nd, as it so happens, what has yet to be recorded before coming to the culmination, during the period when theA plague was gathering all its forces to ing them at the town and lay it waste, is the long, heartrendingly monotonous struggle put up by some obstinate people like Rambert to recover their lost happiness and to balk the plague of that part of themselves which they were ready to defend in the last ditch. This was their way of resisting the bondage closing in upon them, and while their resistance lacked the active virtues of the other, it had (to the narrator’s thinking) its point, and moreover it bore witness, even in its futility and incoherences, to a salutary pride.
Rambert fought to prevent the plague from besting him. Once assured that there was no way of getting out of the town by lawful methods, he decided, as he told Rieux, to have recourse to others.
He began by sounding café waiters. A waiter usually knows much of what’s going on behind the scenes. But the rst he spoke to knew only of the very heavy penalties imposed on such attempts at evasion. In one of the cafés he visited he was actually taken for a stoolpigeon and curtly sent about his business. It was not until he happened to meet Cottard at Rieux’s place that he made a little headway. On that day he and Rieux had been talking again about his unsuccessful eorts to interest the authorities in his case, and Cottard heard the tail end of the conversation.
Some days later Cottard met him in the street and greeted him with the hail-fellow-well-met manner that he now used on all
occasions.
“Hello, Rambert! Still no luck!”
“None whatever.”
“It’s no good counting on the red-tape merchants. They couldn’t understand if they tried.”
“I know that, and I’m trying to nd some other way. But it’s damned dicult.”
“Yes,” Cottard replied. “It certainly is.”
He, however, knew a way to go about it, and he explained to Rambert, who was much surprised to learn this, that for some time past he had been going the rounds of the cafés, had made a number of acquaintances, and had learned of the existence of an “organization” handling this sort of business. The truth was that Cottard, who had been beginning to live above his means, was now involved in smuggling ventures concerned with rationed goods.
Selling contraband cigarettes and inferior liquor at steadily rising prices, he was on the way to building up a small fortune.
“Are you quite sure of this?” Rambert asked.
“Quite. I had a proposal of the sort made to me the other day.”
“But you didn’t accept it.”
“Oh, come, there’s no need to be suspicious.” Cottard’s tone was genial. “I didn’t accept it because, personally, I’ve no wish to leave. I have my reasons.” After a short silence he added: “You don’t ask me what my reasons are, I notice.”
“I take it,” Rambert replied, “that they’re none of my business.”
“That’s so, in a way, of course. But from another angle—Well, let’s put it like this: I’ve been feeling much more at ease here since
plague settled in.”
Rambert made no comment. Then he asked: “And how does one approach this organization, as you call it?”
“Ah,” Cottard replied, “that’s none too easy. Come with me.”
It was four in the afternoon. The town was warming up to boiling- point under a sultry sky. Nobody was about, all shops were shuttered. Cottard and Rambert walked some distance without speaking, under the arcades. This was an hour of the day when the plague lay low, so to speak; the silence, the extinction of all color and movement, might have been due as much to the erce sunlight as to the epidemic, and there was no telling if the air was heavy
with menace or merely with dust and heat. You had to look closely and take thought to realize that plague was here. For it betrayed its presence only by negative signs. Thus Cottard, who had anities with it, drew Rambert’s attention to the absence of the dogs that in normal times would have been seen sprawling in the shadow of the doorways, panting trying to nd a nonexistent patch of coolness.
They went along the boulevard des Palmiers, crossed the Place d’Armes, and then turned down toward the docks. On the left was a café painted green, with a wide awning of coarse yellow canvas projecting over the sidewalk. Cottard and Rambert wiped their brows on entering. There were some small iron tables, also painted green, and folding chairs. The room was empty, the air humming with ies; in a yellow cage on the bar a parrot squatted on its perch, all its feathers drooping. Some old pictures of military scenes, covered with grime and cobwebs, adorned the walls. On the tables, including that at which Rambert was sitting, bird-droppings were drying, and he was puzzled whence they came until, after some wing-appings, a handsome cock came hopping out of his retreat in a dark corner.
Just then the heat seemed to rise several degrees more. Cottard took o his coat and banged on the table-top. A very small man wearing a long blue apron that came nearly to his neck emerged from a doorway at the back, shouted a greeting to Cottard, and, vigorously kicking the cock out of his way, came up to the table.
Raising his voice to drown the cock’s indignant cacklings, he asked what the gentlemen would like. Cottard ordered white wine and asked: “Where’s Garcia?” The dwarf replied that he’d not shown up
at the café for several days.
