sun lied when he