The Plague by Albert Camus. Part 4 Chapter 7.

Yes the plague gave short shrift indeed and they must set their shoulders to the wheel again. Throughout December it smouldered in the chest of our townsfolk, fed the fires in the crematorium and peopled the camps with human jetson. In short it never ceased progressing with its characteristically jerky but unfaltering stride. The authorities had optimistically reckoned on the coming of winter to halt its progress but it lasted through the first cold spells without the least remission. So the only thing for us to do was to go on waiting and since after a too long waiting one gives up waiting the whole town lived as if it had no future. As for Dr Rieu that brief hour of peace and friendship which had been granted them was not and could not be repeated. Yet another hospital had been opened and his only converse was with his patients. However he noticed a change at this stage of the epidemic now that the plague was assuming more and more the mnemonic form. The patients seemed after their fashion to be seconding the doctor. Instead of giving way to the frustration or the frenzies of the early period they appeared to have a clearer idea of where their interests lay and on their own initiative asked for what might be most beneficial. Thus they were always clamouring for something to drink and insisted on being kept as warm as possible. And though the demands on him were as exhausting as before Rieu no longer had the impression of putting up a solitary fight. The patients were cooperating. Toward the end of December he received a letter from Monsieur Auton who was still in quarantine. The magistrate stated that his quarantine period was over. Unfortunately the date of his admission to camp seemed to have been mislaid by the Secretariat and if he was still detained it was certainly due to a mistake. 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. Rieu asked Rambert to look into the matter and a few days later Monsieur Auton called on him. There had in fact been a mistake and Rieu showed some indignation. But Monsieur Auton, who had grown thinner, raised a limp, depreciating 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 Auton? Rieu 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 the rest. It's not that. I want to go back to the camp. Rieu 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 that there are some voluntary workers from government offices in that camp. The magistrate rolled his round eyes a little and tried to smooth down the 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. Rieu stared at him. Could it be that a sudden gentleness showed in those hard inexpressive eyes? Yes, they'd grown misted, lost their steely glitter. Certainly, Rieu said, since it'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. Tarou 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 Rieu that he should avail himself of this clandestine channel and Rieu 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 Cotard, 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 unlike previous Christmas tides, as well it could be. In the past 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 realise 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, grey 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, Rear 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. Taru and the doctor set out in the car to hunt for Grand. At noon Rear 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 rung 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 Jean 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, Jean'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, Rear, 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 Rear approach. Oh, doctor, he could say no more. Rear, too, couldn't speak. He made a vague understanding gesture, and 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 I could have time to write to her, to let her know, and to let her be happy without remorse. Almost roughly, Rear took Grand's arm and drew him forward. Grand did not resist, and went on muttering broken phrases. Too long, it has 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. Rear took his hand. It was burning hot. You must go home. But Grand wretched himself free and started running. After a few steps, he halted and stretched out his arms, swaying to and fro, and 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. Rear had to carry the old man to the car. Grand lay in bed, gasping for breath. His lungs were congested. Rear pondered, the old fellow hadn't any family. What would be the point of having him evacuated? He and Taru could look after him. Grand's head was buried in the pillow. His cheeks were a greenish grey. His eyes had gone dull, opaque. He seemed to be gazing fixedly at the scanty fire Taru 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. Rear 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 Rear 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 Taru handed him the sheets, he pressed them to his chest without looking at them, and then held them out to the Doctor, indicating by a gesture that he was to read them. There were some 50 pages of manuscript. Glancing through them, Rear 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 Jean, 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 Rear 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. Rear refrained from looking at him, and he began to toss about in the bed. Yes, I know what you're thinking. Fine isn't a word. Rear 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 Grand repeated his injunction, in so violent a tone, and with such agony in his voice, that Rear walked across to the fireplace and dropped the sheets on the dying fire. It blazed up, and there was a sudden flood of light, a fleeting warmth in the room. When the Doctor came back to the bed, Grand had his back turned, his face almost touching the wall. After injecting the serum, Rear whispered to his friend that Grand wouldn't last the night, and Taru volunteered to stay with him. The Doctor approved. All night, Rear was haunted by the idea of Grand's death. But next morning, he found his patient sitting up in bed, talking to Taru. His temperature was down to normal, and there were no symptoms other than a generalised prostration. Yes, Doctor, Grand said, I was over hasty, but I'll make another start. You'll see, I can remember every word. Rear looked at Taru dubiously. We must wait, he said. But at noon, there was no change. By nightfall, Grand could be considered out of danger. Rear was completely baffled by this resurrection. Other surprises were in store for him. About the same time, there was brought to the hospital a girl, whose case Rear diagnosed as hopeless, and he had her sent immediately to the isolation ward. She was delirious, and had all the symptoms of pneumonic plague. Next morning, however, the temperature had fallen, as in Grand's case, the Doctor assumed this was the ordinary morning fall that his experience had taught him to regard as a bad sign. But at noon, her temperature still showed no rise, and at night it went up only a few degrees. Next morning, it was down to normal. Though very exhausted, the girl was breathing freely. Rear remarked to Taru that her recovery was against all the rules. But in the course of the next week, four similar cases came to his notice. The old asthma patient was bubbling over with excitement when Rear and Taru visited him at the end of the week. Would you ever have believed it? They're coming out again, he said. Who? Why, the rats! Not one dead or living rat had been seen in the town since April. Does that mean it's starting all over again? Taru asked Rear. The old man was rubbing his hands. You should see them running, Doctor. It's a treat, it is. He himself had seen two rats slipping into the house by the street door, and some neighbours too had told him they'd seen rats in their basements. In some houses, people had heard those once-familiar scratchings and rustlings behind the woodwork. Rear awaited with much interest the mortality figures that were announced every Monday. They showed a decrease.