“Think he’ll come this evening?”
“Well, I ain’t in his secrets—but you know when he usually comes, don’t you?”
“Yes. Really, it’s nothing very urgent; I only want him to know this friend of mine.”
The barkeeper rubbed his moist hands on the front of his apron.
“Ah, so this gentleman’s in business too?”
“Yes,” Cottard said.
The little man made a snuing noise.
“All right. Come back this evening. I’ll send the kid to warn him.”
After they had left, Rambert asked what the business in question might be.
“Why, smuggling, of course. They get the stu in past the sentries at the gates. There’s plenty money in it.”
“I see.” Rambert paused for a moment, then asked: “And, I take it,
they’ve friends in court?”
“You’ve said it!”
In the evening the awning was rolled up, the parrot squawking in its cage, and the small tables were surrounded by men in their shirt- sleeves. When Cottard entered, one man, with a white shirt gaping on a brick-red chest and a straw hat planted well back on his head, rose to his feet. He had a sun-tanned face, regular features, small black eyes, very white teeth, and two or three rings on his ngers.
He looked about thirty.
“Hi!” he said to Cottard, ignoring Rambert. “Let’s have one at the
bar.”
They drank three rounds in silence.
“How about a stroll?” Garcia suggested.
They walked toward the harbor. Garcia asked what he was wanted to do. Cottard explained that it wasn’t really for a deal that he wanted to introduce his friend, M. Rambert, but only for what he called a “get-away.” Pung at his cigarette, Garcia walked straight ahead. He asked some questions, always referring to Rambert as “he” and appearing not to notice his presence.
“Why does he want to go?”
“His wife is in France.”
“Ah!” After a short pause he added: “What’s his job?”
“He’s a journalist.”
“Is he now? Journalists have long tongues.”
“I told you he’s a friend of mine,” Cottard replied.
They walked on in silence until they were near the wharves, which were now railed o. Then they turned in the direction of a small tavern from which came a smell of fried sardines.
“In any case,” Garcia said nally, “it’s not up my alley. Raoul’s your man. And I’ll have to get in touch with him. It’s none too easy.”
“That so?” Cottard sounded interested. “He’s lying low, is he?”
Garcia made no answer. At the door of the tavern he halted and for the rst time addressed Rambert directly.
“The day after tomorrow, at eleven, at the corner of the customs barracks in the upper town.” He made as if to go, then seemed to have an afterthought. “It’s going to cost something, you know.” He made the observation in a quite casual tone.
Rambert nodded. “Naturally.”
On the way back the journalist thanked Cottard.
“Don’t mention it, old chap. I’m only too glad to help you. And then, you’re a journalist, I dare say you’ll put in a word for me one day or another.”
Two days later Rambert and Cottard climbed the wide shadeless street leading to the upper part of the town. The barracks occupied by the customs ocers had been partly transformed into a hospital, and a number of people were standing outside the main entrance, some of them hoping to be allowed to visit a patient—a futile hope, since such visits were strictly prohibited—and others to glean some news of an invalid, news that in the course of an hour would have ceased to count. For these reasons there were always a number of people and a certain amount of movement at this spot, a fact that probably accounted for its choice by Garcia for his meeting with Rambert.
“It puzzles me,” Cottard remarked, “why you’re so keen on going.
Really, what’s happening here is extremely interesting.”
“Not to me,” Rambert replied.
“Well, yes, one’s running some risks, I grant you. All the same, when you come to think of it, one ran quite as much risk in the old days crossing a busy street.”
Just then Rieux’s car drew up level with them. Tarrou was at the wheel, and Rieux seemed half-asleep. He roused himself to make the introductions.
“We know each other,” Tarrou said. “We’re at the same hotel.” He then oered to drive Rambert back to the center.
“No, thanks. We’ve an appointment here.”
Rieux looked hard at Rambert.
“Yes,” Rambert said.
“What’s that?” Cottard sounded surprised. “The doctor knows about it?”
“There’s the magistrate.” Tarrou gave Cottard a warning glance.
Cottard’s look changed. M. Othon was striding down the street toward them, briskly, yet with dignity. He took o his hat as he came up with them.
“Good morning, Monsieur Othon,” said Tarrou.
The magistrate returned the greeting of the men in the car and, turning to Rambert and Cottard, who were in the background, gave them a quiet nod. Tarrou introduced Cottard and the journalist. The magistrate gazed at the sky for a moment, sighed, and remarked that these were indeed sad times.
