The Plague — Chapter 30

his chronicle is drawing to an end, and this seems to be the moment for Dr. Bernard Rieux to confess that he is theT narrator. But before describing the closing scenes, he would wish anyhow to justify his undertaking and to set it down that he expressly made a point of adopting the tone of an impartial observer. His profession put him in touch with a great many of our townspeople while plague was raging, and he had opportunities of hearing their various opinions. Thus he was well placed for giving a true account of all he saw and heard. But in so doing he has tried to keep within the limits that seemed desirable. For instance, in a general way he has conned himself to describing only such things as he was enabled to see for himself, and has refrained from attributing to his fellow suerers thoughts that, when all is said and done, they were not bound to have. And as for documents, he has used only such as chance, or mischance, put in his way.

Summoned to give evidence regarding what was a sort of crime, he has exercised the restraint that behooves a conscientious witness.

All the same, following the dictates of his heart, he has deliberately taken the victims’ side and tried to share with his fellow citizens the only certitudes they had in common—love, exile, and suering.

Thus he can truly say there was not one of their anxieties in which he did not share, no predicament of theirs that was not his.

To be an honest witness, it was for him to conne himself mainly to what people did or said and what could be gleaned from documents. Regarding his personal troubles and his long suspense, his duty was to hold his peace. When now and then he refers to such matters, it is only for the light they may throw on his fellow citizens

and in order to give a picture, as well dened as possible, of what most of the time they felt confusedly. Actually, this self-imposed reticence cost him little eort. Whenever tempted to add his personal note to the myriad voices of the plague-stricken, he was deterred by the thought that not one of his suerings but was common to all the others and that in a world where sorrow is so often lonely, this was an advantage. Thus, decidedly, it was up to him to speak for all.

But there was at least one of our townsfolk for whom Dr. Rieux could not speak, the man of whom Tarrou said one day to Rieux: “His only real crime is that of having in his heart approved of something that killed o men, women, and children. I can understand the rest, but for that I am obliged to pardon him.” It is tting that this chronicle should end with some reference to that man, who had an ignorant, that is to say lonely, heart.

On turning out of the main thoroughfares where the rejoicings were in full swing, and entering the street where Grand and Cottard lived, Dr. Rieux was held up by a police cordon. Nothing could have surprised him more. This quiet part of the town seemed all the quieter for the sounds of festivity in the distance, and the doctor pictured it as deserted as it was tranquil.

“Sorry, Doctor,” a policeman said, “but I can’t let you through.

There’s a crazy fellow with a gun, shooting at everybody. But you’d better stay; we may need you.”

Just then Rieux saw Grand coming toward him. Grand, too, had no idea what was happening and the police had stopped him, too.

He had been told that the shots came from the house where he lived. They could see, some way down the street, the front of the house, bathed in cool evening light. Farther down the street was another line of policemen like the one that had prevented Rieux and Grand from advancing, and behind the line some of the local residents could be seen crossing and recrossing the street hastily.

The street immediately in front of the house was quite empty and in the middle of the hollow square lay a hat and a piece of dirty cloth.

Looking more carefully, they saw more policemen, revolvers in hand, sheltering in doorways facing the house. All the shutters in

Grand’s house were closed, except one on the third oor that seemed to be hanging loose on one hinge only. Not a sound could be heard in the street but for occasional snatches of music coming from the center of the town.

Suddenly two revolver-shots rang out; they came from one of the buildings opposite and some splinters ew o 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 stu that’s needed. He res at anyone who tries to get in by the front door. He got one of our men just now.”

“But why did he re?”

“Ask me another! Some folks were having fun in the street, and he let o at them. They couldn’t make it out at rst. When he red 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 rst 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 eas. Some of the policemen whistled for it to come away. It raised its head, then walked out into the road and was sning at the hat when a revolver barked from the third-oor window. The dog did a somersault like a tossed pancake, lashed the air with its legs, and oundered on to its side, its body writhing in long convulsions. As if by way of reprisal ve or six shots from the opposite house knocked more splinters o 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 ocers 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 ocers had entered from behind there came a burst of machine-gun re. 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 rst machine-gun stopped ring, another opened up from a dierent 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 ocers charged across the road and disappeared into the doorway. The machine-gun ceased re. Then came another wait. Two mued 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 ew 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 ocers. He was still screaming. A policeman went up and dealt him two hard blows with his sts, 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 o, bringing it low in a courtly sweep. But Rieux was thinking of Cottard, and the dull thud of sts 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 they’ll go o 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 int. 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 clis 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 rst rocket of the rework 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 re 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 time of pestilence: that there are more things to admire in men than to despise.

Nonetheless, he knew that the tale he had to tell could not be one of a nal 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 ght against terror and its relentless onslaughts, despite their personal aictions, by all who, while unable to be saints but refusing to bow down to pestilences, strive their utmost to be healers.

And, indeed, as he listened to the cries of joy rising from the town, Rieux remembered that such joy is always imperiled. He knew what those jubilant crowds did not know but could have learned from books: that the plague bacillus never dies or disappears for good; that it can lie dormant for years and years in furniture and linen-chests; that it bides its time in bedrooms, cellars, trunks, and bookshelves; and that perhaps the day would come when, for the bane and the enlightening of men, it would rouse up its rats again and send them forth to die in a happy city.