I know not how long we remained in a stupor after that tragedy. When I
came to, the water had risen. It was now on a level with the tiles. The
roof was a narrow island, emerging from the immense sheet. To the right
and the left the houses must have crumbled.
“We are moving,” murmured Rose, who clung to the tiles.
And we all experienced the effect of rolling, as if the roof had become
detached and turned into a raft. The swift currents seemed to be
drifting us away. Then, when we looked at the church clock, immovable
opposite us, the dizziness ceased; we found ourselves in the same place
in the midst of the waves.
Then the water began an attack. Until then the stream had followed the
street; but the debris that encumbered it deflected the course. And
when a drifting object, a beam, came within reach of the current, it
seized it and directed it against the house like a battering-ram. Soon
ten, a dozen, beams were attacking us on all sides. The water roared.
Our feet were spattered with foam. We heard the dull moaning of the
house full of water. There were moments when the attacks became
frenzied, when the beams battered fiercely; and then we thought that
the end was near, that the walls would open and deliver us to the
river.
Gaspard had risked himself upon the edge of the roof. He had seized a
rafter and drawn it to him.
“We must defend ourselves,” he cried.
Jacques, on his side, had stopped a long pole in its passage. Pierre
helped him. I cursed my age that left me without strength, as feeble as
a child. But the defense was organized—a drill between three men and a
river. Gaspard, holding his beam in readiness, awaited the driftwood
that the current sent against us, and he stopped it a short distance
from the walls. At times the shock was so rude that he fell. Beside him
Jacques and Pierre manipulated the long pole. During nearly an hour
that unending fight continued. And the water retained its tranquil
obstinacy, invincible.
Then Jacques and Pierre succumbed, prostrated; while Gaspard, in a last
violent thrust, had his beam wrested from him by the current. The
combat was useless.
Marie and Veronique had thrown themselves into each other’s arms. They
repeated incessantly one phrase—a phrase of terror that I still hear
ringing in my ears:
“I don’t want to die! I don’t want to die!”
Rose put her arms about them. She tried to console them, to reassure
them. And she herself, trembling, raised her face and cried out, in
spite of herself:
“I don’t want to die!”
Aunt Agathe alone said nothing. She no longer prayed, no longer made
the sign of the cross. Bewildered, her eyes roamed about, and she tried
to smile when her glance met mine.
The water was beating against the tiles now. There was no hope of help.
We still heard the voices in the direction of the church; two lanterns
had passed in the distance; and the silence spread over the immense
yellow sheet. The people of Saintin, who owned boats, must have been
surprised before us.
Gaspard continued to wander over the Roof. Suddenly he called us.
“Look!” he said. “Help me—hold me tight!”
He had a pole and he was watching an enormous black object that was
gently drifting toward the house. It was the roof of a shed, made of
strong boards, and that was floating like a raft. When it was within
reach he stopped it with the pole, and, as he felt himself being
carried off, he called to us. We held him around the waist.
Then, as the mass entered the current, it returned against our roof so
violently that we were afraid of seeing it smashed into splinters.
Gaspard jumped upon it boldly. He went over it carefully, to assure
himself of its solidity. He laughed, saying joyously:
“Grandfather, we are saved! Don’t cry any more, you women. A real boat!
Look, my feet are dry. And it will easily carry all of us!”
Still, he thought it well to make it more solid. He caught some
floating beams and bound them to it with a rope that Pierre had brought
up for an emergency. Gaspard even fell into the water, but at our
screams he laughed. He knew the water well; he could swim three miles
in the Garonne at a stretch. Getting up again, he shook himself,
crying:
“Come, get on it! Don’t lose any time!”
The women were on their knees. Gaspard had to carry Veronique and Marie
to the middle of the raft, where he made them sit down.
Rose and Aunt Agathe slid down the tiles and placed themselves beside
the young girls. At this moment I looked toward the church. Aimee was
still in the same place. She was leaning now against a chimney, holding
her children up at arm’s length, for the water was to her waist.
“Don’t grieve, grandfather,” said Gaspard. “We will take her off on the
way.”
Pierre and Jacques were already on the raft, so I jumped on. Gaspard
was the last one aboard. He gave us poles that he had prepared and that
were to serve us as oars. He had a very long one that he used with
great skill. We let him do all the commanding. At an order from him, we
braced our poles against the tiles to put out into the stream. But it
seemed as if the raft was attached to the roof. In spite of all our
efforts, we could not budge it. At each new effort the current swung us
violently against the house. And it was a dangerous manoeuvre, for the
shock threatened to break up the planks composing the raft.
So once again we were made to feel our helplessness. We had thought
ourselves saved, and we were still at the mercy of the river. I even
regretted that the women were not on the roof; for, every minute, I
expected to see them precipitated into the boiling torrent. But when I
suggested regaining our refuge they all cried:
“No, no! Let us try again! Better die here!”
Gaspard no longer laughed. We renewed our efforts, bending to our poles
with redoubled energy. Pierre then had the idea to climb up on the roof
and draw us, by means of a rope, towards the left. He was thus able to
draw us out of the current. Then, when he again jumped upon the raft, a
few thrusts of our poles sent us out into the open. But Gaspard
recalled the promise he had made me to stop for our poor Aimee, whose
plaintive moans had never ceased. For that purpose it was necessary to
cross the street, where the terrible current existed. He consulted me
by a glance. I was completely upset. Never had such a combat raged
within me. We would have to expose eight lives. And yet I had not the
strength to resist the mournful appeal.
“Yes, yes,” I said to Gaspard. “We can not possibly go away without
her!”
He lowered his head without a word, and began using his pole against
all the walls left standing. We passed the neighboring house, but as
soon as we emerged into the street a cry escaped us. The current, which
had again seized us, carried us back against our house. We were whirled
round like a leaf, so rapidly that our cry was cut short by the
smashing of the raft against the tiles. There was a rending sound, the
planks were loosened and wrenched apart, and we were all thrown into
the water. I do not know what happened then. I remember that when I
sank I saw Aunt Agathe floating, sustained by her skirts, until she
went down backward, head first, without a struggle.
A sharp pain brought me to. Pierre was dragging me by the hair along
the tiles. I lay still, stupidly watching. Pierre had plunged in again.
And, in my confused state, I was surprised to see Gaspard at the spot
where my brother had disappeared. The young man had Veronique in his
arms. When he had placed her near me he again jumped in, bringing up
Marie, her face so waxy white that I thought her dead. Then he plunged
again. But this time he searched in vain. Pierre had joined him. They
talked and gave each other indications that I could not hear. As they
drew themselves up on the roof, I cried:
“And Aunt Agathe? And Jacques? And Rose?”
They shook their heads. Large tears coursed down their cheeks. They
explained to me that Jacques had struck his head against a beam and
that Rose had been carried down with her husband’s body, to which she
clung. Aunt Agathe had not reappeared.
Raising myself, I looked toward the roof, where Aimee stood. The water
was rising constantly. Aimee was now silent. I could see her
upstretched arms holding her children out of the water. Then they all
sank, the water closed over them beneath the drowsy light of the moon.