"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 their personal afflictions, 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.
Albert Camus, The plague
(Series: # )
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