There were only five of us on the roof now. The water left us but a
narrow band along the ridge. One of the chimneys had just been carried
away. We had to raise Marie and Veronique, who were still unconscious,
and support them almost in a standing position to prevent the waves
washing over their legs. At last, their senses returned, and our
anguish increased upon seeing them wet, shivering and crying miserably
that they did not wish to die.
The end had come. The destroyed village was marked by a few vestiges of
walls. Alone, the church reared its steeple intact, from whence came
the voices—a murmur of human beings in a refuge. There were no longer
any sounds of falling houses, like a cart of stones suddenly
discharged. It was as if we were abandoned, shipwrecked, a thousand
miles from land.
One moment we thought we heard the dip of oars. Ah! what hopeful music!
How we all strained our eyes into space! We held our breath. But we
could see nothing. The yellow sheet stretched away, spotted with black
shadows. But none of those shadows—tops of trees, remnants of
walls—moved. Driftwood, weeds, empty barrels caused us false joy. We
waved our handkerchiefs until, realizing our error, we again succumbed
to our anxiety.
“Ah, I see it!” cried Gaspard, suddenly. “Look over there. A large
boat!”
And he pointed out a distant speck. I could see nothing, neither could
Pierre. But Gaspard insisted it was a boat. The sound of oars became
distinct. At last, we saw it. It was proceeding slowly and seemed to be
circling about us without approaching. I remember that we were like
mad. We raised our arms in our fury; we shouted with all our might. And
we insulted the boat, called it cowardly. But, dark and silent, it
glided away slowly. Was it really a boat? I do not know to this day.
When it disappeared it carried our last hope.
We were expecting every second to be engulfed with the house. It was
undermined and was probably supported by one solid wall, which, in
giving way, would pull everything with it. But what terrified me most
was to feel the roof sway under our feet. The house would perhaps hold
out overnight, but the tiles were sinking in, beaten and pierced by
beams. We had taken refuge on the left side on some solid rafters. Then
these rafters seemed to weaken. Certainly they would sink if all five
of us remained in so small a space.
For some minutes my brother Pierre had been twisting his soldierly
mustache, frowning and muttering to himself. The growing danger that
surrounded him and against which his courage availed nothing, was
wearing out his endurance. He spat two or three times into the water,
with an expression of contemptuous anger. Then, as we sank lower, he
made up his mind; he started down the roof.
“Pierre! Pierre!” I cried, fearing to comprehend.
He turned and said quietly:
“Adieu, Louis! You see, it is too long for me. And it will leave more
room for you.”
And, first throwing in his pipe, he plunged, adding:
“Good night! I have had enough!”
He did not come up. He was not a strong swimmer, and he probably
abandoned himself, heart-broken at the death of our dear ones and at
our ruin.
Two o’clock sounded from the steeple of the church. The night would
soon end—that horrible night already so filled with agony and tears.
Little by little, beneath our feet, the small dry space grew smaller.
The current had changed again. The drift, passed to the right of the
village, floating slowly, as if the water, nearing its highest level,
was reposing, tired and lazy.
Gaspard suddenly took off his shoes and his shirt. I watched him for a
moment as he wrung his hands. When I questioned him he said:
“Listen, grandfather; it is killing me to wait. I cannot stay here. Let
me do as I wish. I will save her.”
He was speaking of Veronique. I opposed him. He would never have the
strength to carry the young girl to the church. But he was obstinate.
“Yes, I can! My arms are strong. I feel myself able. You will see. I
love her—I will save her!”
I was silent. I drew Marie to my breast. Then he thought I was
reproaching the selfishness of his love. He stammered:
“I will return and get Marie. I swear it. I will find a boat and
organize a rescue party. Have confidence in me, grandfather!”
Rapidly, he explained to Veronique that she must not struggle, that she
must submit without a movement, and that she must not be afraid. The
young girl answered “yes” to everything, with a distracted look. Then,
after making the sign of the cross, he slid down the roof, holding
Veronique by a rope that he had looped under her arms. She gave a
scream, beat the water with arms and legs, and, suffocated, she
fainted.
“I like this better!” Gaspard called to me. “Now, I can answer for
her!”
It can be imagined with what agony I followed them with my eyes. On the
white surface, I could see Gaspard’s slightest movement. He held the
young girl by means of the rope that he coiled around his neck; and he
carried her thus, half thrown over his right shoulder. The crushing
weight bore him under at times. But he advanced, swimming with
superhuman strength. I was no longer in doubt. He had traversed a third
of the distance when he struck against something submerged. The shock
was terrible. Both disappeared. Then I saw him reappear alone. The rope
must have snapped. He plunged twice. At last, he came up with
Veronique, whom he again took on his back. But without the rope to hold
her, she weighed him down more than ever. Still, he advanced. A tremor
shook me as I saw them approaching the church. Suddenly, I saw some
beams bearing down upon them. A second shock separated them and the
waters closed over them.
From this moment, I was stupefied. I had but the instinct of the animal
looking out for its own safety. When the water advanced, I retreated.
In that stupor, I heard someone laughing, without explaining to myself
who it was. The dawn appeared, a great white daybreak. It was very
fresh and very calm, as on the bank of a pond, the surface of which
awakens before sunrise. But the laughter sounded continually.
Turning, I saw Marie, standing in her wet clothes. It was she who was
laughing.
Ah! the poor, dear child! How sweet and pretty she was at that early
hour! I saw her stoop, take up some water in the hollow of her hand,
and wash her face. Then she coiled her beautiful blonde hair.
Doubtless, she imagined she was in her little room, dressing while the
church bell rang merrily. And she continued to laugh her childish
laugh, her eyes bright and her face happy.
I, too, began to laugh, infected with her madness. Terror had destroyed
her mind; and it was a mercy, so charmed did she appear with the beauty
of the morning.
I let her hasten, not understanding, shaking my head tenderly. When she
considered herself ready to go, she sang one of her canticles in her
clear crystalline voice. But, interrupting herself, she cried, as if
responding to someone who had called her:
“I am coming, I am coming!”
She took up the canticle again, went down the roof, and entered the
water. It covered her softly, without a ripple. I had not ceased
smiling. I looked with happiness upon the spot where she had just
disappeared.
Then, I remembered nothing more. I was alone on the roof. The water had
risen. A chimney was standing, and I must have clung to it with all my
strength, like an animal that dreads death. Then, nothing, nothing, a
black pit, oblivion.