Out in the street it seemed to Rieux that the night was full of whispers.
Somewhere in the black depths above the street-lamps there was a low soughing that brought to his mind that unseen flail threshing incessantly the languid air of which Paneloux had spoken.
“Happily, happily,” Grand muttered, then paused. Rieux asked him what he had been going to say. “Happily, I’ve my work.”
“Ah yes,” Rieux said. “That’s something, anyhow.” Then, so as not to hear that eerie whistling in the air, he asked Grand if he was getting good results.
“Well, yes, I think I’m making headway.” “Have you much more to do?”
Grand began to show an animation unlike his usual self, and his voice took ardor from the liquor he had drunk.
“I don’t know. But that’s not the point, doctor; yes, I can assure you that’s not the point.”
It was too dark to see clearly, but Rieux had the impression that he was waving his arms. He seemed to be working himself up to say something, and when he spoke, the words came with a rush.
“What I really want, doctor, is this. On the day when the manuscript reaches the publisher, I want him to stand up? after he’s read it through, of course, and say to his staff: ‘Gentlemen, hats off!'”
Rieux was dumbfounded, and, to add to his amazement, he saw, or seemed to see, the man beside him making as if to take off his hat with a sweeping gesture, bringing his hand to his head, then holding his arm out straight in front of him. That queer whistling overhead seemed to gather force.
“So you see,” Grand added, “it’s got to be flawless.”
Though he knew little of the literary world, Rieux had a suspicion that things didn’t happen in it quite so picturesquely, that, for instance, publishers do not keep their hats on in their offices. But, of course, one never can tell, and Rieux preferred to hold his peace. Try as he might to shut his ears to it, he still was listening to that eerie sound above, the whispering of the plague.
They had reached the part of the town where Grand lived and, as it was on a slight eminence, they felt the cool night breeze fanning their cheeks and at the same time carrying away from them the noises of the town.
Grand went on talking, but Rieux failed to follow all the worthy man was saying. All he gathered was that the work he was engaged on ran to a great many pages,
and he was at almost excruciating pains to bring it to perfection. “Evenings, whole weeks, spent on one word, just think! Sometimes on a mere conjunction!”
Grand stopped abruptly and seized the doctor by a button of his coat. The words came stumbling out of his almost toothless mouth.
“I’d like you to understand, doctor. I grant you it’s easy enough to choose between a ‘but’ and an ‘and.’ It’s a bit more difficult to decide between ‘and’ and ‘then.’ But definitely the hardest thing may be to know whether one should put an ‘and’ or leave it out.”
“Yes,” Rieux said, “I see your point.”
He started walking again. Grand looked abashed, then stepped forward and drew level.
“Sorry,” he said awkwardly. “I don’t know what’s come over me this evening.” Rieux patted his shoulder encouragingly, saying he’d been much interested in what Grand had said and would like to help him. This seemed to reassure Grand, and when they reached his place he suggested, after some slight hesitation, that the doctor should come in for a moment. Rieux agreed.
They entered the dining-room and Grand gave him a chair beside a table strewn with sheets of paper covered with writing in a microscopic hand, criscrossed with corrections.
“Yes, that’s it,” he said in answer to the doctor’s questioning glance. “But won’t you drink something? I’ve some wine.”
Rieux declined. He was bending over the manuscript.
“No, don’t look,” Grand said. “It’s my opening phrase, and it’s giving trouble, no end of trouble.”
He too was gazing at the sheets of paper on the table, and his hand seemed irresistibly drawn to one of them. Finally he picked it up and held it to the shadeless electric bulb so that the light shone through. The paper shook in his hand and Rieux noticed that his forehead was moist with sweat.
“Sit down,” he said, “and read it to me.”
“Yes.” There was a timid gratitude in Grand’s eyes and smile. “I think I’d like you to hear it.”
He waited for a while, still gazing at the writing, then sat down. Meanwhile Rieux was listening to the curious buzzing sound that was rising from the streets as if in answer to the soughings of the plague. At that moment he had a preternaturally vivid awareness of the town stretched out below, a victim world secluded and apart, and of the groans of agony stifled in its darkness. Then, pitched low but clear, Grand’s voice came to his ears.
“One fine morning in the month of May an elegant young horsewoman might have been seen riding a handsome sorrel mare along the flowery avenues of the Bois de Boulogne.”
Silence returned, and with it the vague murmur of the prostrate town. Grand had put down the sheet and was still staring at it. After a while he looked up.
“What do you think of it?”
Rieux replied that this opening phrase had whetted his curiosity; he’d like to hear what followed. Whereat Grand told him he’d got it all wrong. He seemed excited and slapped the papers on the table with the flat of his hand.
“That’s only a rough draft. Once I’ve succeeded in rendering perfectly the picture in my mind’s eye, once my words have the exact tempo of this ride, the horse is trotting, one-two-three, one-two-three, see what I mean? the rest will come more easily and, what’s even more important, the illusion will be such that from the very first words it will be possible to say: ‘Hats off!’.
But before that, he admitted, there was lots of hard work to be done. He’d never dream of handing that sentence to the printer in its present form. For though it sometimes satisfied him, he was fully aware it didn’t quite hit the mark as yet, and also that to some extent it had a facility of tone approximating, remotely perhaps, but recognizably, to the commonplace. That was more or less what he was saying when they heard the sound of people running in the street below the window.
Rieux stood up.
“Just wait and see what I make of it,” Grand said, and, glancing toward the window, added: “When all this is over.”
But then the sound of hurried footsteps came again. Rieux was already halfway down the stairs, and when he stepped out into the street two men brushed past him. They seemed to be on their way to one of the town gates. In fact, what with the heat and the plague, some of our fellow citizens were losing their heads; there had already been some scenes of violence and nightly attempts were made to elude the sentries and escape to the outside world.
OTHERS, too, Rambert for example, were trying to escape from this atmosphere of growing panic, but with more skill and persistence, if not with greater success.
For a while Rambert had gone on struggling with officialdom. If he was to be believed, he had always thought that perseverance would win through, inevitably, and, as he pointed out, resourcefulness in emergency was up his street, in a manner of speaking.
So he plodded away, calling on all sorts of officials and others whose influence would have had weight in normal conditions. But, as things were, such influence was unavailing. For the most part they were men with well-defined and sound ideas on everything concerning exports, banking, the fruit or wine trade; men of proved ability in handling problems relating to insurance, the interpretation of ill-drawn contracts, and the like; of high qualifications and evident good intentions. That, in fact, was what struck one most, the excellence of their intentions. But as regards plague their competence was practically nil.
However, whenever opportunity arose, Rambert had tackled each of them and pleaded his cause. The gist of his argument was always the same: that he was a stranger to our town and, that being so, his case deserved special consideration.
Mostly the men he talked to conceded this point readily enough. But usually they added that a good number of other people were in a like case, and thus his position was not so exceptional as he seemed to suppose. To this Rambert could reply that this did not affect the substance of his argument in any way. He was then told that it did affect the position, already difficult, of the authorities, who were against showing any favoritism and thus running the risk of creating what, with obvious repugnance, they called “a precedent.”
In conversation with Dr. Rieux, Rambert classified the people whom he had approached in various categories. Those who used the arguments mentioned above he called the sticklers. Besides these there were the consolers, who assured him that the present state of things couldn’t possibly last and, when asked for definite suggestions, fobbed him off by telling him he was making too much fuss about a passing inconvenience.
Then there were the very important persons who asked the visitor to leave a brief note of his case and informed him they would decide on it in due course; the triflers, who offered him billeting warrants or gave the addresses of lodgings; the red-tape merchants, who made
