"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."

"No, no; come up! After a while we'll see to them."

The rescue of the animals would be impossible, if the disaster was to attain
greater proportions. I thought it unnecessary to frighten the family. So I
forced myself to appear hopeful. Leaning on the windowsill, I indicated the
progress of the flood. The river, after its attack on the village, was in
possession even to the narrowest streets. It was no longer a galloping
charge, but a slow and invincible strangulation. The hollow in the bottom
of which Saint-Jory is built was changed into a lake. In our yard the water
was soon three feet deep. But I asserted that it remained stationary--I even
went so far as to pretend that it was going down.

"Well, you will be obliged to sleep here to-night, my boy," I said, turning
to Gaspard. "That is, unless the roads are free in a couple of hours--which
is quite possible."

He looked at me without answering, his face quite pale; and I saw him look
at Veronique with an expression of anguish.

It was half-past eight o'clock. It was still daylight--a pale, sad light
beneath the blanched sky. The servants had had the forethought to bring up
two lamps with them. I had them lighted, thinking that they would brighten
up the somber room. Aunt Agathe, who had rolled a table to the middle of the
room, wished to organize a card party. The worthy woman, whose eyes sought