The Flood Read Free

Félicité’s Day, Monsieur Roubieu.’
    Giving me and Jacques a friendly tap – he could have floored a bull – he kissed Rose, calling her Mother. He might have been a bruiser, with thumping great fists, but he was so much in love with Véronique that he couldn’t eat nor drink. He admitted that he would have been ill if we had refused to let her marry him.
    ‘Now, let’s eat – you’ll stay for food, won’t you? I know I’m starving!’
    There were eleven of us at the table that evening. We sat Gaspard down next to Véronique. He was so overwhelmed that he didn’t even touch his plate, staring at her with tears in his eyes. Cyprien and Aimée smiled; they’d only been married for three years. Jacques and Rose looked more serious – they’d been together for a quarter of a century – but they still gave each other sly little looks full of love. I felt that I was living my life all over again in our two young lovers. Their happiness brought a corner of paradise to our table. We had a terrific meal that night. Aunt Agathe tried out some jokes – she always knew how to make you laugh – and Pierre, bless him, wanted us to know all about his fling with some young Lyonnaise. It was a good thing that we were having dessert, and that everyone talked over each other. I had two bottles of fortified wine fetched from the cellar; we drank to Gaspard and Véronique’s future happiness. In our home a toast went like this: ‘Don’t fight – have lots of children – and make lots ofmoney – good luck!’ Then we sang. Gaspard knew some love songs in patois. We asked Marie to sing us a hymn. She stood up; her delicate voice tickled your ears like a tin whistle.
    I had gone to stand at the window. Gaspard joined me. ‘Nothing new round your way?’
    ‘No,’ he said. ‘But they reckon all this rain we’ve been having could well mean trouble.’
    It had rained for nearly sixty hours without a break. The Garonne was very full from the day before. But we trusted her. That smooth broad expanse was so bountiful that, as long as she didn’t overflow, we couldn’t call her a bad neighbour. What’s more, if you’re from the country, you don’t leave your home on just any old whim – not even when the roof’s about to cave in.
    ‘Well,’ I shrugged. ‘It’ll amount to nothing. It’s the same every year. She rears up, raging, then she settles down overnight , meek as a lamb. You’ll see, lad; we’ll be laughing about it just like we always do. The weather’s fine, see!’
    It was seven o’clock; the sun was setting. The sky was so blue! It was like a velvety blue blanket, sprinkled with flecks of gold from the setting sun. I had never seen the village drift off into so sweet a sleep. The rosy tint faded from the rooftiles. I heard a neighbour laughing, then I heard some children at the nearby bend in the road; further away, there was the vague noise of distant herds trooping back to their stables. The Garonne rumbled on all the while, but I was so used to it that it sounded just like silence. The sky turned pale; the village drifted further into sleep. It was the kind of evening that you get after a fine day. All of our good fortune, I thought – our excellent crops, our happy home, Véronique’s engagement – was raining down on us from the heavens. We were being blessed.
    I went back to the table where the girls were busy gossiping . We were listening to them, smiling, when, in the peace and quiet of the countryside, we heard a sudden scream. It was a scream of distress – and death.
    ‘The Garonne! The Garonne!’

2
    We rushed to the yard.
    Saint-Jory lies at the bottom of a hill half a kilometre from the Garonne; tall poplars on the meadows hide the river from view.
    We saw nothing. Still the cry rang out:
    ‘The Garonne! The Garonne!’
    Suddenly two men and three women came running out onto the road in front of our house; one of the women had a child in her arms. They were the ones doing the