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 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 sank, so sweet and calm, in
the midst of the evening’s serenity.
The water was still rising. Pierre, who was watching it, cried:
“Louis, we must look out! The water is up to the window!”
That warning snatched us from our spell of despair. I was once more
myself. Shrugging my shoulders, I said:
“Money is nothing. As long as we are all saved, there need be no
regrets. We shall have to work again—that is all!”
“Yes, yes; you are right, father,” said Jacques, feverishly. “And we
run no danger—the walls are good and strong. We must get up on the
roof.”
That was the only refuge left us. The water, which had mounted the
stairs step by step, was already coming through the door. We rushed to
the attic in a group, holding close to each other. Cyprien had
disappeared. I called him, and I saw him return from the next room, his
face working with emotion. Then, as I remarked the absence of the
servants, for whom I was waiting, he gave me a strange look, then said,
in a suppressed voice:
“Dead! The corner of the shed under their room caved in.”
The poor girls must have gone to fetch their savings from their trunks.
I told him to say nothing about it. A cold shiver had passed over me.
It was Death entering the house.
When we went up, in our turn, we did not even think of putting out the
lights. The cards remained spread upon the table. There was already a
foot of water in the room.