His wife, recently released from quarantine, had gone to the Prefect’s office to protest and had been rudely treated; they had told her that the office never made mistakes. Rieux asked Rambert to look into the matter, and a few days later M. Othon called on him. There had, in fact, been a mistake, and Rieux showed some indignation. But M. Othon, who had grown thinner, raised a limp, deprecating hand; weighing his words, he said that everyone could make mistakes. And the doctor thought to himself that decidedly something had changed.
«What will you do now, Monsieur Othon?» Rieux asked. «I suppose you have a pile of work awaiting you.»
«Well, as a matter of fact, I’m putting in for some leave.» «I quite understand. You need a rest.»
«It’s not that. I want to go back to the camp.»
Rieux couldn’t believe his ears. «But you’ve only just come out of it!»
«I’m afraid I did not make myself clear. I’m told there are some voluntary workers from government offices in that camp.» The magistrate rolled his round eyes a little and tried to smooth down a tuft of hair. «It would keep me busy, you see. And also, I know it may sound absurd, but I’d feel less separated from my little boy.»
Rieux stared at him. Could it be that a sudden gentleness showed in those hard, inexpressive eyes? Yes, they had grown misted, lost their steely glitter.
«Certainly,» Rieux said. «Since that’s your wish, I’ll fix it up for you.»
The doctor kept his word; and the life of the plague-ridden town resumed its course until Christmas. Tarrou continued to bring his quiet efficiency to bear on every problem. Rambert confided in the doctor that, with the connivance of the two young guards, he was sending letters to his wife and now and then receiving an answer. He suggested to Rieux that he should avail himself of this clandestine channel, and Rieux agreed to do so. For the first time for many months he sat down to write a letter. He found it a laborious business, as if he were manipulating a language that he had forgotten. The letter was dispatched.
The reply was slow in coming. As for Cottard, he was prospering, making money hand over fist in small, somewhat shady transactions. With Grand, however, it was otherwise; the Christmas season did not seem to agree with him.
Indeed, Christmas that year had none of its old-time associations; it smacked of hell rather than of heaven. Empty, unlighted shops, dummy chocolates or empty boxes in the confectioners’ windows, streetcars laden with listless, dispirited passengers, all was as unlike previous Christmastides as it well could be. In the past all the townspeople, rich and poor alike, indulged in seasonable festivity; now only a privileged few, those with money to burn, could do so, and they caroused in shamefast solitude in a dingy back shop or a private room. In the churches there were more supplications than carols.
You saw a few children, too young to realize what threatened them, playing in the frosty, cheerless streets. But no one dared to bid them welcome-in the God of former days, bringer of gifts, and old as human sorrow, yet new as the hopes of youth. There was no room in any heart but for a very old, gray hope, that hope which keeps men from letting themselves drift into death and is nothing but a dogged will to live.
Grand had failed to show up as usual on the previous evening. Feeling somewhat anxious, Rieux called at his place early in the morning, but he wasn’t at home.
His friends were asked to keep a lookout for him. At about eleven Rambert came to the hospital with the news that he’d had a distant glimpse of Grand, who seemed to be wandering aimlessly, «looking very queer.» Unfortunately he had lost sight of him almost at once. Tarrou and the doctor set out in the car to hunt for Grand.
At noon Rieux stepped out of his car into the frozen air; he had just caught sight of Grand some distance away, his face glued to a shop-window full of crudely carved wooden toys. Tears were steadily flowing down the old fellow’s cheeks, and they wrung the doctor’s heart, for he could understand them, and he felt his own tears welling up in sympathy. A picture rose before him of that scene of long ago, the youngster standing in front of another shop-window, like this one dressed for Christmas, and Jeanne turning toward him in a sudden access of emotion and saying how happy she was.
He could guess that through the mists of the past years, from the depth of his fond despair, Jeanne’s young voice was rising, echoing in Grand’s ears. And he knew, also, what the old man was thinking as his tears flowed, and he, Rieux, thought it too: that a loveless world is a dead world, and always there comes an hour when one is weary of prisons, of one’s work, and of devotion to duty, and all one craves for is a loved face, the warmth and wonder of a loving heart.
Grand saw the doctor’s reflection in the window. Still weeping, he turned and, leaning against the shop-front, watched Rieux approach.
«Oh, doctor, doctor!» He could say no more.
Rieux, too, couldn’t speak; he made a vague, understanding gesture. At this moment he suffered with Grand’s sorrow, and what filled his breast was the passionate indignation we feel when confronted by the anguish all men share.
«Yes, Grand,» he murmured.
«Oh, if only I could have time to write to her! To let her know… and to let her be happy without remorse!»
Almost roughly Rieux took Grand’s arm and drew him forward. Grand did not resist and went on muttering broken phrases.
«Too long! It’s lasted too long. All the time one’s wanting to let oneself go, and then one day one has to. Oh, doctor, I know I look a quiet sort, just like anybody else. But it’s always been a terrible effort only to be, just normal. And now, well, even that’s too much for me.»
He stopped dead. He was trembling violently, his eyes were fever-bright. Rieux took his hand; it was burning hot.
«You must go home.»
But Grand wrenched himself free and started running. After a few steps he halted and stretched out his arms, swaying to and fro. Then he spun round on himself and fell flat on the pavement, his face stained with the tears that went on flowing. Some people who were approaching stopped abruptly and watched the scene from a little way off, not daring to come nearer. Rieux had to carry the old man to the car.
Grand lay in bed, gasping for breath; his lungs were congested. Rieux pondered. The old fellow hadn’t any family. What would be the point of having him evacuated? He and Tarrou could look after him.
Grand’s head was buried in the pillow, his cheeks were a greenish gray, his eyes had gone dull, opaque. He seemed to be gazing fixedly at the scanty fire Tarrou was kindling with the remains of an old packing-case. «I’m in a bad way,» he muttered. A queer crackling sound came from his flame-seared lungs whenever he tried to speak. Rieux told him not to talk and promised to come back. The sick man’s lips parted in a curious smile, and a look of humorous complicity flickered across the haggard face. «If I pull through, doctor, hats off!» A moment later he sank into extreme prostration.
Visiting him again some hours later, they found him half sitting up in bed, and Rieux was horrified by the rapid change that had come over his face, ravaged by the fires of the disease consuming him. However, he seemed more lucid and almost immediately asked them to get his manuscript from the drawer where he always kept it. When Tarrou handed him the sheets, he pressed them to his chest without looking at them, then held them out to the doctor, indicating by a gesture that he was to read them. There were some fifty pages of manuscript. Glancing through them, Rieux saw that the bulk of the writing consisted of the same sentence written again and again with small variants, simplifications or elaborations.
Persistently the month of May, the lady on horseback, the avenues of the Bois recurred, regrouped in different patterns. There were, besides, explanatory notes, some exceedingly long, and lists of alternatives. But at the foot of the last page was written in a studiously clear hand: «My dearest Jeanne, Today is Christmas Day and…» Eight words only. Above it, in copperplate script, was the latest version of the famous phrase. «Read it,» Grand whispered. And Rieux read:
«One fine morning in May, a slim young horsewoman might have been seen riding a glossy sorrel mare along the avenues of the Bois, among the flowers….»
«Is that it?» There was a feverish quaver in the old voice. Rieux refrained from looking at him, and he began to toss about in the bed. «Yes, I know. I know what you’re thinking. ‘Fine’ isn’t the word. It’s?»
Rieux clasped his hand under the coverlet.
«No, doctor. It’s too late, no time…» His breast heaved painfully, then suddenly he said in a loud, shrill voice: «Burn it!»
The doctor hesitated, but
