“Where are the servants?”
I turned away, unable to lie. I felt that chill that had already
brushed me pass over our women and our dear girls. They had understood.
Marie burst into tears. Aimee wrapped her two children in her skirt, as
if to protect them. Veronique, her face in her hands, did not move.
Aunt Agathe, very pale, made the sign of the cross, and mumbled
_Paters_ and _Aves_.
Meanwhile the spectacle about us became of sovereign grandeur. The
night retained the clearness of a summer night. There was no moon, but
the sky was sprinkled with stars, and was of so pure a blue that it
seemed to fill space with a blue light. And the immense sheet of water
expanded beneath the softness of the sky. We could no longer see any
land.
“The water is rising; the water is rising!” repeated my brother Pierre,
still crunching the stem of his pipe between his teeth.
The water was within a yard of the roof. It was losing its tranquility;
currents were being formed. In less than an hour the water became
threatening, dashing against the house, bearing drifting barrels,
pieces of wood, clumps of weeds. In the distance there were attacks
upon walls, and we could hear the resounding shocks. Poplar trees fell,
houses crumbled, like a cartload of stones emptied by the roadside.
Jacques, unnerved by the sobs of the women, cried:
“We can’t stay here. We must try something. Father, I beg of you, try
to do something.”