“It is disastrous for the crops, just the same,” murmured Cyprien. “No, it will not be anything,” I said, seeing the large questioning eyes of our girls. Aimee had put her two children into the bed. She sat beside them, with Veronique and Marie. Aunt Agathe spoke of heating some wine she had brought up, to give us courage. Jacques and Rose were looking out of a window. I was at the other, with my brother Pierre, Cyprien and Gaspard. “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 mine momentarily, thought above all of diverting the children. Her good humor kept up a superb bravery; and she laughed to combat the terror that she felt growing around her. She forcibly placed Aimee, Veronique, and Marie at the table. She put the cards into their hands, took a hand herself with an air of intense interest, shuffling, cutting, dealing with such a flow of talk that she almost drowned the noise of the water. But our girls could not be diverted; they were pale, with feverish hands, and ears on the alert. Every few moments there was a pause in the play. One of them would turn to me, asking in a low voice: “Grandpa, is it still rising?” “No, no. Go on with the game. There is no danger.”