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Saint-Jory -- our home -- 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. We could see nothing. And still the cry rang out: "The Garonne! The Garonne!" Suddenly, on the wide road before us, appeared two men and three women, one of them holding a child in her arms. It was they who were crying out, distracted, running with long strides. They turned at times, looking behind with terrified faces, as if a band of wolves was pursuing them. "What's the matter with them?" demanded Cyprien. It was the river -- it was The Flood.