“I’ve been told, Monsieur Tarrou,” he continued, “that you are helping to enforce the prophylactic measures. I need hardly say how commendable that is, a ne example. Do you think, Dr. Rieux, that the epidemic will get worse?”
Rieux replied that one could only hope it wouldn’t, and the magistrate replied that one must never lose hope, the ways of Providence were inscrutable.
Tarrou asked if his work had increased as the result of present conditions.
“Quite the contrary. Criminal cases of what we call the rst instance are growing rarer. In fact, almost my only work just now is holding inquiries into more serious breaches of the new regulations.
Our ordinary laws have never been so well respected.”
“That’s because, by contrast, they necessarily appear good ones,”
Tarrou observed.
The magistrate, who seemed unable to take his gaze o the sky, abruptly dropped his mildly meditative air and stared at Tarrou.
“What does that matter? It’s not the law that counts, it’s the sentence. And that is something we must all accept.”
“That fellow,” said Tarrou when the magistrate was out of
hearing, “is Enemy Number One.”
He pressed the starter.
Some minutes later Rambert and Cottard saw Garcia approaching.
Without making any sign of recognition he came straight up to them and, by way of greeting, said: “You’ll have to wait a bit.”
There was complete silence in the crowd around them, most of whom were women. Nearly all were carrying parcels; they had the vain hope of somehow smuggling these in to their sick relatives, and the even crazier idea that the latter could eat the food they’d brought. The gate was guarded by armed sentries, and now and then an eerie cry resounded in the courtyard between the barrack rooms and the entrance. Whenever this happened, anxious eyes turned toward the sick-wards.
The three men were watching the scene when a brisk “Good morning” from behind them made them swing round. In spite of the heat Raoul was wearing a well-cut dark suit and a felt hat with rolled-up brim. He was tall and strongly built, his face rather pale.
Hardly moving his lips, he said quickly and clearly: “Let’s walk down to the center. You, Garcia, needn’t come.”
Garcia lit a cigarette and remained there while they walked away.
Placing himself between Rambert and Cottard, Raoul set the pace, a fast one.
“Garcia’s explained the situation,” he said. “We can x it. But I must warn you it’ll cost you a cool ten thousand.”
Rambert said he agreed to these terms.
“Lunch with me tomorrow at the Spanish restaurant near the docks.”
Rambert said: “Right,” and Raoul shook his hand, smiling for the rst time. After he had gone, Cottard said he wouldn’t be able to come to lunch next day, as he had an engagement, but anyhow Rambert didn’t need him any more.
When next day Rambert entered the Spanish restaurant, everyone turned and stared at him. The dark, cellarlike room, below the level of the small yellow street, was patronized only by men, mostly Spaniards, judging by their looks. Raoul was sitting at a table at the
back of the room. Once he had beckoned to the journalist and Rambert started to go toward him, the curiosity left the faces of others and they bent over their plates again. Raoul had beside him a tall, thin, ill-shaven man, with enormously wide shoulders, an equine face, and thinning hair. His shirtsleeves were rolled up, displaying long, skinny arms covered with black hair. When Rambert was introduced he gave three slow nods. His own name, however, was not announced and Raoul, when referring to him, always said “our friend.”
“Our friend here thinks he may be able to help you. He is going —” Raoul broke o, as the waitress had just come to take Rambert’s order. “He is going to put you in touch with two of our friends who will introduce you to some sentries whom we’ve squared. But that doesn’t mean you can start right away. You’ll have to leave it to the sentries to decide on the best moment. The simplest thing will be for you to stay some nights with one of them; his home is quite near the gate. The rst thing is for our friend here to give you the contacts needed; then when everything’s set, you’ll settle with him for the expenses.”
Again “the friend” slowly moved his equine head up and down, without ceasing to munch the tomato and pimento salad he was shoveling into his mouth. After which he began to speak, with a slight Spanish accent. He asked Rambert to meet him, the next day but one, at eight in the morning, in the Cathedral porch.
“Another two days’ wait,” Rambert observed.
“It ain’t so easy as all that, you see,” Raoul said. “Them boys take some nding.”
