“Is there no news up your way?” I asked him.
“No,” he answered. “There is considerable talk about the heavy rains of
the last few days. Some seem to think that they will cause trouble.”
In effect, it had rained for sixty hours without stopping. The Garonne
was very much swollen since the preceding day, but we had confidence in
it, and, as long as it did not overflow its banks, we could not look on
it as a bad neighbor.
“Bah!” I exclaimed, shrugging my shoulders. “Nothing will happen. It is
the same every year. The river puts up her back as if she were furious,
and she calms down in a night. You will see, my boy, that it will
amount to nothing this time. See how beautiful the weather is!”
And I pointed to the sky. It 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!”