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