Very early next day, however, he called on Rieux, to ask him where he could find 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 figures, 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 business man, 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 offended 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 finished. 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 first 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 effort.” 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 cafe. 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 find him in his room.
Next morning Cottard and Rambert went to the cafe 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, confirmed Garcia’s surmise; the low-lying districts had, in fact, been isolated and a cordon put round them. The next thing 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 morning,” 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 fixing 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 filled 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 Infirmary.”
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 fingernails. 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
