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Updated: May 27, 2025
My name is Louis Roubien. I am seventy years old. I was born in the village of Saint-Jory, several miles up the Garonne from Toulouse. For fourteen years I battled with the earth for my daily bread. At last, prosperity smiled on we, and last month I was still the richest farmer in the parish. Our house seemed blessed, happiness reigned there.
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.
Suddenly, across the serenity of the country, a terrible cry sounded, a cry of distress and death: "The Garonne! The Garonne!" We rushed out into the yard. Saint-Jory 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 cry rang out: "The Garonne!
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