The camp manager came up; a gentleman named Othon, he said, would like to see them. Leaving Gonzales in the office, he led the others to a corner of the grandstand, where they saw M. Othon sitting by himself. He rose as they approached.
The magistrate was dressed exactly as in the past and still wore a stiff collar. The only changes Tarrou noted were that the tufts of hair over his temples were
not brushed back and that one of his shoelaces was undone. M. Othon appeared very tired and not once did he look his visitors in the face. He said he was glad to see them and requested them to thank Dr. Rieux for all he had done.
Some moments of silence ensued, then with an effort the magistrate spoke again: “I hope Jacques did not suffer too much.”
This was the first time Tarrou heard him utter his son’s name, and he realized that something had changed. The sun was setting and, flooding through a rift in the clouds, the level rays raked the stands, tingeing their faces with a yellow glow.
“No,” Tarrou said. “No, I couldn’t really say he suffered.”
When they took their leave, the magistrate was still gazing toward the light.
They called in at the office to say good-by to Gonzales, whom they found studying the duty roster. The footballer was laughing when he shook hands with them.
“Anyhow, I’m back in the good old dressing-room,” he chuckled. “That’s something to go on with.”
Soon after, when the camp manager was seeing Tarrou and Rambert out, they heard a crackling noise coming from the stands. A moment later the loud-speakers, which in happier times served to announce the results of games or to introduce the teams, informed the inmates of the camp that they were to go back to their tents for the evening meal. Slowly everyone filed off the stands and shuffled toward the tents. After all were under canvas two small electric trucks, of the kind used for transporting baggage on railroad platforms, began to wend their way between the tents. While the occupants held forth their arms, two ladles plunged into the two big caldrons on each truck and neatly tipped their contents into the waiting mess-kits. Then the truck moved on to the next tent.
“Very efficient,” Tarrou remarked.
The camp manager beamed as he shook hands.
“Yes, isn’t it? We’re great believers in efficiency in this camp.”
Dusk was falling. The sky had cleared and the camp was bathed in cool, soft light. Through the hush of evening came a faint tinkle of spoons and plates.
Above the tents bats were circling, vanishing abruptly into the darkness. A streetcar squealed on a switch outside the walls.
“Poor Monsieur Othon!” Tarrou murmured as the gate closed behind them. “One would like to do something to help him. But how can you help a judge?”
There were other camps of much the same kind in the town, but the narrator, for lack of firsthand information and in deference to veracity, has nothing to add about them. This much, however, he can say; the mere existence of these camps, the smell of crowded humanity coming from them, the baying of their loud-speakers in the dusk, the air of mystery that clung about them, and the dread these forbidden places inspired told seriously on our fellow citizens’ morale and added to the general nervousness and apprehension. Breaches of the peace and minor riots became more frequent.
As November drew to a close, the mornings turned much colder. Heavy downpours had scoured the streets and washed the sky clean of clouds. In the mornings a weak sunlight bathed the town in a cold, sparkling sheen. The air warmed up, however, as night approached. It was such a night that Tarrou chose for telling something of himself to Dr. Rieux.
After a particularly tiring day, about ten o’clock Tarrou proposed to the doctor that they should go together for the evening visit to Rieux’s old asthma patient. There was a soft glow above the housetops in the Old Town and a light breeze fanned their faces at the street crossings. Coming from the silent streets, they found the old man’s loquacity rather irksome at first. He launched into a long harangue to the effect that some folks were getting fed up, that it was always the same people had all the jam, and things couldn’t go on like that indefinitely, one day there’d be, he rubbed his hands, “a fine old row.” He continued expatiating on this theme all the time the doctor was attending to him.
They heard footsteps overhead. Noticing Tarrou’s upward glance, the old woman explained that it was the girls from next door walking on the terrace. She added that one had a lovely view up there, and that as the terraces in this part of the town often joined up with the next one on one side, the women could visit their neighbors without having to go into the street.
“Why not go up and have a look?” the old man suggested. “You’ll get a breath of nice fresh air.”
They found nobody on the terrace, only three empty chairs. On one side, as far as eye could reach, was a row of terraces, the most remote of which abutted on a dark, rugged mass that they recognized as the hill nearest the town. On the other side, spanning some streets and the unseen harbor, their gaze came to rest on the horizon, where sea and sky merged in a dim, vibrant grayness.
Beyond a black patch that they knew to be the cliffs a sudden glow, whose source they could not see, sprang up at regular intervals; the lighthouse at the entrance of the fairway was still functioning for the benefit of ships that, passing Oran’s unused harbor, went on to other ports along the coast. In a sky swept crystal-clear by the night wind, the stars showed like silver flakes, tarnished now and then by the yellow gleam of the revolving light. Perfumes of spice and warm stone were wafted on the breeze.
Everything was very still.
“A pleasant spot,” said Rieux as he lowered himself into a chair. “You’d think that plague had never found its way up here.”
Tarrou was gazing seawards, his back to the doctor.
“Yes,” he replied after a moment’s silence, “it’s good to be here.”
Then, settling into the chair beside Rieux, he fixed his eyes on his face. Three times the glow spread up the sky and died away. A faint clatter of crockery rose from a room opening on the street below. A door banged somewhere in the house.
“Rieux,” Tarrou said in a quite ordinary tone, “do you realize that you’ve never tried to find out anything about me, the man I am? Can I regard you as a friend?”
“Yes, of course, we’re friends; only so far we haven’t had much time to show it.” “Good. That gives me confidence. Suppose we now take an hour off, for
friendship?”
Rieux smiled by way of answer. “Well, here goes!”
There was a long faint hiss some streets off, the sound of a car speeding on the wet pavement. It died away; then some vague shouts a long way off broke the stillness again. Then, like a dense veil slowly falling from the starry sky on the two men, silence returned. Tarrou had moved and now was sitting on the parapet, facing Rieux, who was slumped back in his chair. All that could be seen of him was a dark, bulky form outlined against the glimmering sky. He had much to tell; what follows gives it more or less in his own words.
“To make things simpler, Rieux, let me begin by saying I had plague already, long before I came to this town and encountered it here. Which is tantamount to saying I’m like everybody else. Only there are some people who don’t know it, or feel at ease in that condition; others know and want to get out of it.
Personally, I’ve always wanted to get out of it.
“When I was young I lived with the idea of my innocence; that is to say, with no idea at all. I’m not the self-tormenting kind of person, and I made a suitable start in life. I brought off everything I set my hand to, I moved at ease in the field of the intellect, I got on excellently with women, and if I had occasional qualms, they passed as lightly as they came. Then one day I started thinking.
And now?
“I should tell you I wasn’t poor in my young days, as you were. My father had an important post, he was prosecuting attorney; but to look at him, you’d never have guessed it; he appeared, and was, a kindly, good-natured man. My mother was a simple, rather shy woman, and I’ve always loved her greatly; but I’d rather not talk about her. My father was always very kind to me, and I even think he tried to understand me. He wasn’t a model husband.
I know that now, but I can’t say it shocks me particularly. Even in his infidelities he behaved as one could count on his behaving and never gave rise to scandal. In short, he wasn’t at all original and, now he’s dead, I realize that, while no plaster saint, he was a very decent man as men go. He kept the
