"It's little Marie, who has just been dressed by her mamma."
The dear little girl was completing her tenth year, and for ten years she
had been the delight of the farm. Having come the last, at a time when we
could no longer hope to have any more children, she was doubly loved. Her
precarious health made her particularly dear to us. She was treated as a
young lady; her mother absolutely wanted to make a lady of her, and I had
not the heart to oppose her wish, so little Marie was a pet, in lovely
silk skirts trimmed with ribbons.
Marie was still seated on my shoulders.
"Mamma, mamma," she cried, "come and look; I'm playing at horses."
Babet, who was entering, smiled. Ah! my poor Babet, how old we were! I
remember we were shivering with weariness, on that day, gazing sadly at
one another when alone.
Our children brought back our youth.
Lunch was eaten in silence. We had been compelled to light the lamp. The
reddish glimmer that hung round the room was sad enough to drive one
crazy.
"Bah!" said Jacques, "this tepid rainy weather is better than intense cold
that would freeze our vines and olives."
And he tried to joke. But he was as anxious as we were, without knowing
why. Babet had had bad dreams. We listened to the account of her
nightmare, laughing with our lips but sad at heart.
"This weather quite upsets one," I said to cheer us all up.
"Yes, yes, it's the weather," Jacques hastened to add. "I'll put some vine
branches on the fire."
There was a bright flame which cast large sheets of light upon the walls.
The branches burnt with a cracking sound, leaving rosy ashes. We had
seated ourselves in front of the chimney; the air, outside, was tepid; but
great drops of icy cold damp fell from the ceilings inside the farmhouse.
Babet had taken little Marie on her knees; she was talking to her in an
undertone, amused at her childish chatter.
"Are you coming, father?" Jacques inquired of me. "We are going to look at
the cellars and lofts."
I went out with him. The harvests had been getting bad for some years
past. We were suffering great losses: our vines and trees were caught by
frost, whilst hail had chopped up our wheat and oats. And I sometimes said
that I was growing old, and that fortune, who is a woman, does not care
for old men. Jacques laughed, answering that he was young, and was going
to court fortune.
I had reached the winter, the cold season. I felt distinctly that all was
withering around me. At each pleasure that departed, I thought of uncle
Lazare, who had died so calmly; and with fond remembrances of him, asked
for strength.
Daylight had completely disappeared at three o'clock. We went down into
the common room. Babet was sewing in the chimney corner, with her head
bent over her work; and little Marie was seated on the ground, in front of
the fire, gravely dressing a doll. Jacques and I had placed ourselves at a
mahogany writing-table, which had come to us from uncle Lazare, and were
engaged in checking our accounts.
The window was as if blocked up; the fog, sticking to the panes of glass,
formed a perfect wall of gloom. Behind this wall stretched emptiness, the
unknown. A great noise, a loud roar, alone arose in the silence and spread
through the obscurity.
We had dismissed the workpeople, keeping only our old woman-servant,
Marguerite, with us. When I raised my head and listened, it seemed to me
that the farmhouse hung suspended in the middle of a chasm. No human sound
came from the outside. I heard naught but the riot of the abyss. Then I
gazed at my wife and children, and experienced the cowardice of those old
people who feel themselves too weak to protect those surrounding them
against unknown peril.
The noise became harsher, and it seemed to us that there was a knocking at
the door. At the same instant, the horses in the stable began to neigh
furiously, whilst the cattle lowed as if choking. We had all risen, pale
with anxiety, Jacques dashed to the door and threw it wide open.
A wave of muddy water burst into the room.
The Durance was overflowing. It was it that had been making the noise,
that had been increasing in the distance since morning. The snow melting
on the mountains had transformed each hillside into a torrent which had
swelled the river. The curtain of fog had hidden from us this sudden rise
of water.
It had often advanced thus to the gates of the farm, when the thaw came
after severe winters. But the flood had never increased so rapidly. We
could see through the open door that the courtyard was transformed into a
lake. The water already reached our ankles.
