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.”