 1. My name is Louis Rubien, I am seventy years old. I was born in the village of Saint-Jaurie several miles up the Garonne from Toulouse. For fourteen years I battled with the earth for my daily bread. At last prosperity smiled on me, and last month I was still the richest farmer in the parish. Our house seemed blessed, happiness reigned there, the sun was our brother, and I cannot recall a bad crop. We were almost a dozen on the farm, there was myself, still Hale and Hardy, leading the children to work. Then my young brother Pierre, an old bachelor and retired sergeant. Then my sister Agat, who came to us after the death of her husband. She was a commanding woman, enormous and gay, whose laugh could be heard at the other end of the village. Then came all the brood. My son Jacques, his wife Rosie and their three daughters, Emma, Veronique and Marie. The first name was married to Cypric Abouisson, a big jolly fellow by whom she had two children, one two years old and the other ten months. Veronique was just betrothed, and was soon to marry Gasper Rabouteau. The third Marie was a real young lady, so white, so fair, that she looked as if born in the city. That made ten, counting everybody. I was a grandfather, and a great grandfather. When we were at table I had my sister Agat at my right and my brother Pierre on my left. The children formed a circle seated according to age, with the heads diminishing down to the baby of ten months, who already ate his soup like a man. And let me tell you that the spoons and the plates made a clatter. The brood had hearty appetites. And what gaiety between the mouthfuls! I was filled with pride and joy when the little ones held out their hands toward me crying, Grandpa, give us some bread, a big piece, Grandpa! Oh, the good days! Our farm sang from every corner. In the evening Pierre invented games and related stories of his regiment. On Sunday Agat made cakes for the girls. Marie knew some canticles which she sang like a chorister. She looked like a saint, with her blonde hair falling on her neck and her hands folded on her apron. I had built another story on the house when Emma had married Cyprien, and I said laughingly that I would have to build another after the wedding of Eronique and Gaspar. We never cared to leave each other. We would sooner have built a city behind the farm in our enclosure. When families are united it is so good to live and die where one has grown up. The month of May had been magnificent that year. It was long since the crops gave such good promise. That day precisely I had made a tour of inspection with my son Jacques. We started at about three o'clock. Our meadows on the banks of the Garand were of a tender green. The grass was three feet high, and an osier thicket planted the year before had sprouts a yard high. From there we went to visit our wheat and our vines. Fields bought one by one as fortune came to us. The wheat was growing strong. The vines in full flower promised a superb vintage. And Jacques laughed his good laugh as he slapped me on the shoulder. Well, Father, we shall never want for bread nor for wine. You must be a friend of the divine power to have silver showered upon your land in this way. We often joked among ourselves of our past poverty. Jacques was right. I must have gained the friendship of some saint or of God himself, for all the luck in the country was for us. When it hailed, the hail ceased on the border of our fields. If the vines of our neighbors fell sick, ours seemed to have a wall of protection around them, and in the end I grew to consider it only just. Never doing harm to any one, I thought that happiness was my due. As we approached the house, Rose gesticulated, calling out, Hurry up! One of our cows had just had a calf, and everybody was excited. The birth of that little beast seemed one more blessing. We had been obliged recently to enlarge the stables, where we had nearly one hundred head of animals, cows and sheep, without counting the horses. Well, a good day's work, I cried. We will drink tonight a bottle of ripened wine. Meanwhile, Rose took us aside, and told us that Gaspar, Veronique's betrothed, had come to arrange the day for the wedding. She had invited him to remain for dinner. Gaspar, the oldest son of a farmer of morange, was a big boy of twenty years, known throughout the country for his prodigious strength. During a festival at Toulouse, he had vanquished Martial, the lion of the midi. With that a nice boy with a heart of gold. He was even timid, and he blushed when Veronique looked him squarely in the face. I told Rose to call him. He was at the bottom of the yard, helping our servants to spread out the freshly washed linen. When he entered the dining-room where we were, Jacques turned toward me, saying, You speak, father. Well, I said, You have come, my boy, to have us set the great day. Yes, that is it, Father Rubien, he answered, very red. You mustn't blush, my boy, I continued. It will be if you wish on Saint Felicité Day, the tenth of July. This is the twenty-third of June, so you will have only twenty days to wait. My poor dead wife was called Felicité, and that will bring you happiness. Well, is it understood? Yes, that will do, Saint Felicité Day, Father Rubien. And he gave each of us a grip that made us wince. Then he embraced Rose, calling her mother. This big boy with the terrific fists loved Veronique to the point of losing his appetite. Now, I continued, you must remain for dinner. Well, everybody to the table. I have a thundering appetite, I have. That evening we were eleven at table. Gaspar was placed next to Veronique, and he sat looking at her, forgetting his plate, so moved at the thought of her belonging to him that at times the tears