Babet had caught up little Marie, who was crying and clasping her doll to
her. Jacques wanted to run and open the doors of the stables and
cowhouses; but his mother held him back by his clothes, begging him not to
go out. The water continued rising. I pushed Babet towards the staircase.
"Quick, quick, let us go up into the bedrooms," I cried.
And I obliged Jacques to pass before me. I left the ground-floor the last.
Marguerite came down in terror from the loft where she happened to find
herself. I made her sit down at the end of the room beside Babet, who
remained silent, pale, and with beseeching eyes. We put little Marie into
bed; she had insisted on keeping her doll, and went quietly to sleep
pressing it in her arms. This child's sleep relieved me; when I turned
round and saw Babet, listening to the little girl's regular breathing, I
forgot the danger, all I heard was the water beating against the walls.
But Jacques and I could not help looking the peril in the face. Anxiety
made us endeavour to discover the progress of the inundation. We had
thrown the window wide open, we leant out at the risk of falling,
searching into the darkness. The fog, which was thicker, hung above the
flood, throwing out fine rain which gave us the shivers. Vague steel-like
flashes were all that showed the moving sheet of water, amidst the
profound obscurity. Below, it was splashing in the courtyard, rising along
the walls in gentle undulations. And we still heard naught but the anger
of the Durance, and the affrighted cattle and horses.
The neighing and lowing of these poor beasts pierced me to the heart.
Jacques questioned me with his eyes; he would have liked to try and
deliver them. Their agonising moans soon became lamentable, and a great
cracking sound was heard. The oxen had just broken down the stable doors.
We saw them pass before us, borne away by the flood, rolled over and over
in the current. And they disappeared amid the roar of the river.
Then I felt choking with anger. I became as one possessed, I shook my fist
at the Durance. Erect, facing the window, I insulted it.
"Wicked thing!" I shouted amidst the tumult of the waters, "I loved you
fondly, you were my first sweetheart, and now you are plundering me. You
come and disturb my farm, and carry off my cattle. Ah! cursed, cursed
thing.----Then you gave me Babet, you ran gently at the edge of my
meadows. I took you for a good mother. I remembered uncle Lazare felt
affection for your limpid stream, and I thought I owed you gratitude. You
are a barbarous mother, I only owe you my hatred----"
But the Durance stifled my cries with its thundering voice; and, broad and
indifferent, expanded and drove its flood onward with tranquil obstinacy.
I turned back to the room and went and kissed Babet, who was weeping.
Little Marie was smiling in her sleep.
"Don't be afraid," I said to my wife. "The water cannot always rise. It
will certainly go down. There is no danger."
"No, there is no danger," Jacques repeated feverishly. "The house is
solid."
At that moment Marguerite, who had approached the window, tormented by
that feeling of curiosity which is the outcome of fear, leant forward like
a mad thing and fell, uttering a cry. I threw myself before the window,
but could not prevent Jacques plunging into the water. Marguerite had
nursed him, and he felt the tenderness of a son for the poor old woman.
Babet had risen in terror, with joined hands, at the sound of the two
splashes. She remained there, erect, with open mouth and distended eyes,
watching the window.
I had seated myself on the wooden handrail, and my ears were ringing with
the roar of the flood. I do not know how long it was that Babet and I were
in this painful state of stupor, when a voice called to me. It was Jacques
who was holding on to the wall beneath the window. I stretched out my hand
to him, and he clambered up.
Babet clasped him in her arms. She could sob now; and she relieved
herself.
No reference was made to Marguerite. Jacques did not dare say he had been
unable to find her, and we did not dare question him anent his search.
He took me apart and brought me back to the window.
"Father," he said to me in an undertone, "there are more than seven feet
of water in the courtyard, and the river is still rising. We cannot remain
here any longer."
Jacques was right. The house was falling to pieces, the planks of the
outbuildings were going away one by one. Then this death of Marguerite
weighed upon us. Babet, bewildered, was beseeching us. Marie alone
remained peaceful in the big bed with her doll between her arms, and
slumbering with the happy smile of an angel.
