r little room, dressing while the church bell rang
merrily. And she continued to laugh her childish laugh, her eyes bright
and her face happy.

I, too, began to laugh, infected with her madness. Terror had destroyed
her mind; and it was a mercy, so charmed did she appear with the beauty
of the morning.

I let her hasten, not understanding, shaking my head tenderly. When she
considered herself ready to go, she sang one of her canticles in her
clear crystalline voice. But, interrupting herself, she cried, as if
responding to someone who had called her:

"I am coming, I am coming!"

She took up the canticle again, went down the roof, and entered the
water. It covered her softly, without a ripple. I had not ceased
smiling. I looked with happiness upon the spot where she had just
disappeared.

Then, I remembered nothing more. I was alone on the roof. The water had
risen. A chimney was standing, and I must have clung to it with all my
strength, like an animal that dreads death. Then, nothing, nothing, a
black pit, oblivion.

VI.

Why am I still here? They tell me that people from Saintin came toward
six o'clock, with boats, and that they found me lying on a chimney,
unconscious. The water was cruel not to have carried me away to be with
those who were dear to me.

All the others are gone! The babes in swaddling clothes, the girls to
be married, the young married couples, the old married couples. And I, I
live like a useless weed, coarse and dried, rooted in the rock. If I had
the courage, I would say like Pierre:

"I have had enough! Good night!" And I would throw myself into the
Garonne.

I have no child, my house is destroyed, my fields are devastated. Oh!
the evenings when we were all at table, and the gaiety surrounded me
and kept me young. Oh! the great days of harvest and vintage when we all
worked, and when we returned to the house proud of our wealth! Oh! the
handsome children and the fruitful vines, the beautiful girls and the
golden grain, the joy of my old age, the living recompense of my entire
life! Since all that is gone, why should I live?

There is no consolation. I do not want help. I will give my fields to
the village people who still have their children. They will find the
courage to clear the land of the flotsam and cultivate it anew. When one
has no children, a corner is large enough to die in.

I had one desire, one only desire. I wished to recover the bodies of my
family, to bury them b