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 cr y 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