The peril increased at every minute. The water was on the point of
reaching the handrail of the window and pouring into the room. Any one
would have said that it was an engine of war making the farmhouse totter
with regular, dull, hard blows. The current must be running right against
the facade, and we could not hope for any human assistance.
"Every minute is precious," said Jacques in agony. "We shall be crushed
beneath the ruins. Let us look for boards, let us make a raft."
He said that in his excitement. I would naturally have preferred a
thousand times to be in the middle of the river, on a few beams lashed
together, than beneath the roof of this house which was about to fall in.
But where could we lay hands on the beams we required? In a rage I tore
the planks from the cupboards, Jacques broke the furniture, we took away
the shutters, every piece of wood we could reach. And feeling it was
impossible to utilise these fragments, we cast them into the middle of the
room in a fury, and continued searching.
Our last hope was departing, we understood our misery and want of power.
The water was rising; the harsh voice of the Durance was calling to us in
anger. Then, I burst out sobbing, I took Babet in my trembling arms, I
begged Jacques to come near us. I wished us all to die in the same
embrace.
Jacques had returned to the window. And, suddenly, he exclaimed:
"Father, we are saved!--Come and see."
The sky was clear. The roof of a shed, torn away by the current, had come
to a standstill beneath our window. This roof, which was several yards
broad, was formed of light beams and thatch; it floated, and would make a
capital raft, I joined my hands together and would have worshipped this
wood and straw.
Jacques jumped on the roof, after having firmly secured it. He walked on
the thatch, making sure it was everywhere strong. The thatch resisted;
therefore we could adventure on it without fear.
"Oh! it will carry us all very well," said Jacques joyfully. "See how
little it sinks into the water! The difficulty will be to steer it."
He looked around him and seized two poles drifting along in the current,
as they passed by.
"Ah! here are oars," he continued. "You will go to the stern, father, and
I forward, and we will manoeuvre the raft easily. There are not twelve
feet of water. Quick, quick! get on board, we must not lose a minute."
My poor Babet tried to smile. She wrapped little Marie carefully up in her
shawl; the child had just woke up, and, quite alarmed, maintained a
silence which was broken by deep sobs. I placed a chair before the window
and made Babet get on the raft. As I held her in my arms I kissed her with
poignant emotion, feeling this kiss was the last.
The water was beginning to pour into the room. Our feet were soaking. I
was the last to embark; then I undid the cord. The current hurled us
against the wall; it required precautions and many efforts to quit the
farmhouse.
The fog had little by little dispersed. It was about midnight when we
left. The stars were still buried in mist; the moon which was almost at
the edge of the horizon, lit up the night with a sort of wan daylight.
The inundation then appeared to us in all its grandiose horror. The valley
had become a river. The Durance, swollen to enormous proportions and
washing the two hillsides, passed between dark masses of cultivated land,
and was the sole thing displaying life in the inanimate space bounded by
the horizon. It thundered with a sovereign voice, maintaining in its anger
the majesty of its colossal wave. Clumps of trees emerged in places,
staining the sheet of pale water with black streaks. Opposite us I
recognised the tops of the oaks along the walk; the current carried us
towards these branches, which for us were so many reefs. Around the raft
floated various kinds of remains, pieces of wood, empty barrels, bundles
of grass; the river was bearing along the ruins it had made in its anger.
To the left we perceived the lights of Dourgues--flashes of lanterns
moving about in the darkness. The water could not have risen as high as
the village; only the low land had been submerged. No doubt assistance
would come. We searched the patches of light hanging over the water; it
seemed to us at every instant that we heard the sound of oars.