Horse-face nodded slow approval once more. Some time was spent looking for a subject of conversation. The problem was solved easily enough when Rambert discovered that horse-face was an ardent football-player. He, too, had been very keen on soccer. They discussed the French championship, the merits of professional English teams, and the technique of passing. By the end of the meal horse-face was in high good humor, was calling Rambert “old boy,” and trying to convince him that the most sporting position by far on the football eld was that of center half. “You see, old boy, it’s the
center half that does the placing. And that’s the whole art of the game, isn’t it?” Rambert was inclined to agree, though he, personally, had always played center forward. The discussion proceeded peacefully until a radio was turned on and, after at rst emitting a series of sentimental songs, broke into the announcement that there had been a hundred and thirty-seven plague deaths on the previous day. No one present betrayed the least emotion. Horse-face merely shrugged and stood up. Raoul and Rambert followed his example.
As they were going out, the center half shook Rambert’s hand vigorously. “My name’s Gonzales,” he said.
To Rambert the next two days seemed endless. He looked up Rieux and described to him the latest developments, then accompanied the doctor on one of his calls. He took leave of him on the doorstep of a house where a patient, suspected to have plague, was awaiting him. There was a sound of footsteps and voices in the hall; the family were being warned of the doctor’s visit.
“I hope Tarrou will be on time,” Rieux murmured. He looked worn out.
“Is the epidemic getting out of hand?” Rambert asked.
Rieux said it wasn’t that; indeed, the death-graph was rising less steeply. Only, they lacked adequate means of coping with the disease.
“We’re short of equipment. In all the armies of the world a shortage of equipment is usually compensated for by manpower. But we’re short of man-power, too.”
“Haven’t doctors and trained assistants been sent from other towns?”
“Yes,” Rieux said. “Ten doctors and a hundred helpers. That sounds a lot, no doubt. But it’s barely enough to cope with the present state of aairs. And it will be quite inadequate if things get worse.”
Rambert, who had been listening to the sounds within the house, turned to Rieux with a friendly smile.
“Yes,” he said, “you’d better make haste to win your battle.” Then a shadow crossed his face. “You know,” he added in a low tone: “it’s
not because of that I’m leaving.”
Rieux replied that he knew it very well, but Rambert went on to say: “I don’t think I’m a coward—not as a rule, anyhow. And I’ve had opportunities of putting it to the test. Only there are some thoughts
I simply cannot endure.”
The doctor looked him in the eyes.
“You’ll see her again,” he said.
“Maybe. But I just can’t stomach the thought that it may last on and on, and all the time she’ll be growing older. At thirty one’s beginning to age, and one’s got to squeeze all one can out of life.
But I doubt if you can understand.”
Rieux was replying that he thought he could, when Tarrou came
up, obviously much excited.
“I’ve just asked Paneloux to join us.”
“Well?” asked the doctor.
“He thought it over, then said yes.”
“That’s good,” the doctor said. “I’m glad to know he’s better than his sermon.”
“Most people are like that,” Tarrou replied. “It’s only a matter of giving them the chance.” He smiled and winked at Rieux. “That’s my job in life—giving people chances.”
“Excuse me,” Rambert said, “I’ve got to be o.”
On Thursday, the day of the appointment, Rambert entered the Cathedral porch at ve minutes to eight. The air was still relatively cool. Small eecy clouds, which presently the sun would swallow at a gulp, were drifting across the sky. A faint smell of moisture rose from the lawns, parched though they were. Still masked by the eastward houses, the sun was warming up Joan of Arc’s helmet only, and it made a solitary patch of brightness in the Cathedral square. A clock struck eight. Rambert took some steps in the empty porch. From inside came a low sound of intoning voices, together with stale wafts of incense and dank air. Then the voices ceased.
Ten small black forms came out of the building and hastened away toward the center of the town. Rambert grew impatient. Other black forms climbed the steps and entered the porch. He was about to
light a cigarette when it struck him that smoking might be frowned on here.
At eight fteen the organ began to play, very softly. Rambert entered. At rst he could see nothing in the dim light of the aisle; after a moment he made out in the nave the small black forms that had preceded him. They were all grouped in a corner, in front of a makeshift altar on which stood a statue of St. Roch, carved in haste by one of our local sculptors. Kneeling, they looked even smaller than before, blobs of clotted darkness hardly more opaque than the gray, smoky haze in which they seemed to oat. Above them the organ was playing endless variations.
When Rambert stepped out of the Cathedral, he saw Gonzales already going down the steps on his way back to the town.
“I thought you’d cleared o, old boy,” he said to the journalist.
“Considering how late it is.”
He proceeded to explain that he’d gone to meet his friends at the place agreed on—which was quite near by—at ten to eight, the time they’d xed, and waited twenty minutes without seeing them.
“Something must have held them up. There’s lots of snags, you know, in our line of business.”
He suggested another meeting at the same time on the following day, beside the war memorial. Rambert sighed and pushed his hat back on his head.
