David hastened to put on his clothes and opened the door. He saw
Frederick, his face pale and distorted with fright.
"My child, what is the matter?"
"Ah, my friend, what a misfortune!"
"A misfortune?"
"The Loire--"
"Well?"
"The inundation we were speaking of yesterday at the brickmaker's--"
"An overflow,--that is frightful! What a disaster, my God, what a
disaster!"
"Come, come, my friend, you can no longer see the valley at the edge of
the forest; it is all a lake of water!"
David and Frederick descended precipitately, and found Madame Bastien in
the library. She also had risen in haste. Marguerite and the gardener
were groaning in terror.
"The water is gaining on us."
"The house will be swept away," they cried.
"And the poor farmers in the valley," said Madame Bastien, her eyes
filled with tears. "Their houses, so isolated, are perhaps already
submerged, and the miserable people in them, surprised in the night by
the overflow, cannot get away."
"Then, madame," said David, "we must at once go to the rescue of the
valley people. Here there is no danger."
"But the water is already within a mile and a half, M. David," cried old
Marguerite.
"And it continues to rise," added Andre.
"Be calm, madame," answered David. "I have, since my stay here, gone
through the country enough to be certain that the overflow will never
reach this house,--the level of the land is too high. You can set your
mind at rest."
"But the farmhouses in the valley," cried Frederick.
"The overflow has had time to reach the house of Jean Francois, the
farmer, a good, excellent man," cried Marie. "His wife, his children are
lost."
"Where is this farmhouse, madame?" asked David.
"More than a mile from here in the flats. You can see it from the edge
of the forest which overlooks the fields. Alas! you can see it if the
overflow has not swept it away."
"Come, madame, come," said David, "we must run to find out where it is."
In an instant, Frederick, his mother, and David followed by the gardner
and Marguerite arrived at the edge of the forest, a spot much higher
than the valley.
What a spectacle!
As far as the eye could reach in the north and the east, one saw only an
immense sheet of yellow, muddy water, cut at the horizon by a sky
overcast with dark clouds rapidly hurried along by a freezing wind. At
the west the forest of Pont Brillant was half submerged, while the tops
of a few poplars on the plain could be discerned here and there in the
middle of a motionless and limitless sea.
This devastation, slow and silent as the tomb, was even more terrible
than the brilliant ravages of a conflagration.
For a moment the spectators of this awful disaster stood still in mute
astonishment.
David, the first to recover from this unavailing grief, said to Madame
Bastien:
"Madame, I will return in a moment."
Some minutes after he ran back, bringing an excellent field-glass that
had served him in many a voyage.
"The fog on the water prevents my distinguishing objects at a great
distance, madame," said David to Marie. "In what direction is the
farmhouse you spoke of just now?"
"In the direction of those poplars down there on the left, M. David."
The preceptor directed his field-glass toward the point designated,
carefully observing the scene for some minutes, then he cried:
"Ah! the unfortunate creatures!"
"Heaven, they are lost!" said Marie, quickly.
"The water has reached half-way up the roof of the house," said David.
"They are on the roof clinging to the chimney. I see a man, a woman, and
three children."
"My God!" cried Marie with clasped hands, falling on her knees with her
eyes raised to heaven, "My God, help them, have pity on them!"
"And no means of saving them!" cried Frederick; "we can only groan over
such a disaster."
"Poor Jean Francois, a good man," said Andre".
"To see his three little children die with him," sobbed Marguerite.
David, calm, grave, and silent, as was his habit in the hour of danger,
struck his field-glass convulsively in the palm of his hand, and seemed
to be lost in thought; all eyes were turned to him. Suddenly his brow
cleared, and with that authority of accent and promptness of decision
which distinguish the man made to command, he said to Marie:
"Madame, permit me to give orders here, the moments are precious."
"They will obey you as they obey me, M. David."
"Andre," called the preceptor, "get the cart and horse at once."
"Yes, M. David."
"On the pond not far from the house, I have seen a little boat; is it
there still?"
"Yes, M. David."
"Is it light enough to be carried on the cart?"
"Certainly, M. David."
"Frederick and I will assist you in placing it there. Run and hitch up;
we will join you."
Andre hurried to the stable.
