Suddenly two revolver-shots rang out; they came from one of the buildings opposite and some splinters flew off the dismantled shutter. Then silence came again. Seen from a distance, after the tumult of the day, the whole business seemed to Rieux fantastically unreal, like something in a dream.
«That’s Cottard’s window,» Grand suddenly exclaimed. «I can’t make it out. I thought he’d disappeared.»
«Why are they shooting?» Rieux asked the policeman.
«Oh, just to keep him busy. We’re waiting for a car to come with the stuff that’s needed. He fires at anyone who tries to get in by the front door. He got one of our men just now.»
«But why did he fire?»
«Ask me another! Some folks were having fun in the street, and he let off at them. They couldn’t make it out at first. When he fired again, they started yelling, one man was wounded, and the rest took to their heels. Some fellow out of his head, I should say.»
The minutes seemed interminable in the silence that had returned. Then they noticed a dog, the first dog Rieux had seen for many months, emerging on the other side of the street, a draggled-looking spaniel that its owners had, presumably, kept in hiding. It ambled along the wall, stopped in the doorway, sat down, and began to dig at its fleas. Some of the policemen whistled for it to come away.
It raised its head, then walked out into the road and was sniffing at the hat when a revolver barked from the third-floor window. The dog did a somersault like a tossed pancake, lashed the air with its legs, and floundered on to its side, its body writhing in long convulsions. As if by way of reprisal five or six shots from the opposite house knocked more splinters off the shutter. Then silence fell again. The sun had moved a little and the shadow-line was nearing Cottard’s window. There was a low squeal of brakes in the street, behind the doctor.
«Here they are,» the policeman said.
A number of police officers jumped out of the car and unloaded coils of rope, a ladder, and two big oblong packages wrapped in oilcloth. Then they turned into a street behind the row of houses facing Grand’s. A minute or so later there were signs of movement, though little could be seen, in the doorways of the houses.
Then came a short spell of waiting. The dog had ceased moving; it now was lying in a small, dark, glistening pool.
Suddenly from the window of one of the houses that the police officers had entered from behind there came a burst of machine-gun fire. They were still aiming at the shutter, which literally shredded itself away, disclosing a dark gap into which neither Grand nor Rieux could see from where they stood. When the first machine-gun stopped firing, another opened up from a different angle, in a house a little farther up the street. The shots were evidently directed into the window space, and a fragment of the brickwork clattered down upon the pavement.
At the same moment three police officers charged across the road and disappeared into the doorway. The machine-gun ceased fire. Then came another wait. Two muffled detonations sounded inside the house, followed by a confused hubbub growing steadily louder until they saw a small man in his shirt-sleeves, screaming at the top of his voice, being carried more than dragged out by the doorway.
As if at an expected signal all the shutters in the street flew open and excited faces lined the windows, while people streamed out of the houses and jostled the lines of police. Rieux had a brief glimpse of the small man, on his feet now, in the middle of the road, his arms pinioned behind him by two police officers. He was still screaming. A policeman went up and dealt him two hard blows with his fists, quite calmly, with a sort of conscientious thoroughness.
«It’s Cottard!» Grand’s voice was shrill with excitement. «He’s gone mad!» Cottard had fallen backwards, and the policeman launched a vigorous kick into
the crumpled mass sprawling on the ground. Then a small, surging group began to move toward the doctor and his old friend.
«Stand clear!» the policeman bawled.
Rieux looked away when the group, Cottard and his captors, passed him.
The dusk was thickening into night when Grand and the doctor made a move at last. The Cottard incident seemed to have shaken the neighborhood out of its normal lethargy and even these remote streets were becoming crowded with noisy merry-makers. On his doorstep Grand bade the doctor good night; he was going to put in an evening’s work, he said. Just as he was starting up the stairs he added that he’d written to Jeanne and was feeling much happier. Also he’d made a fresh start with his phrase. «I’ve cut out all the adjectives.»
And, with a twinkle in his eye, he took his hat off, bringing it low in a courtly sweep. But Rieux was thinking of Cottard, and the dull thud of fists belaboring the wretched man’s face haunted him as he went to visit his old asthma patient. Perhaps it was more painful to think of a guilty man than of a dead man.
It was quite dark by the time he reached his patient’s house. In the bedroom the distant clamor of a populace rejoicing in its new-won freedom could be faintly heard, and the old fellow was as usual transposing peas from one pan to another.
«They’re quite right to amuse themselves,» he said. «It takes all sorts to make a world, as they say. And your colleague, doctor, how’s he getting on?»
«He’s dead.» Rieux was listening to his patient’s rumbling chest. «Ah, really?» The old fellow sounded embarrassed.
«Of plague,» Rieux added.
«Yes,» the old man said after a moment’s silence, «it’s always the best who go. That’s how life is. But he was a man who knew what he wanted.»
«Why do you say that?» The doctor was putting back his stethoscope.
«Oh, for no particular reason. Only, well, he never talked just for talking’s sake. I’d rather cottoned to him. But there you are! All those folks are saying:
‘It was plague. We’ve had the plague here.’ You’d almost think they expected to be given medals for it. But what does that mean, ‘plague’? Just life, no more than that.»
«Do your inhalations regularly.»
«Don’t worry about me, doctor! There’s lots of life in me yet, and I’ll see ’em all into their graves. I know how to live.»
A burst of joyful shouts in the distance seemed an echo of his boast. Halfway across the room the doctor halted.
«Would you mind if I go up on the terrace?»
«Of course not. You’d like to have a look at ’em, that it? But they’re just the same as ever, really.» When Rieux was leaving the room, a new thought crossed his mind. «I say, doctor. Is it a fact they’re going to put up a memorial to the people who died of plague?»
«So the papers say. A monument, or just a tablet.»
«I could have sworn it! And there’ll be speeches.» He chuckled throatily. «I can almost hear them saying: ‘Our dear departed…’ And then they’ll go off and have a good snack.»
Rieux was already halfway up the stairs. Cold, fathomless depths of sky glimmered overhead, and near the hilltops stars shone hard as flint. It was much like the night when he and Tarrou had come to the terrace to forget the plague.
Only, tonight the sea was breaking on the cliffs more loudly and the air was calm and limpid, free of the tang of brine the autumn wind had brought. The noises of the town were still beating like waves at the foot of the long line of terraces, but tonight they told not of revolt, but of deliverance. In the distance a reddish glow hung above the big central streets and squares. In this night of new-born freedom desires knew no limits, and it was their clamor that reached Rieux’s ears.
From the dark harbor soared the first rocket of the firework display organized by the municipality, and the town acclaimed it with a long-drawn sigh of delight. Cottard.
Tarrou, the men and the woman Rieux had loved and lost, all alike, dead or guilty, were forgotten. Yes, the old fellow had been right; these people were «just the same as ever.» But this was at once their strength and their innocence, and it was on this level, beyond all grief, that Rieux could feel himself at one with them.
And it was in the midst of shouts rolling against the terrace wall in massive waves that waxed in volume and duration, while cataracts of colored fire fell thicker through the darkness, that Dr. Rieux resolved to compile this chronicle, so that he should not be one of those who hold their peace but should bear witness in favor of those plague-stricken people; so that some memorial of the injustice and outrage done them might endure; and to state quite simply what we learn in a time of pestilence: that there are more things to admire in men than to despise.
None the less, he knew that the tale he had to tell could not be one of a final victory. It could be only the record of what had had to be done, and what assuredly would have to be done again in the never ending fight against terror and its relentless onslaughts, despite
