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.”