We had started at random. As soon as the raft was in the middle of the
current, lost amidst the whirlpools of the river, anguish of mind overtook
us again; we almost regretted having left the farm. I sometimes turned
round and gazed at the house, which still remained standing, presenting a
grey aspect on the white water. Babet, crouching down in the centre of the
raft, in the thatch of the roof, was holding little Marie on her knees,
the child's head against her breast, to hide the horror of the river from
her. Both were bent double, leaning forward in an embrace, as if reduced
in stature by fear. Jacques, standing upright in the front, was leaning on
his pole with all his weight; from time to time he cast a rapid glance
towards us, and then silently resumed his task. I seconded him as well as
I could, but our efforts to reach the bank remained fruitless. Little by
little, notwithstanding our poles, which we buried into the mud until we
nearly broke them, we drifted into the open; a force that seemed to come
from the depths of the water drove us away. The Durance was slowly taking
possession of us.
Struggling, bathed in perspiration, we had worked ourselves into a
passion; we were fighting with the river as with a living being, seeking
to vanquish, wound, kill it. It strained us in its giant-like arms, and
our poles in our hands became weapons which we thrust into its breast. It
roared, flung its slaver into our faces, wriggled beneath our strokes. We
resisted its victory with clenched teeth. We would not be conquered. And
we had mad impulses to fell the monster, to calm it with blows from our
fists.
We went slowly towards the offing. We were already at the entrance to the
oak-tree walk. The dark branches pierced through the water, which they
tore with a lamentable sound. Death, perhaps, awaited us there in a
collision. I cried out to Jacques to follow the walk by clinging close to
the branches. And it was thus that I passed for the last time in the
middle of this oak-tree alley, where I had walked in my youth and ripe
age. In the terrible darkness, above the howling depth, I thought of uncle
Lazare, and saw the happy days of my youth smiling at me sadly.
The Durance triumphed at the end of the alley. Our poles no longer touched
the bottom. The water bore us along in its impetuous bound of victory. And
now it could do what it pleased with us. We gave ourselves up. We went
downstream with frightful rapidity. Great clouds, dirty tattered rags hung
about the sky; when the moon was hidden there came lugubrious obscurity.
Then we rolled in chaos. Enormous billows as black as ink, resembling the
backs of fish, bore us along, spinning us round. I could no longer see
either Babet or the children. I already felt myself dying.
I know not how long this last run lasted. The moon was suddenly unveiled,
and the horizon became clear. And in that light I perceived an immense
black mass in front of us which blocked the way, and towards which we were
being carried with all the violence of the current. We were lost, we would
be broken there.
Babet had stood upright. She held out little Marie to me:
"Take the child," she exclaimed. "Leave me alone, leave me alone!"
Jacques had already caught Babet in his arms. In a loud voice he said:
"Father, save the little one--I will save mother."
We had come close to the black mass. I thought I recognised a tree. The
shock was terrible, and the raft, split in two, scattered its straw and
beams in the whirlpool of water.
I fell, clasping little Marie tightly to me. The icy cold water brought
back all my courage. On rising to the surface of the river, I supported
the child, I half laid her on my neck and began to swim laboriously. If
the little creature had not lost consciousness but had struggled, we
should both have remained at the bottom of the deep.
And, whilst I swam, I felt choking with anxiety. I called Jacques, I tried
to see in the distance; but I heard nothing save the roar of the waters, I
saw naught but the pale sheet of the Durance. Jacques and Babet were at
the bottom. She must have clung to him, dragged him down in a deadly
strain of her arms. What frightful agony! I wanted to die; I sunk slowly,
I was going to find them beneath the black water. And as soon as the flood
touched little Marie's face, I struggled again with impetuous anguish to
get near the waterside.
It was thus that I abandoned Babet and Jacques, in despair at having been
unable to die with them, still calling out to them in a husky voice. The
river cast me on the stones, like one of those bundles of grass it leaves
on its way. When I came to myself again, I took my daughter, who was
opening her eyes, in my arms. Day was breaking. My winter night was at an
end, that terrible night which had been an accomplice in the murder of my
wife and son.
At this moment, after years of regret, one last consolation remains to me.
I am the icy winter, but I feel the approaching spring stirring within me.
As my uncle Lazare said, we never die. I have had four seasons, and here I
am returning to the spring, there is my dear Marie commencing the
everlasting joys and sorrows over again.