“If things go on as they are going,” Rieux remarked, “the whole town will be a madhouse.”
He felt exhausted, his throat was parched.
“Let’s have a drink.”
They turned into a small cafe. The only light came from a lamp over the bar, the heavy air had a curious reddish tinge, and for no apparent reason everyone was speaking in undertones.
To the doctor’s surprise Grand asked for a small glass of straight liquor, which he drank off at a gulp. “Fiery stuff!” he observed; then, a moment later, suggested making a move.
Out in the street it seemed to Rieux that the night was full of whispers.
Somewhere in the black depths above the street-lamps there was a low soughing that brought to his mind that unseen flail threshing incessantly the languid air of which Paneloux had spoken.
“Happily, happily,” Grand muttered, then paused.
Rieux asked him what he had been going to say.
“Happily, I’ve my work.”
“Ah yes,” Rieux said. “That’s something, anyhow.”
Then, so as not to hear that eerie whistling in the air, he asked Grand if he was getting good results.
“Well, yes, I think I’m making headway.”
“Have you much more to do?”
Grand began to show an animation unlike his usual self, and his voice took ardor from the liquor he had drunk.
“I don’t know. But that’s not the point, Doctor; yes, I can assure you that’s not the point.”
It was too dark to see clearly, but Rieux had the impression that he was waving his arms.
He seemed to be working himself up to say something, and when he spoke, the words came with a rush.
“What I really want, Doctor, is this. On the day when the manuscript reaches the publisher, I want him to stand up—after he’s read it through, of course—and say to his staff:
‘Gentlemen, hats off!’ ”
Rieux was dumbfounded, and, to add to his amazement, he saw, or seemed to see, the man beside him making as if to take off his hat with a sweeping gesture, bringing his hand to his head, then holding his arm out straight in front of him.
That queer whistling overhead seemed to gather force.
“So you see,” Grand added, “it’s got to be flawless.”
Though he knew little of the literary world, Rieux had a suspicion that things didn’t happen in it quite so picturesquely—that, for instance, publishers do not keep their hats on in their offices.
But, of course, one never can tell, and Rieux preferred to hold his peace.
Try as he might to shut his ears to it, he still was listening to that eerie sound above, the whispering of the plague.
They had reached the part of the town where Grand lived and, as it was on a slight eminence, they felt the cool night breeze fanning their cheeks and at the same time carrying away from them the noises of the town.
Grand went on talking, but Rieux failed to follow all the worthy man was saying.
All he gathered was that the work he was engaged on ran to a great many pages, and he was at almost excruciating pains to bring it to perfection.
“Evenings, whole weeks, spent on one word, just think! Sometimes on a mere conjunction!”
Grand stopped abruptly and seized the doctor by a button of his coat.
The words came stumbling out of his almost toothless mouth.
“I’d like you to understand, Doctor.
I grant you it’s easy enough to choose between a ‘but’ and an ‘and.’
It’s a bit more difficult to decide between ‘and’ and ‘then.’
But definitely the hardest thing may be to know whether one should put an ‘and’ or leave it out.”
“Yes,” Rieux said, “I see your point.”
He started walking again.
Grand looked abashed, then stepped forward and drew level.
“Sorry,” he said awkwardly. “I don’t know what’s come over me this evening.”
Rieux patted his shoulder encouragingly, saying he’d been much interested in what Grand had said and would like to help him.
This seemed to reassure Grand, and when they reached his place he suggested, after some slight hesitation, that the doctor should come in for a moment.
Rieux agreed.
They entered the dining-room and Grand gave him a chair beside a table strewn with sheets of paper covered with writing in a microscopic hand, crisscrossed with corrections.
“Yes, that’s it,” he said in answer to the doctor’s questioning glance. “But won’t you drink something?
I’ve some wine.”
Rieux declined.
He was bending over the manuscript.
“No, don’t look,” Grand said. “It’s my opening phrase, and it’s giving trouble, no end of trouble.”
He too was gazing at the sheets of paper on the table, and his hand seemed irresistibly drawn to one of them. Finally he picked it up and held it to the shadeless electric bulb so that the light shone through.