sprang to his eyes. Cyprien and Emé married only three years, smiled. Jacques and Rose, who had had twenty-five years of married life were more serious, but surreptitiously they exchanged tender glances. As for me, I seemed to relive, in those two sweet hearts whose happiness seemed to bring a corner of paradise to our table. What good soup we had that evening! Aunt Agat, always ready with a witticism, risked several jokes. Then that honest Pierre wanted to relate his love affair with the young lady of Lyon. Fortunately we were at the dessert, and everyone was talking at once. I had brought two bottles of mellowed wine from the cellar. We drank to the good fortune of Gaspar and Veronique. Then we had singing. We all knew some love songs and dialect. We also asked Marie for a canticle. She stood up and sang in a flute-like voice that tickled one's ears. I went to the window, and Gaspar joined me there. Is there no news up your way? I asked him. No, he answered. There is considerable talk about the heavy rains of the last few days. Some seem to think that they will cause trouble. In effect it had rained for sixty hours without stopping. The Garonne was very much swollen since the preceding day, but we had confidence in it, and as long as it did not overflow its banks we could not look on it as a bad neighbor. Bah! I exclaimed, shrugging my shoulders. Nothing will happen. It is the same every year. The river puts up her back as if she were furious, and she calms down in a night. You will see, my boy, that it will amount to nothing this time. See how beautiful the weather is! And I pointed to the sky. It was seven o'clock. The sun was setting. The sky was blue, an immense blue sheet of profound purity in which the rays of the setting sun were like a golden dust. Never had I seen the village drowsing in so sweet a peace. Upon the tiled roofs a rosy tint was fading. I heard a neighbor's laugh, then the voices of children at the turn in the road in front of our place. Farther away and softened by the distance rose the sounds of flocks entering their sheds. The great voice of the Geron roared continually, but it was to me as the voice of the silence so accustomed to it was I. Little by little the sky paled. The village became more drowsy. It was the evening of a beautiful day, and I thought that all our good fortune, the big harvests, the happy house, the betrothal of Eronique, came to us from above in the purity of the dying light. A benediction spread over us with the farewell of the evening. Meanwhile I had returned to the center of the room. The girls were chattering. We listened to them smiling. Suddenly across the serenity of the country a terrible cry sounded, a cry of distress and death. The Geron! The Geron! Two. We rushed out into the yard. Saint-Geret is situated at the bottom of a slope at about five hundred yards from the Geron. Screens of tall poplars that divide the meadows hide the river completely. We could see nothing, and still the cry rang out. The Geron! The Geron! 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 grey 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 Geron! The Geron! 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 fell 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 everyone. This will not amount to anything. You remember, Father, in fifty-five 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 Cypria. No, it will not be anything, I said, seeing the large questioning eyes of our girls. Emmae had put her two children into the bed. She sat beside them, with Veronique and Marie. Aunt Agat 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, Cypria, and Gaspar. Come up, I cried to our two servants who were waiting 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 window-sill, 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-Joré 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 tonight, my boy, I said, turning to Gaspar. It 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 Véronique 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 Argot, 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 Emé, Véronique, 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.'" River 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 Emma, 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 naings 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 and the eddies. The cows and the horses struggled, tried to walk, and lost their footing. Our big grey horse fought long for life. He stretched his neck. He reared, snorting like a forge, but the enraged waters took him by the cropper, 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 born away. We lamented, giving vent to the tears and the sobs that we had suppressed. Ah! What ruin! The harvest 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's all.' "'Yes, yes, your 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 them 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. Three. Fortunately the roof was vast and sloped gently. We reached it through a lid-like window, above which was a sort of platform. It was there that we took refuge. The women seated themselves. The men went over the tiles to reconnoitre. From my post against the dormer window through which we had climbed I examined the four points of the horizon. "'Help cannot fail to arrive,' I said bravely. "'The people of Saint-Town have boats. They will come this way. Look over there. Isn't that a lantern on the water?' But no one answered me. Pierre had lighted his pipe, and he was smoking so furiously that at each puff he spit out pieces of the stem. Jacques and Cipriain looked into the distance with drawn faces, while Gaspal, clenching his fists, continued to walk about seeking