carried down with her husband's body, to which she clung. Aunt Agathe had not
reappeared.

Raising myself, I looked toward the roof, where Aimee stood. The water was
rising constantly. Aimee 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.

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.