THE FLOOD. Emile Zola

purity, in which the rays of the setting sun were like a golden dust. Never had I seen the village drowsing in so sweet a peace. Upon the tiled roofs a rosy tint was fading. I heard a neighbor’s laugh, then the voices of children at the turn in the road in front of our place. Farther away and softened by the distance, rose the sounds of flocks entering their sheds. The great voice of the Garonne roared continually; but it was to me as the voice of the silence, so accustomed to it was I.

      Little by little the sky paled; the village became more drowsy. It was the evening of a beautiful day; and I thought that all our good fortune — the big harvests, the happy house, the betrothal of Veronique — came to us from above in the purity of the dying light. A benediction spread over us with the farewell of the evening.

      Meanwhile I had returned to the center of the room. The girls were chattering. We listened to them, smiling. Suddenly, across the serenity of the country, a terrible cry sounded, a cry of distress and death:

      “The Garonne! The Garonne!”