an issue. At our feet the women, silent and shivering, hid their faces to shut out the sight. Yet Rose raised her head, glanced about her and demanded, "'And the servants? Where are they? Why, aren't they here?' I avoided answering. She then questioned me, her eyes on mine. Where are the servants?' I turned away, unable to lie. I felt that chill that had already rushed me pass over our women and our dear girls. They had understood. Marie burst into tears. Emmae wrapped her two children in her skirt, as if to protect them. Veronique, her face and her hands did not move. Aunt Agat, very pale, made the sign of the cross and mumbled potters and avais. Meanwhile the spectacle about us became of sovereign grandeur. The night retained the clearness of a summer night. There was no moon, but the sky was sprinkled with stars and was of so pure a blue that it seemed to fill space with a blue light, and the immense sheet of water expanded beneath the softness of the sky. We could no longer see any land. The water is rising. The water is rising, repeated my brother Pierre, still crunching the stem of his pipe between his teeth. The water was within a yard of the roof. It was losing its tranquility. Currents were being formed. In less than an hour the water became threatening, dashing against the house, bearing drifting barrels, pieces of wood, clumps of weeds. In the distance there were attacks upon walls, and we could hear the resounding shocks. Poplar trees fell. Houses crumbled like a cartload of stones emptied by the roadside. Jacques, unnerved by the sobs of the women, cried, We can't stay here. We must try something, Father. I beg of you, try to do something. I stammered after him. Yes, yes, let us try to do something. And we knew of nothing. Gaspar offered to take Veronique on his back and swim with her to a place of safety. Pierre suggested a raft. Cyprien finally said, If we could only reach the church. Above the waters the church remained standing with its little square steeple. We were separated from it by seven houses. Our farmhouse, the first of the village, adjoined a higher building, which in turn leaned against the next. Perhaps by way of the roofs we would be able to reach the parsonage. A number of people must have taken refuge there already, for the neighboring roofs were vacant, and we could hear voices that surely came from the steeple. But what dangers must be run to reach them? It is impossible, said Pierre. The house of the rambos is too high, we would need ladders. I am going to try it, said Cyprien. I will return it the way is impracticable, otherwise we will all go and we will have to carry the girls. I let him go. He was right. We had to try the impossible. He had succeeded by the aid of an iron hook fixed in a chimney in climbing to the next house, when his wife Emmae raising her head noticed that he was no longer with us. She screamed, Where is he? I don't want him to leave me. We are together. We shall die together. When she saw him on top of the house she ran over the tiles still holding her children, and she called out, Cyprien, it for me. I am going with you. I am going to die with you. She persisted. He leaned over, pleading with her, promising to come back, telling her that he was going for the rescue of all of us. But with a wild air she shook her head, repeating, I am going with you. I am going with you. He had to take the children. Then he held her up. We could follow them along the crest of the house. They walked slowly. She had taken the children again, and at every step he turned and supported her. Get her to a safe place and return! I shouted. I saw him wave his hand, but the roaring of the water prevented my hearing his answer. Soon we could not see them. They had descended to the roof of the next house. At the end of five minutes they appeared upon the third roof, which must have been very steep, for they went on hands and knees along the summit. A sudden terror seized me. I put my hands to my mouth and shouted, Come back! Come back! Then all of us shouted together. Our voices stopped them for a moment, but they continued on their way. They reached the angle formed by the street upon which faced the Rambo House, a high structure, with a roof at least 10 feet above those of the neighboring houses. For a moment they hesitated. Then Cyprien climbed up a chimney pipe with the agility of a cat. Emma, who must have consented to wait for him, stood on the tiles. We saw her plainly, black and enlarged against the pale sky, straining her children to her bosom. And it was then that the horrifying trouble began. The Rambo House, originally intended for a factory, was very flimsily built. Besides, the facade was exposed to the current in the street. I thought I could see it tremble from the attacks of the water, and with a contraction of the throat, I watched Cyprien cross the roof. Suddenly a rumbling was heard. The moon rose, a round moon whose yellow face lighted up the immense lake. Not a detail of the catastrophe was lost to us. The Rambo House collapsed. We gave a cry of terror as we saw Cyprien disappear. As the house crumbled, we could distinguish nothing but tempest, a swirling of waves beneath the debris of the roof. Then, calm was restored. The surface became smooth, and out of the black hole of the engulfed house projected the skeleton of its framework. There was a mass of entangled beams, and amongst them I seemed to see a body moving, something living making superhuman efforts. He lives, I cried. Oh, God, be praised. He lives! We laughed nervously. We clapped our hands, as if saved ourselves. He's going to raise himself up, said Pierre. Yes, yes, said Gaspar. He is trying to seize the beam on his left. But our laugh ceased. We