Thus in a moment of weakness the Bishop had proposed to isolate himself from the outside world—and, lo and behold, corpses rained down on his head!
This had a lesson for us all; we must convince ourselves that there is no island of escape in time of plague.
No, there was no middle course.
We must accept the dilemma and choose either to hate God or to love God.
And who would dare to choose to hate Him?
“My brothers”—the preacher’s tone showed he was nearing the conclusion of his sermon—“the love of God is a hard love.
It demands total self-surrender, disdain of our human personality.
And yet it alone can reconcile us to suffering and the deaths of children, it alone can justify them, since we cannot understand them, and we can only make God’s will ours.
That is the hard lesson I would share with you today.
That is the faith, cruel in men’s eyes, and crucial in God’s, which we must ever strive to compass.
We must aspire beyond ourselves toward that high and fearful vision.
And on that lofty plane all will fall into place, all discords be resolved, and truth flash forth from the dark cloud of seeming injustice.
Thus in some churches of the south of France plague victims have lain sleeping many a century under the flagstones of the chancel, and priests now speak above their tombs, and the divine message they bring to men rises from that charnel, to which, nevertheless, children have contributed their share.”
When Rieux was preparing to leave the church a violent gust swept up the nave through the half-open doors and buffeted the faces of the departing congregation.
It brought with it a smell of rain, a tang of drenched sidewalks, warning them of the weather they would encounter outside.
An old priest and a young deacon who were walking immediately in front of Rieux had much difficulty in keeping their headdress from blowing away.
But this did not prevent the elder of the two from discussing the sermon they had heard.
He paid tribute to the preacher’s eloquence, but the boldness of thought Paneloux had shown gave him pause.
In his opinion the sermon had displayed more uneasiness than real power, and at Paneloux’s age a priest had no business to feel uneasy.
The young deacon, his head bowed to protect his face from the wind, replied that he saw much of the Father, had followed the evolution of his views, and believed his forthcoming pamphlet would be bolder still; indeed it might well be refused the imprimatur.
“You don’t mean to say so! What’s the main idea?” asked the old priest.
They were now in the Cathedral square and for some moments the roar of the wind made it impossible for the younger man to speak.
When there was a slight lull, he said briefly to his companion:
“That it’s illogical for a priest to call in a doctor.”
Tarrou, when told by Rieux what Paneloux had said, remarked that he’d known a priest who had lost his faith during the war, as the result of seeing a young man’s face with both eyes destroyed.
“Paneloux is right,” Tarrou continued. “When an innocent youth can have his eyes destroyed, a Christian should either lose his faith or consent to having his eyes destroyed.
Paneloux declines to lose his faith, and he will go through with it to the end.
That’s what he meant to say.”
It may be that this remark of Tarrou’s throws some light on the regrettable events which followed, in the course of which the priest’s conduct seemed inexplicable to his friends.
The reader will judge for himself.
A few days after the sermon Paneloux had to move out of his rooms.
It was a time when many people were obliged to change their residence owing to the new conditions created by the plague.
Thus Tarrou, when his hotel was requisitioned, had gone to live with Rieux, and now the Father had to vacate the lodgings provided for him by his Order and stay in the house of a pious old lady who had so far escaped the epidemic.
During the process of moving, Paneloux had been feeling more run-down than ever, mentally as well as physically.
And it was this that put him in the bad books of his hostess.
One evening when she was enthusiastically vaunting the merits of St. Odilia’s prophecies, the priest betrayed a slight impatience, due probably to fatigue.
All his subsequent efforts to bring the good lady round to, anyhow, a state of benevolent neutrality came to nothing.
He had made a bad impression and it went on rankling.
So each night on his way to his bedroom, where almost all the furniture was dotted with crochet covers, he had to contemplate the back of his hostess seated in her drawing-room and carry away with him a memory of the sour
“Good night, Father,” she flung at him over her shoulder.
It was on one such evening that he felt, like a flood bursting the dikes, the turbulent onrush in his wrists and temples of the fever latent in his blood for several days past.
The only available account of what followed comes from the lips of the old lady.
Next morning she rose early, as was her wont.
After an hour or so, puzzled at not seeing the Father leave his room, she brought herself, not without some hesitation, to knock at his door.
She found him still in bed after a sleepless night.
He had difficulty in breathing and looked more flushed than usual.
She had suggested most politely (as she put it) that a doctor should be called in, but her suggestion had been brushed aside with a curtness that she described as “quite unmannerly.”
So she had no alternative but to leave the room.
Later in the morning the Father rang and asked if he could see her.
He apologized for his lack of courtesy and assured her that what he was suffering from could not be plague, as he had none of the symptoms; it was no more than a passing indisposition.