“Why not go up and have a look?” the old man suggested.
“You’ll get a breath of nice fresh air.”
They found nobody on the terrace—only three empty chairs.
On one side, as far as eye could reach, was a row of terraces, the most remote of which abutted on a dark, rugged mass that they recognized as the hill nearest the town.
On the other side, spanning some streets and the unseen harbor, their gaze came to rest on the horizon, where sea and sky merged in a dim, vibrant grayness.
Beyond a black patch that they knew to be the cliffs a sudden glow, whose source they could not see, sprang up at regular intervals; the lighthouse at the entrance of the fairway was still functioning for the benefit of ships that, passing Oran’s unused harbor, went on to other ports along the coast.
In a sky swept crystal-clear by the night wind, the stars showed like silver flakes, tarnished now and then by the yellow gleam of the revolving light.
Perfumes of spice and warm stone were wafted on the breeze.
Everything was very still.
“A pleasant spot,” said Rieux as he lowered himself into a chair. “You’d think that plague had never found its way up here.”
Tarrou was gazing seawards, his back to the doctor.
“Yes,” he replied after a moment’s silence, “it’s good to be here.”
Then, settling into the chair beside Rieux, he fixed his eyes on his face.
Three times the glow spread up the sky and died away.
A faint clatter of crockery rose from a room opening on the street below.
A door banged somewhere in the house.
“Rieux,” Tarrou said in a quite ordinary tone, “do you realize that you’ve never tried to find out anything about me—the man I am?
Can I regard you as a friend?”
“Yes, of course, we’re friends; only so far we haven’t had much time to show it.”
“Good. That gives me confidence.
Suppose we now take an hour off—for friendship?”
Rieux smiled by way of answer.
“Well, here goes!”
There was a long faint hiss some streets off, the sound of a car speeding on the wet pavement.
It died away; then some vague shouts a long way off broke the stillness again.
Then, like a dense veil slowly falling from the starry sky on the two men, silence returned.
Tarrou had moved and now was sitting on the parapet, facing Rieux, who was slumped back in his chair.
All that could be seen of him was a dark, bulky form outlined against the glimmering sky.
He had much to tell; what follows gives it more or less in his own words.
“To make things simpler, Rieux, let me begin by saying I had plague already, long before I came to this town and encountered it here.
Which is tantamount to saying I’m like everybody else.
Only there are some people who don’t know it, or feel at ease in that condition; others know and want to get out of it.
Personally, I’ve always wanted to get out of it.
“When I was young I lived with the idea of my innocence; that is to say, with no idea at all.
I’m not the self-tormenting kind of person, and I made a suitable start in life.
I brought off everything I set my hand to, I moved at ease in the field of the intellect, I got on excellently with women, and if I had occasional qualms, they passed as lightly as they came.
Then one day I started thinking.
And now—
“I should tell you I wasn’t poor in my young days, as you were.
My father had an important post—he was prosecuting attorney; but to look at him, you’d never have guessed it; he appeared, and was, a kindly, good-natured man.
My mother was a simple, rather shy woman, and I’ve always loved her greatly; but I’d rather not talk about her.
My father was always very kind to me, and I even think he tried to understand me.
He wasn’t a model husband. I know that now, but I can’t say it shocks me particularly.
Even in his infidelities he behaved as one could count on his behaving and never gave rise to scandal.
In short, he wasn’t at all original and, now he’s dead, I realize that, while no plaster saint, he was a very decent man as men go.
He kept the middle way, that’s all; he was the type of man for whom one has an affection of the mild but steady order—which is the kind that wears best.
“My father had one peculiarity; the big railway directory was his bedside book.
Not that he often took a train; almost his only journeys were to Brittany, where he had a small country house to which we went every summer.
But he was a walking timetable; he could tell you the exact times of departure and arrival of the Paris-Berlin expresses; how to get from Lyon to Warsaw, which trains to take and at what hours; the precise distance between any two capital cities you might mention.
Could you tell me offhand how to get from Briancon to Chamonix?