arrou’s gures were correct. Dr. Rieux was only too well aware of the serious turn things had taken. After seeing to theT isolation of the concierge’s body, he had rung up Richard and asked what he made of these inguinal-fever cases.
“I can make nothing of them,” Richard confessed. “There have been two deaths, one in forty-eight hours, the other in three days.
And the second patient showed all the signs of convalescence when I visited him on the second day.”
“Please let me know if you have other cases,” Rieux said.
He rang up some other colleagues. As a result of these inquiries he gathered that there had been some twenty cases of the same type within the last few days. Almost all had ended fatally. He then advised Richard, who was chairman of the local Medical Association, to have any fresh cases put into isolation wards.
“Sorry,” Richard said, “but I can’t do anything about it. An order to that eect can be issued only by the Prefect. Anyhow, what grounds have you for supposing there’s danger of contagion?”
“No denite grounds. But the symptoms are denitely alarming.”
Richard, however, repeated that “such measures were outside his province.” The most he could do was to put the matter up to the Prefect.
But while these talks were going on, the weather changed for the worse. On the day following old Michel’s death the sky clouded up and there were brief torrential downpours, each of which was followed by some hours of muggy heat. The aspect of the sea, too, changed; its dark-blue translucency had gone and, under the lowering sky, it had steely or silvery glints that hurt the eyes to look
at. The damp heat of the spring made everyone long for the coming of the dry, clean summer heat. On the town, humped snail-wise on its plateau and shut o almost everywhere from the sea, a mood of listlessness descended. Hemmed in by lines and lines of whitewashed walls, walking between rows of dusty shops, or riding in the dingy yellow streetcars, you felt, as it were, trapped by the climate. This, however, was not the case with Rieux’s old Spanish patient, who welcomed this weather with enthusiasm.
“It cooks you,” he said. “Just the thing for asthma.”
Certainly it “cooked you,” but exactly like a fever. Indeed, the whole town was running a temperature; such anyhow was the impression Dr. Rieux could not shake o as he drove to the rue Faidherbe for the inquiry into Cottard’s attempted suicide. That this impression was unreasonable he knew, and he attributed it to nervous exhaustion; he had certainly his full share of worries just at present. In fact, it was high time to put the brakes on and try to get his nerves into some sort of order.
On reaching his destination he found that the police inspector hadn’t turned up yet. Grand, who met him on the landing, suggested they should wait in his place, leaving the door open. The municipal clerk had two rooms, both very sparsely furnished. The only objects to catch the eye were a bookshelf on which lay two or three dictionaries, and a small blackboard on which one could just read two half-obliterated words: “owery avenues.”
Grand announced that Cottard had had a good night. But he’d waked up this morning with pains in his head and feeling very low.
Grand, too, looked tired and overwrought; he kept pacing up and down the room, opening and closing a portfolio crammed with sheets of manuscript that lay on the table.
Meanwhile, however, he informed the doctor that he really knew very little about Cottard, but believed him to have private means in a small way. Cottard was a queer bird. For a long while their relations went no farther than wishing each other good-day when they met on the stairs.
“I’ve only had two conversations with him. Some days ago I upset a box of colored chalks I was bringing home, on the landing. They
were red and blue chalks. Just then Cottard came out of his room and he helped me pick them up. He asked me what I wanted colored chalks for.”
Grand had then explained to him that he was trying to brush up his Latin. He’d learned it at school, of course, but his memories had grown blurred.
“You see, doctor, I’ve been told that a knowledge of Latin gives one a better understanding of the real meanings of French words.”
So he wrote Latin words on his blackboard, then copied out again in blue chalk the part of each word that changed in conjugation or declension, and in red chalk the part of the word that never varied.
“I’m not sure if Cottard followed this very clearly, but he seemed interested and asked me for a red chalk. That rather surprised me, but after all— Of course I couldn’t guess the use he’d put it to.”
Rieux asked what was the subject of their second conversation.
But just then the inspector came, accompanied by a clerk, and said he wished to begin by hearing Grand’s statement. The doctor noticed that Grand, when referring to Cottard, always called him “the unfortunate man,” and at one moment used even the expression “his grim resolve.” When discussing the possible motives for the attempted suicide, Grand showed an almost nical anxiety over his choice of words. Finally he elected for the expression “a secret grief.” The inspector asked if there had been anything in Cottard’s manner that suggested what he called his “intent to felo- de-se.”
“He knocked at my door yesterday,” Grand said, “and asked me for a match. I gave him a box. He said he was sorry to disturb me but that, as we were neighbors, he hoped I wouldn’t mind. He assured me he’d bring back my box, but I told him to keep it.”
The inspector asked Grand if he’d noticed anything queer about Cottard.
