The Flood: Chapter 2

Chapter 2

II.

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.

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