“Don’t take it so hard,” Gonzales laughed. “Why, think of all the swerves and runs and passes you got to make to score a goal.”
“Quite so,” Rambert agreed. “But the game lasts only an hour and a half.”
The war memorial at Oran stands at the one place where one has a glimpse of the sea, a sort of esplanade following for a short distance the brow of the cli overlooking the harbor. Next day, being again the rst to arrive at the meeting-place, Rambert whiled away the time reading the list of names of those who had died for their country. Some minutes later two men strolled up, gave him a casual glance, then, resting their elbows on the parapet of the esplanade, gazed down intently at the empty, lifeless harbor. Both wore short-sleeved jerseys and blue trousers, and were of much the
same height. The journalist moved away and, seated on a stone bench, studied their appearance at leisure. They were obviously youngsters, not more than twenty. Just then he saw Gonzales coming up.
“Those are our friends,” he said, after apologizing for being late.
Then he led Rambert to the two youths, whom he introduced as Marcel and Louis. They looked so much alike that Rambert had no doubt they were brothers.
“Right,” said Gonzales. “Now you know each other, you can get down to business.”
Marcel, or Louis, said that their turn of guard duty began in two days and lasted a week; they’d have to watch out for the night when there was the best chance of bringing it o. The trouble was that there were two other sentries, regular soldiers, besides themselves, at the west gate. These two men had better be kept out of the business; one couldn’t depend on them, and anyhow it would pile up expenses unnecessarily. Some evenings, however, these two sentries spent several hours in the back room of a near-by bar.
Marcel, or Louis, said that the best thing Rambert could do would be to stay at their place, which was only a few minutes’ walk from the gate, and wait till one of them came to tell him the coast was clear. It should then be quite easy for him to make his “getaway.”
But there was no time to lose; there had been talk about setting up duplicate sentry posts a little farther out.
Rambert agreed and handed some of his few remaining cigarettes to the young men. The one who had not yet spoken asked Gonzales if the question of expenses had been settled and whether an advance would be given.
“No,” Gonzales said, “and you needn’t bother about that; he’s a pal of mine. He’ll pay when he leaves.”
Another meeting was arranged. Gonzales suggested their dining together on the next day but one, at the Spanish restaurant. It was at easy walking-distance from where the young men lived. “For the rst night,” he added, “I’ll keep you company, old boy.”
Next day on his way to his bedroom Rambert met Tarrou coming down the stairs at the hotel.
“Like to come with me?” he asked. “I’m just o to see Rieux.”
Rambert hesitated.
“Well, I never feel sure I’m not disturbing him.”
“I don’t think you need worry about that; he’s talked about you quite a lot.”
The journalist pondered. Then, “Look here,” he said. “If you’ve any time to spare after dinner, never mind how late, why not come to the hotel, both of you, and have a drink with me?”
“That will depend on Rieux.” Tarrou sounded doubtful. “And on the plague,” said Tarrou.
At eleven o’clock that night, however, Rieux and Tarrou entered the small, narrow bar of the hotel. Some thirty people were crowded into it, all talking at the top of their voices. Coming from the silence of the plague-bound town, the two newcomers were startled by the sudden burst of noise, and halted in the doorway. They understood the reason for it when they saw that liquor was still to be had here.
Rambert, who was perched on a stool at a corner of the bar, beckoned to them. With complete coolness he elbowed away a noisy customer beside him to make room for his friends.
“You’ve no objection to a spot of something strong?”
“No,” Tarrou replied. “Quite the contrary.”
Rieux snied the pungency of bitter herbs in the drink that Rambert handed him. It was hard to make oneself heard in the din of voices, but Rambert seemed chiey concerned with drinking. The doctor couldn’t make up his mind whether he was drunk yet. At one of the two tables that occupied all the remaining space beyond the half-circle round the bar, a naval ocer, with a girl on each side of him, was describing to a fat, red-faced man a typhus epidemic at Cairo. “They had camps, you know,” he was saying, “for the natives, with tents for the sick ones and a ring of sentries all round. If a member of the family came along and tried to smuggle in one of those damn-fool native remedies, they red at sight. A bit tough, I grant you, but it was the only thing to do.” At the other table, round which sat a bevy of bright young people, the talk was incomprehensible, half drowned by the stridence of St. James Inrmary coming from a loud-speaker just above their heads.
“Any luck?” Rieux had to raise his voice.
“I’m getting on,” Rambert replied. “In the course of the week,
perhaps.”
