“That’s not it,” Rambert rejoined. “Until now I always felt a stranger in this town, and that I’d no concern with you people.
But now that I’ve seen what I have seen, I know that I belong here whether I want it or not.
This business is everybody’s business.”
When there was no reply from either of the others, Rambert seemed to grow annoyed.
“But you know that as well as I do, damn it!
Or else what are you up to in that hospital of yours?
Have you made a definite choice and turned down happiness?”
Rieux and Tarrou still said nothing, and the silence lasted until they were at the doctor’s home.
Then Rambert repeated his last question in a yet more emphatic tone.
Only then Rieux turned toward him, raising himself with an effort from the cushion.
“Forgive me, Rambert, only—well, I simply don’t know.
But stay with us if you want to.”
A swerve of the car made him break off.
Then, looking straight in front of him, he said:
“For nothing in the world is it worth turning one’s back on what one loves.
Yet that is what I’m doing, though why I do not know.”
He sank back on the cushion.
“That’s how it is,” he added wearily, “and there’s nothing to be done about it. So let’s recognize the fact and draw the conclusions.”
“What conclusions?”
“Ah,” Rieux said, “a man can’t cure and know at the same time. So let’s cure as quickly as we can.
That’s the more urgent job.”
At midnight Tarrou and Rieux were giving Rambert the map of the district he was to keep under surveillance. Tarrou glanced at his watch.
Looking up, he met Rambert’s gaze.
“Have you let them know?” he asked.
The journalist looked away.
“I’d sent them a note”—he spoke with an effort—“before coming to see you.”
Toward the close of October Castel’s anti-plague serum was tried for the first time.
Practically speaking, it was Rieux’s last card.
If it failed, the doctor was convinced the whole town would be at the mercy of the epidemic, which would either continue its ravages for an unpredictable period or perhaps die out abruptly of its own accord.
The day before Castel called on Rieux, M. Othon’s son had fallen ill and all the family had to go into quarantine.
Thus the mother, who had only recently come out of it, found herself isolated once again.
In deference to the official regulations the magistrate had promptly sent for Dr. Rieux the moment he saw symptoms of the disease in his little boy.
Mother and father were standing at the bedside when Rieux entered the room.
The boy was in the phase of extreme prostration and submitted without a whimper to the doctor’s examination.
When Rieux raised his eyes he saw the magistrate’s gaze intent on him, and, behind, the mother’s pale face. She was holding a handkerchief to her mouth, and her big, dilated eyes followed each of the doctor’s movements.
“He has it, I suppose?” the magistrate asked in a toneless voice.
“Yes.” Rieux gazed down at the child again.
The mother’s eyes widened yet more, but she still said nothing.
M. Othon, too, kept silent for a while before saying in an even lower tone:
“Well, Doctor, we must do as we are told to do.”
Rieux avoided looking at Mme. Othon, who was still holding her handkerchief to her mouth.
“It needn’t take long,” he said rather awkwardly, “if you’ll let me use your phone.”
The magistrate said he would take him to the telephone.
But before going, the doctor turned toward Mme. Othon.
“I regret very much indeed, but I’m afraid you’ll have to get your things ready.
You know how it is.”
Mme. Othon seemed disconcerted.
She was staring at the floor.
Then, “I understand,” she murmured, slowly nodding her head. “I’ll set about it at once.”
Before leaving, Rieux on a sudden impulse asked the Othons if there wasn’t anything they’d like him to do for them.