The Flood: Chapter 5

Chapter 5

V.

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.

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