“A pity!” Tarrou shouted.
“Why?”
“Oh,” Rieux put in, “Tarrou said that because he thinks you might be useful to us here. But, personally, I understand your wish to get
away only too well.”
Tarrou stood the next round of drinks.
Rambert got o his stool and looked him in the eyes for the rst
time.
“How could I be useful?”
“Why, of course,” Tarrou replied, slowly reaching toward his glass, “in one of our sanitary squads.”
The look of brooding obstinacy that Rambert so often had came back to his face, and he climbed again onto his stool.
“Don’t you think these squads of ours do any good?” asked Tarrou, who had just taken a sip of his glass and was gazing hard at Rambert.
“I’m sure they do,” the journalist replied, and drank o his glass.
Rieux noticed that his hand was shaking, and he decided, denitely, that the man was far gone in drink.
Next day, when for the second time Rambert entered the Spanish restaurant, he had to make his way through a group of men who had taken chairs out on the sidewalk and were sitting in the green- gold evening light, enjoying the rst breaths of cooler air. They were smoking an acrid-smelling tobacco. The restaurant itself was almost empty. Rambert went to the table at the back at which Gonzales had sat when they met for the rst time. He told the waitress he would wait a bit. It was seven thirty.
In twos and threes the men from outside began to dribble in and seat themselves at the tables. The waitresses started serving them, and a tinkle of knives and forks, a hum of conversation, began to ll the cellarlike room. At eight Rambert was still waiting. The lights were turned on. A new set of people took the other chairs at his table. He ordered dinner. At half past eight he had nished without
having seen either Gonzales or the two young men. He smoked several cigarettes. The restaurant was gradually emptying. Outside, night was falling rapidly. The curtains hung across the doorway were billowing in a warm breeze from the sea. At nine Rambert realized that the restaurant was quite empty and the waitress was eyeing him curiously. He paid, went out, and, noticing that a café across the street was open, settled down there at a place from which he could keep an eye on the entrance of the restaurant. At half past nine he walked slowly back to his hotel, racking his brains for some method of tracking down Gonzales, whose address he did not know, and bitterly discouraged by the not unlikely prospect of having to start the tiresome business all over again.
It was at this moment, as he walked in the dark streets along which ambulances were speeding, that it suddenly struck him—as he informed Dr. Rieux subsequently—that all this time he’d practically forgotten the woman he loved, so absorbed had he been in trying to nd a rift in the walls that cut him o from her. But at this same moment, now that once more all ways of escape were sealed against him, he felt his longing for her blaze up again, with a violence so sudden, so intense, that he started running to his hotel, as if to escape the burning pain that none the less pervaded him, racing like wildre in his blood.
Very early next day, however, he called on Rieux, to ask him where he could nd Cottard.
“The only thing to do is to pick up the thread again where I dropped it.”
“Come tomorrow night,” Rieux said. “Tarrou asked me to invite Cottard here—I don’t know why. He’s due to come at ten. Come at half past ten.”
When Cottard visited the doctor next day, Tarrou and Rieux were discussing the case of one of Rieux’s patients who against all expectation had recovered.
“It was ten to one against,” Tarrou commented. “He was in luck.”
“Oh, come now,” Cottard said. “It can’t have been plague, that’s all.”
They assured him there was no doubt it was a case of plague.
“That’s impossible, since he recovered. You know as well as I do, once you have plague your number’s up.”
“True enough, as a general rule,” Rieux replied. “But if you refuse to be beaten, you have some pleasant surprises.”
Cottard laughed.
“Precious few, anyhow. You saw the number of deaths this evening?”
Tarrou, who was gazing amiably at Cottard, said he knew the latest gures, and that the position was extremely serious. But what did that prove? Only that still more stringent measures should be applied.
“How? You can’t make more stringent ones than those we have now.”
“No. But every person in the town must apply them to himself.”
Cottard stared at him in a puzzled manner, and Tarrou went on to say that there were far too many slackers, that this plague was everybody’s business, and everyone should do his duty. For instance, any able-bodied man was welcome in the sanitary squads.
“That’s an idea,” said Cottard, “but it won’t get you anywhere.
The plague has the whip hand of you and there’s nothing to be done about it.”
“We shall know whether that is so”—Tarrou’s voice was carefully controlled—“only when we’ve tried everything.”
Meanwhile Rieux had been sitting at his desk, copying out reports. Tarrou was still gazing at the little businessman, who was stirring uneasily in his chair.
“Look here, Monsieur Cottard, why don’t you join us?”