had just realized the terrible situation in which Cyprien was placed. During the fall of the house his feet had been caught between two beams, and he hung head downward within a few inches of the water. On the roof of the next house Emmae was still standing, holding her two children. A convulsive tremor shook her. She did not take her eyes from her husband a few yards below her, and mad with horror she emitted without cessation a lamentable sound like the howling of a dog. We can't let him die like that, said Jacques, distracted. We must get down there. Perhaps we could slide down the beams and save him, remarked Pierre. And they started toward the neighboring roof when the second house collapsed, leaving a gap in the root. Then a chill seized us. We mechanically grasped each other's hands, ringing them cruelly as we watched the harrowing sight. Cyprien had tried at first to stiffen his body. With extraordinary strength he had lifted himself above the water, holding his body in an oblique position. But the strain was too great. Nevertheless he struggled, tried to reach some of the beams, felt around him for something to hold to, then, resigning himself, he fell back again, hanging limp. Death was slow in coming. The water barely covered his hair, and it rose very gradually. He must have felt its coolness on his brain. A wave wet his brow. Others closed his eyes. Slowly we saw his head disappear. The women at our feet had buried their faces in their clasped hands. We ourselves fell to our knees, our arms outstretched, weeping, stammering supplications. On the other roof Emmae still standing, her children clasped to her bosom, howled mournfully into the night. END OF SECTION I 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 the end was near that the walls would open and deliver us to the river. Gaspar had wrist 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. Gaspar 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 Gaspar, in a last violent thrust, had his beam rested 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 voice, and cried out in spite of herself, I don't want to die! Aunt Agat 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 Saint-Den who owned boats must have been surprised before us. Gaspar 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. Gaspar 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. Gaspar 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. Gaspar had to carry Veronique and Marie to the middle of the raft where he made them sit down. Rose and Antigote slid down the tiles and placed themselves beside the young girls. At this moment I looked toward the church. Emmae 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, grandfathers, said Gaspar. We will take her off on the way. Pierre and Jacques were already on the raft, so I jumped on. Gaspar was the last one aboard. He gave us poles that he had prepared and that were to serve us his oars. He had a very long one that he used with great skill. We let him do all the commanding. And in 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 maneuver 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! Gaspar 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 Gaspar recalled the promise he had made me to stop for our poor Emmae 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 Gaspar, we cannot 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 world-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 Agat floating sustained by her skirts until she went down backward, head first, without a struggle. A sharp pain brought me too. 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 Gaspar 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 Agat 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. And Aunt Agat had not reappeared. Raising myself I looked toward the roof where Emma stood. The water was rising constantly. Emma 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. Five. 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 Malie and Valonique, 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 stone 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! Now we all strained our eyes into space. We held our breath, but we could see nothing. The yellow sheets 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 Gaspal, suddenly. Look over there, a large boat! And he pointed out a distant speck. I could see nothing, neither could Pierre. But Gaspal 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. Then, 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, heartbroken 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. Gaspar suddenly took off his shoes in his shirt. I watched him for a moment as he rung 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, Gaspar 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 Gaspar'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 water 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 that she appeared 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 seen 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. Why am I still here? They tell me that people from Santan 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 garon. 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 2,000 houses and ruins, 700 deaths. All the bridges carried away. A whole district raised, buried in the mud. Atrocious tragedies. 20,000 half-clad wretches starving to death. The city in a pestilential condition. Morning 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 the forethought to photograph the unidentified. And it was among these lamentable photographs that I found Gaspar 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. End of Section 2, End of the Flood by Emile Zola