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 Garonne 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 Veronique--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 Garonne! The Garonne!"

II.

We rushed out into the yard.

Saint-Jory is situated at the bottom of a
slope at about five hundred yards from the Garonne. Screens of tall poplars
that divide the meadows, hide the river completely.