The lady replied with dignity that her suggestion had not been prompted by any apprehension of that sort—she took no thought for her personal security, which was in God’s hands—but that she felt a certain measure of responsibility for the Father’s welfare while he was under her roof.
When he said nothing, his hostess, wishing (according to her account) to do her duty by him, offered to send for her doctor.
Father Paneloux told her not to trouble, adding some explanations that seemed to the old lady incoherent, not to say nonsensical.
The only thing she gathered, and it was precisely this that appeared to her so incomprehensible, was that the Father refused to hear of a doctor’s visit because it was against his principles.
Her impression was that her guest’s mind had been unhinged by fever, and she confined herself to bringing him a cup of tea.
Resolutely mindful of the obligations imposed on her by the situation, she visited the invalid regularly every two hours.
What struck her most about him was his restlessness, which continued throughout the day.
He would throw off the blankets, then pull them back, and he kept running his hand over his forehead, which was glistening with sweat. Every now and then he sat up in bed and tried to clear his throat with a thick, grating cough, which sounded almost like retching.
At these moments he seemed to be vainly struggling to force up from his lungs a clot of some semisolid substance that was choking him.
After each unavailing effort, he sank back, utterly exhausted, on the pillow.
Then he would raise himself again a little and stare straight in front of him with a fixity even more dismaying than the paroxysms which had preceded it.
Even now the old lady was reluctant to annoy her guest by calling in the doctor.
After all, it might be no more than an attack of fever, spectacular as were its manifestations.
However, in the afternoon she made another attempt to talk to the priest, but she could get out of him no more than a few rambling phrases.
She renewed her proposal to call in the doctor. Whereat Paneloux sat up and in a stifled voice emphatically declined to see a doctor.
Under these circumstances it seemed best to the old lady to wait till the following morning; if the Father’s condition showed no more improvement she would ring up the number announced ten times daily on the radio by the Ransdoc Information Bureau.
Still conscious of her obligations, she resolved to visit the invalid from time to time in the course of the night and give him any attention he might need.
But after bringing him a decoction of herbal tea she decided to lie down for a while. Only at daybreak did she wake up, and then she hurried to the priest’s room.
Father Paneloux was lying quite still; his face had lost its deep flush of the previous day and had now a deathly pallor, all the more impressive because the cheeks had kept their fullness.
He was gazing up at the bead fringe of a lamp hanging above the bed.
When the old lady came in he turned his head to her.
As she quaintly put it, he looked as if he’d been severely thrashed all the night long, and more dead than alive.
She was greatly struck by the apathy of his voice when, on her asking how he was feeling, he replied that he was in a bad way, he did not need a doctor, and all he wished was to be taken to the hospital, so as to comply with the regulations.
Panic-stricken, she hurried to the telephone.
Rieux came at noon.
After hearing what the old lady had to say he replied briefly that Paneloux was right, but it was probably too late.
The Father welcomed him with the same air of complete indifference.
Rieux examined him and was surprised to find none of the characteristic symptoms of bubonic or pneumonic plague, except congestion and obstruction of the lungs.
But his pulse was so weak and his general state so alarming that there was little hope of saving him.
“You have none of the specific symptoms of the disease,” Rieux told him. “But I admit one can’t be sure, and I must isolate you.”
The Father smiled queerly, as if for politeness’ sake, but said nothing.
Rieux left the room to telephone, then came back and looked at the priest.
“I’ll stay with you,” he said gently.
Paneloux showed a little more animation and a sort of warmth came back to his eyes when he looked up at the doctor.
Then, speaking with such difficulty that it was impossible to tell if there was sadness in his voice, he said:
“Thanks. But priests can have no friends.
They have given their all to God.”
He asked for the crucifix that hung above the head of the bed; when given it, he turned away to gaze at it.
At the hospital Paneloux did not utter a word.
He submitted passively to the treatment given him, but never let go of the crucifix.
However, his case continued doubtful, and Rieux could not feel sure how to diagnose it.
For several weeks, indeed, the disease had seemed to make a point of confounding diagnoses.
In the case of Paneloux, what followed was to show that this uncertainty had no consequence.
His temperature rose.
Throughout the day the cough grew louder, racking the enfeebled body.
At last, at nightfall, Father Paneloux brought up the clot of matter that was choking him; it was red.
Even at the height of his fever Paneloux’s eyes kept their blank serenity, and when, next morning, he was found dead, his body drooping over the bedside, they betrayed nothing.
Against his name the index card recorded:
“Doubtful case.”
All Souls’ Day that year was very different from what it had been in former years.