Why am I still here? They tell me that people from Saintin came toward
six o’clock, with boats, and that they found me lying on a chimney,
unconscious. The water was cruel not to have carried me away to be with
those who were dear to me.
All the others are gone! The babes in swaddling clothes, the girls to
be married, the young married couples, the old married couples. And I,
I live like a useless weed, coarse and dried, rooted in the rock. If I
had the courage, I would say like Pierre:
“I have had enough! Good night!” And I would throw myself into the
Garonne.
I have no child, my house is destroyed, my fields are devastated. Oh!
the evenings when we were all at table, and the gaiety surrounded me
and kept me young. Oh! the great days of harvest and vintage when we
all worked, and when we returned to the house proud of our wealth! Oh!
the handsome children and the fruitful vines, the beautiful girls and
the golden grain, the joy of my old age, the living recompense of my
entire life! Since all that is gone, why should I live?
There is no consolation. I do not want help. I will give my fields to
the village people who still have their children. They will find the
courage to clear the land of the flotsam and cultivate it anew. When
one has no children, a corner is large enough to die in.
I had one desire, one only desire. I wished to recover the bodies of my
family, to bury them beneath a slab, where I should soon rejoin them.
It was said that, at Toulouse, a large number of bodies carried down
the stream, had been taken from the water. I decided to make the trip.
What a terrible disaster! Nearly two thousand houses in ruins; seven
hundred deaths; all the bridges carried away; a whole district razed,
buried in the mud; atrocious tragedies; twenty thousand half-clad
wretches starving to death; the city in a pestilential condition;
mourning everywhere; the streets filled with funeral processions;
financial aid powerless to heal the wounds! But I walked through it all
without seeing anything. I had my ruins, I had my dead, to crush me.
I was told that many of the bodies had been buried in trenches in a
corner of the cemetery. Only, they had had the forethought to
photograph the unidentified. And it was among these lamentable
photographs that I found Gaspard and Veronique. They had been clasped
passionately in each other’s arms, exchanging in death their bridal
kiss. It had been necessary to break their arms in order to separate
them. But, first, they had been photographed together; and they sleep
together beneath the sod.
I have nothing but them, the image of those two handsome children;
bloated by the water, disfigured, retaining upon their livid faces the
heroism of their love. I look at them, and I weep.