“He’s a man with something pretty serious on his conscience,” Grand said gravely.
The doctor shrugged his shoulders.
As the inspector had said, he’d other fish to fry.
That afternoon Rieux had another talk with Castel.
The serum had not yet come.
“In any case,” Rieux said, “I wonder if it will be much use. This bacillus is such a queer one.”
“There,” Castel said, “I don’t agree with you. These little brutes always have an air of originality.
But, at bottom, it’s always the same thing.”
“That’s your theory, anyhow.
Actually, of course, we know next to nothing on the subject.”
“I grant you, it’s only my theory.
Still, in a sense, that goes for everybody.”
Throughout the day the doctor was conscious that the slightly dazed feeling that came over him whenever he thought about the plague was growing more pronounced.
Finally he realized that he was afraid!
On two occasions he entered crowded cafes.
Like Cottard he felt a need for friendly contacts, human warmth.
A stupid instinct, Rieux told himself; still, it served to remind him that he’d promised to visit the traveling salesman.
Cottard was standing beside the dining-table when the doctor entered his room that evening.
A detective story lay open on the tablecloth.
But the night was closing in and it would have been difficult to read in the growing darkness.
Most likely Cottard had been sitting musing in the twilight until he heard the ring at his door.
Rieux asked how he was feeling.
Cottard sat down and replied rather grumpily that he was feeling tolerably well, adding that he’d feel still better if only he could be sure of being left in peace.
Rieux remarked that one couldn’t always be alone.
“That’s not what I meant.
I was thinking of people who take an interest in you only to make trouble for you.”
When Rieux said nothing, he went on:
“Mind you, that’s not my case.
Only I’ve been reading that detective story.
It’s about a poor devil who’s arrested one fine morning, all of a sudden.
People had been taking an interest in him and he knew nothing about it.
They were talking about him in offices, entering his name on card indexes.
Now, do you think that’s fair?
Do you think people have a right to treat a man like that?”
“Well,” Rieux said, “that depends. In one sense I agree, nobody has the right.
But all that’s beside the mark.
What’s important is for you to go out a bit.
It’s a mistake staying indoors too much.”
Cottard seemed vexed and said that on the contrary he was always going out, and, if need arose, all the people in the street could vouch for him.
What’s more, he knew lots of people in other parts of the town.
“Do you know Monsieur Rigaud, the architect?
He’s a friend of mine.”
The room was in almost complete darkness.
Outside, the street was growing noisier and a sort of murmur of relief greeted the moment when all the street-lamps lit up, all together.
Rieux went out on the balcony, and Cottard followed him.
From the outlying districts—as happens every evening in our town—a gentle breeze wafted a murmur of voices, smells of roasting meat, a gay, perfumed tide of freedom sounding on its way, as the streets filled up with noisy young people released from shops and offices.
Nightfall, with its deep, remote baying of unseen ships, the rumor rising from the sea, and the happy tumult of the crowd—that first hour of darkness which in the past had always had a special charm for Rieux—seemed today charged with menace, because of all he knew.
“How about turning on the lights?” he suggested when they went back into the room.
After this had been done, the little man gazed at him, blinking his eyes.
“Tell me, Doctor. Suppose I fell ill, would you put me in your ward at the hospital?”