"Now, madame," said David to Marie, "please have prepared immediately
some bottles of wine and two or three coverings. We will carry them in
the boat; for these poor people, if we succeed in saving them, will be
dying of cold and want. Have some beds and a fire made ready, too, that
every care can be given to them when we arrive. Now, Frederick, we will
assist Andre, and go as quickly as possible to the pond."
While David hastily disappeared with Frederick, Madame Bastien and
Marguerite eagerly executed David's orders.
The horse, promptly hitched to the cart, took David and Frederick to the
pond.
"My friend," said the young man to his preceptor, his eyes glowing with
ardour and impatience, "we will save these unfortunate people, will we
not?"
"I hope so, my child, but the danger will be great; when we pass this
stagnant water, we will enter the current of the overflow, and it must
be as rapid as a torrent."
"Well, what matters danger, my friend?"
"We must know it to triumph over it, my child. Now, tell me," added
David, with emotion, "do you not think that, in thus generously exposing
your own life, you will more worthily expiate the dreadful deed you
wished to commit, than by seeking a fruitless death in suicide?"
A passionate embrace on the part of Frederick made David see that he was
understood.
The cart just at this moment crossed a highway in order to reach the
pond in time.
A gendarme, urging his horse to a galop, arrived at full speed.
"Is the overflow still rising?" cried David to the soldier, making a
sign to him with his hand to stop.
"The water is rising all the time, sir," replied the gendarme, panting
for breath; "the embankments are just broken. There is thirty feet of
water in the valley--the route to Pont Brillant is cut off--the only
boat that we had for salvage has just capsized with those who manned it.
All have perished, and I am hurrying to the castle for more men and
boats."
And the soldier plunged his rowels into the horse, which was covered
with foam, and galloped away.
"Oh!" cried Frederick, with enthusiasm, "we will arrive before the
people from the castle, will we not?"
"You see, my child, envy has some good in it," said David, who
penetrated the secret thought of Frederick.
The cart soon arrived at the pond. Andre, Frederick, and David easily
placed the little boat on the conveyance. At the same time David, with
that foresight which never forsook him, carefully examined the oars, and
the tholes which serve to keep the oars in place.
"Andre," said he to the gardener, "have you a knife?"
"Yes, M. David."
"Give it to me. Now, you, Frederick, return to the house with Andre;
hasten the speed of the horse as much as possible, for the water rises
every minute, and will swallow up the poor people below."
"But you, my friend?"
"I see here some young branches of oak; I am going to cut them so as to
repair the tholes of the boat; they are old, the green wood is stronger
and more pliant. Go, go, I will join you in haste."
The cart drove away; the old horse, vigorously belaboured with the
whip, and smelling the house, as they say, began to trot. David chose
the wood necessary for his work, soon joined the cart, which he followed
on foot, as did Frederick, not willing to overburden the horse. As they
walked, the preceptor gave the tholes a suitable shape; Frederick looked
at him with surprise.
"You think of everything," said he.
"My dear child, when on my travels over the great lakes of America, I
frequently saw terrible inundations. I have helped the Indians in
several salvages and I learned then that a little precaution often
spares one many perils. So I have prepared three sets of tholes, for it
is probable we may break some, and as the sailor's proverb says: 'A
broken thole, a dead oar.'"
"It is true that when an oar lacks a solid support, it becomes almost
useless."
"And what would become of us in the middle of the gulf with one oar? We
should be lost."
"That is true, my friend."
"Now we must prepare to row vigorously, for we shall encounter trees,
and steep banks in roads and other obstructions which may give a violent
jolt to our oars and perhaps break them. Have you no spare oars?"
"There is another one at the house."
"We will carry it with us, because, if we should lack an oar, the rescue
of these poor people would become impossible and our loss certain. You
row well, do you?"
"Yes, my friend, one of my greatest pleasures was to row mother across
the pond."
"You will be at home with the oars then; I will sound the water and
direct the boat by means of a boat-hook. I explain to you now my child,
every essential point, as I shall not have time to address a word to
you, when we are on the water. Do not let your oars drag. After each
stroke of the oar, lift them horizontally; they might become entangled
or break on some obstacle between wind and water, which renders
navigation so dangerous on these submerged lands."
"I will forget nothing, my friend; make yourself easy," replied
Frederick, to whom the coolness and experience of David gave unlimited
courage.