Picking up his derby hat, Cottard rose from his chair with an oended expression.
“It’s not my job,” he said. Then, with an air of bravado, he added: “What’s more, the plague suits me quite well and I see no reason why I should bother about trying to stop it.”
As if a new idea had just waylaid him, Tarrou struck his forehead.
“Why, of course, I was forgetting. If it wasn’t for that, you’d be arrested.”
Cottard gave a start and gripped the back of the chair, as if he were about to fall. Rieux had stopped writing and was observing him with grave interest.
“Who told you that?” Cottard almost screamed.
“Why, you yourself!” Tarrou looked surprised. “At least, that’s what the doctor and I have gathered from the way you speak.”
Losing all control of himself, Cottard let out a volley of oaths.
“Don’t get excited,” Tarrou said quietly. “Neither I nor the doctor would dream of reporting you to the police. What you may have done is no business of ours. And, anyway, we’ve never had much use for the police. Come, now! Sit down again.”
Cottard looked at the chair, then hesitantly lowered himself into it. He heaved a deep sigh.
“It’s something that happened ages ago,” he began. “Somehow they’ve dug it up. I thought it had all been forgotten. But somebody started talking, damn him! They sent for me and told me not to budge till the inquiry was nished. And I felt pretty sure they’d end up by arresting me.”
“Was it anything serious?” Tarrou asked.
“That depends on what you mean by ‘serious.’ It wasn’t murder, anyhow.”
“Prison or transportation with hard labor?”
Cottard was looking almost abject.
“Well, prison—if I’m lucky.” But after a moment he grew excited again. “It was all a mistake. Everybody makes mistakes. And I can’t bear the idea of being pulled in for that, of being torn from my home and habits and everyone I know.”
“And is that the reason,” Tarrou asked, “why you had the bright idea of hanging yourself?”
“Yes. It was a damn-fool thing to do, I admit.”
For the rst time Rieux spoke. He told Cottard that he quite understood his anxiety, but perhaps everything would come right in the end.
“Oh, for the moment I’ve nothing to fear.”
“I can see,” Tarrou said, “that you’re not going to join in our eort.”
Twiddling his hat uneasily, Cottard gazed at Tarrou with shifty
eyes.
“I hope you won’t bear me a grudge.”
“Certainly not. But”—Tarrou smiled—“do try at least not to propagate the microbe deliberately.”
Cottard protested that he’d never wanted the plague, it was pure chance that it had broken out, and he wasn’t to blame if it happened to make things easier for him just now. Then he seemed to pluck up courage again and when Rambert entered was shouting almost aggressively: “What’s more, I’m pretty sure you won’t get anywhere.”
Rambert learned to his chagrin that Cottard didn’t know where Gonzales lived; he suggested that they’d better pay another visit to the small café. They made an appointment for the following day.
When Rieux gave him to understand that he’d like to be kept posted, Rambert proposed that he and Tarrou should look him up one night at the end of the week. They could come as late as they liked and would be sure to nd him in his room.
Next morning Cottard and Rambert went o to the café and left a message for Garcia, asking him to come that evening, or if this could not be managed, next day. They waited for him in vain that evening. Next day Garcia turned up. He listened in silence to what Rambert had to say; then informed him he had no idea what had happened, but knew that several districts of the town had been isolated for twenty-four hours for a house-to-house inspection. Quite possibly Gonzales and the two youngsters hadn’t been able to get through the cordon. All he could do was to put them in touch once more with Raoul. Naturally this couldn’t be done before the next day but one.
“I see,” Rambert said. “I’ll have to start it all over again, from scratch.”
On the next day but one, Raoul, whom Rambert met at a street corner, conrmed Garcia’s surmise; the low-lying districts had, in fact, been isolated and a cordon put round them. The next think was to get in contact with Gonzales. Two days later Rambert was lunching with the footballer.
“It’s too damn silly,” Gonzales said. “Of course you should have arranged some way of seeing each other.”
Rambert heartily agreed.
“Tomorrow evening,” Gonzales continued, “we’ll look up the kids and try to get a real move on.”
When they called next day, however, the youngsters were out. A note was left xing a meeting for the following day at noon, outside the high school. When Rambert came back to his hotel, Tarrou was
struck by the look on his face.
“Not feeling well?” he asked.
“It’s having to start it all over again that’s got me down.” Then he added: “You’ll come tonight, won’t you?”