“What struck me as queer was that he always seemed to want to start a conversation. But he should have seen I was busy with my work.” Grand turned to Rieux and added rather shyly: “Some private work.”
The inspector now said that he must see the invalid and hear what he had to say. Rieux thought it would be wiser to prepare Cottard for the visit. When he entered the bedroom he found Cottard, who was wearing a gray annel nightshirt, sitting up in bed and gazing at the door with a scared expression on his face.
“It’s the police, isn’t it?”
“Yes,” Rieux said, “but don’t get ustered. There are only some formalities to be gone through, and then you’ll be left in peace.”
Cottard replied that all this was quite needless, to his thinking,
and anyhow he didn’t like the police.
Rieux showed some irritation.
“I don’t love them either. It’s only a matter of answering a few questions as briey and correctly as you can, and then you’ll be through with it.”
Cottard said nothing and Rieux began to move to the door. He had hardly taken a step when the little man called him back and, as soon as he was at the bedside, gripped his hands.
“They can’t be rough with an invalid, a man who’s hanged himself, can they, Doctor?”
Rieux gazed down at him for a moment, then assured him that there was no question of anything like that, and in any case he was here to protect his patient. This seemed to relieve Cottard, and Rieux went out to get the inspector.
After Grand’s deposition had been read out, Cottard was asked to state the exact motive of his act. He merely replied, without looking at the police ocer, that “a secret grief” described it well enough.
The inspector then asked him peremptorily if he intended to “have another go at it.” Showing more animation, Cottard said certainly not, his one wish was to be left in peace.
“Allow me to point out, my man,” the police ocer rejoined with asperity, “that just now it’s you who’re troubling the peace of others.” Rieux signed to him not to continue, and he left it at that.
“A good hour wasted!” the inspector sighed when the door closed behind them. “As you can guess, we’ve other things to think about, what with this fever everybody’s talking of.”
He then asked the doctor if there was any serious danger to the town; Rieux answered that he couldn’t say.
“It must be the weather,” the police ocer decided. “That’s what it is.”
No doubt it was the weather. As the day wore on, everything grew sticky to the touch, and Rieux felt his anxiety increasing after each visit. That evening a neighbor of his old patient in the suburbs started vomiting, pressing his hand to his groin, and running a high fever accompanied by delirium. The ganglia were much bigger than M. Michel’s. One of them was beginning to suppurate, and presently split open like an overripe fruit. On returning to his apartment, Rieux rang up the medical-stores depot for the district. In his professional diary for the day the only entry was: “Negative reply.”
Already he was receiving calls for similar cases from various parts of the town. Obviously the abscesses had to be lanced. Two crisscross strokes, and the ganglion disgorged a mixture of blood and pus.
Their limbs stretched out as far as they could manage, the sick men went on bleeding. Dark patches appeared on their legs and stomachs; sometimes a ganglion would stop suppurating, then suddenly swell again. Usually the sick man died, in a stench of corruption.
The local press, so lavish of news about the rats, now had nothing to say. For rats died in the street; men in their homes. And newspapers are concerned only with the street. Meanwhile, government and municipal ocials were putting their heads together. So long as each individual doctor had come across only two or three cases, no one had thought of taking action. But it was merely a matter of adding up the gures and, once this had been done, the total was startling. In a very few days the number of cases had risen by leaps and bounds, and it became evident to all observers of this strange malady that a real epidemic had set in.
This was the state of aairs when Castel, one of Rieux’s colleagues and a much older man than he, came to see him.
“Naturally,” he said to Rieux, “you know what it is.”
“I’m waiting for the result of the post-mortems.”
“Well, I know. And I don’t need any post-mortems. I was in China for a good part of my career, and I saw some cases in Paris twenty years ago. Only no one dared to call them by their name on that occasion. The usual taboo, of course; the public mustn’t be alarmed, that wouldn’t do at all. And then, as one of my colleagues said, ‘It’s unthinkable. Everyone knows it’s ceased to appear in western Europe.’ Yes, everyone knew that—except the dead men. Come now, Rieux, you know as well as I do what it is.”
Rieux pondered. He was looking out of the window of his surgery, at the tall cli that closed the half-circle of the bay on the far horizon. Though blue, the sky had a dull sheen that was softening as the light declined.
“Yes, Castel,” he replied. “It’s hardly credible. But everything points to its being plague.”
Castel got up and began walking toward the door.
“You know,” the old doctor said, “what they’re going to tell us?
That it vanished from temperate countries long ago.”
“ ‘Vanished’? What does that word really mean?” Rieux shrugged his shoulders.
“Yes. And don’t forget. Just under twenty years ago, in Paris too.”
“Right. Let’s hope it won’t prove any worse this time than it did then. But really it’s incredible.”