When the cart reached the house, David and Frederick met a great number
of peasants weeping bitterly, and driving before them all kinds of
animals. Some were walking by the side of wagons laden with furniture
piled pell-mell, kitchen utensils, mattresses, clothing, barrels, sacks
of grain, all snatched in haste from the devouring waves of the
overflow.
Some women carried nursing children, others had little boys and girls on
their backs, while the men were trying to guide the frightened beasts.
"Does the water continue to rise, my poor people?" asked David, without
stopping, and walking along by their side.
"Alas, monsieur, it is still rising; the bridge of Blemur has been
carried off by the waves," said one.
"There was already four feet of water in the village when we left it,"
said another.
"The great floats of wood in the basin of St. Pierre have been swept
into the current of the valley," said a third.
"They came down like a thunderbolt, struck two large boats manned with
sailors coming to aid the people, and capsized them."
"All those brave men were drowned," said another, "for the Loire at its
highest water is not half as rapid as the current of the overflow."
"And those unhappy people below!" said Frederick, impatiently. "Shall we
arrive in time? My God! Oh, if the men from the castle get there before
we do!"
The cart was at the farm; while they were putting provisions and
coverings in the little boat, David asked Andre for a hedging knife, and
went to select a long branch of the ash-tree, from which he cut about
ten feet, light, supple, and easily handled. An iron hook, which had
served as a pulley for a bucket, was solidly fastened to the end of this
improvised instrument, which would answer to tow the boat from apparent
obstacles, or to sustain it along the roof of the submerged house; the
long well-rope was also laid in the little boat, as well as two or three
light planks, solidly bound together, and capable of serving as a buoy
of salvage in a desperate case.
David occupied himself with these details, with thoughtful activity, and
a fruitfulness in expedients, which surprised Madame Bastien as much as
it did her son. When all was ready, David looked attentively at each
article, and said to Andre:
"Drive now as quick as possible to the shore; Frederick and I will join
you, and will help you in unloading the boat and setting it afloat."
The cart, moving along the edge of the forest where stood David,
Frederick, and his mother, took the direction of the submerged plain,
which could be seen at a great distance. The slope being quite steep,
the horse began to trot.
While the cart was on its way, David took the field-glass that he had
left on one of the rustic benches in the grove, and looked for the
farmhouse. The water was within two feet of the comb of the roof, where
the farmer's family had taken refuge.
David laid his field-glass on the bench, and said in a firm voice to
Frederick:
"My child, embrace your mother, and let us go; time presses."
Marie trembled in every limb, and turned deadly pale.
For a second there was in the soul of the young woman a terrible
struggle between duty, which urged her to allow Frederick to accomplish
a generous action at the risk of his life, and the voice of nature,
which urged her to prevent her son's braving the danger of death. This
struggle was so painful that Frederick, who had not taken his eyes from
his mother, saw her grow weak, frightened at the thought of losing the
son now so worthy of her love.
So Marie, holding Frederick in her arms to prevent his departure, cried,
with a heartrending voice:
"No, no, I cannot let him go!"
"Mother," said Frederick to her, in a low voice, "I once wished to kill,
and there are people there whom I can save from death."
Marie was heroic.
"Go, my child; we will go together," said she.
And she took a step which indicated her desire to go with the boat.
"Madame," cried David, divining her purpose, "this is impossible!"
"M. David, I will not abandon my son."
"Mother!"
"Where you go, Frederick, I will go."
"Madame," answered David, "the boat can only hold five persons. There is
a man, a woman, and three children to save; to accompany us in the boat
is to force us to leave to certain death the father, the mother, and the
children."
At these words, Madame Bastien said to her son, "Go then alone, my
child."
And the mother and son mingled their tears and their kisses in a last
embrace.
Frederick, as he left his mother's arms, saw David, in spite of his
firmness, weeping.
"Mother!" said Frederick, showing his friend to her. "Look at him."
"Save his body as you have saved his soul!" cried the young woman,
pressing David convulsively against her palpitating bosom. "Bring him
back to me or I shall die."
David was worthy of the chaste and sacred embrace of this young woman,
who saw her son about to brave death.
It was a weeping sister that he pressed to his heart.
Then, taking Frederick by the hand, he darted in the direction of the
cart; both gave a last look at Madame Bastien, whose strength was
exhausted, as she sank upon one of the rustic benches in the grove.
This attack of weakness past, Marie rose and stood, following her son
and David with her eyes as long as she could see them.