When the two friends entered Rambert’s room that night, they found him lying on the bed. He got up at once and lled the glasses he had ready. Before lifting his to his lips, Rieux asked him if he was making progress. The journalist replied that he’d started the same round again and got to the same point as before; in a day or two he was to have his last appointment. Then he took a sip of his drink and added gloomily: “Needless to say, they won’t turn up.”
“Oh come! That doesn’t follow because they let you down last time.”
“So you haven’t understood yet?” Rambert shrugged his shoulders
almost scornfully.
“Understood what?”
“The plague.”
“Ah!” Rieux exclaimed.
“No, you haven’t understood that it means exactly that—the same thing over and over and over again.”
He went to a corner of the room and started a small phonograph.
“What’s that record?” Tarrou asked. “I’ve heard it before.”
“It’s St. James Inrmary.”
While the phonograph was playing, two shots rang out in the
distance.
“A dog or a get-away,” Tarrou remarked.
When, a moment later, the record ended, an ambulance bell could be heard clanging past under the window and receding into silence.
“Rather a boring record,” Rambert remarked. “And this must be
the tenth time I’ve put it on today.”
“Are you really so fond of it?”
“No, but it’s the only one I have.” And after a moment he added: “That’s what I said ‘it’ was—the same thing over and over again.”
He asked Rieux how the sanitary groups were functioning. Five teams were now at work, and it was hoped to form others. Sitting on the bed, the journalist seemed to be studying his ngernails.
Rieux was gazing at his squat, powerfully built form, hunched up on the edge of the bed. Suddenly he realized that Rambert was returning his gaze.
“You know, Doctor, I’ve given a lot of thought to your campaign.
And if I’m not with you, I have my reasons. No, I don’t think it’s that I’m afraid to risk my skin again. I took part in the Spanish Civil
War.”
“On which side?” Tarrou asked.
“The losing side. But since then I’ve done a bit of thinking.”
“About what?”
“Courage. I know now that man is capable of great deeds. But if he isn’t capable of a great emotion, well, he leaves me cold.”
“One has the idea that he is capable of everything,” Tarrou remarked.
“I can’t agree; he’s incapable of suering for a long time, or being happy for a long time. Which means that he’s incapable of anything really worth while.” He looked at the two men in turn, then asked: “Tell me, Tarrou, are you capable of dying for love?”
“I couldn’t say, but I hardly think so—as I am now.”
“You see. But you’re capable of dying for an idea; one can see that right away. Well, personally, I’ve seen enough of people who die for an idea. I don’t believe in heroism; I know it’s easy and I’ve learned it can be murderous. What interests me is living and dying for what one loves.”
Rieux had been watching the journalist attentively. With his eyes still on him he said quietly: “Man isn’t an idea, Rambert.”
Rambert sprang o the bed, his face ablaze with passion.
“Man is an idea, and a precious small idea, once he turns his back on love. And that’s my point; we—mankind—have lost the capacity for love. We must face that fact, Doctor. Let’s wait to acquire that capacity or, if really it’s beyond us, wait for the deliverance that will come to each of us anyway, without his playing the hero.
Personally, I look no farther.”
Rieux rose. He suddenly appeared very tired.
“You’re right, Rambert, quite right, and for nothing in the world would I try to dissuade you from what you’re going to do; it seems to me absolutely right and proper. However, there’s one thing I must tell you: there’s no question of heroism in all this. It’s a matter of common decency. That’s an idea which may make some people smile, but the only means of ghting a plague is—common decency.”
“What do you mean by ‘common decency’?” Rambert’s tone was grave.
“I don’t know what it means for other people. But in my case I know that it consists in doing my job.”
“Your job! I only wish I were sure what my job is!” There was a mordant edge to Rambert’s voice. “Maybe I’m all wrong in putting
love rst.”
Rieux looked him in the eyes.
“No,” he said vehemently, “you are not wrong.”
Rambert gazed thoughtfully at them.
“You two,” he said, “I suppose you’ve nothing to lose in all this.
It’s easier, that way, to be on the side of the angels.”
Rieux drained his glass.
“Come along,” he said to Tarrou. “We’ve work to do.”
He went out.
Tarrou followed, but seemed to change his mind when he reached the door. He stopped and looked at the journalist.
“I suppose you don’t know that Rieux’s wife is in a sanatorium, a hundred miles or so away.”
Rambert showed surprise and began to say something; but Tarrou had already left the room.
At a very early hour next day Rambert rang up the doctor.
“Would you agree to my working with you until I nd some way of getting out of the town?”
There was a moment’s silence before the reply came.
“Certainly, Rambert. Thanks.”
