Unfortunately he had lost sight of him almost at once.
Tarrou and the doctor set out in the car to hunt for Grand.
At noon Rieux stepped out of his car into the frozen air; he had just caught sight of Grand some distance away, his face glued to a shop-window full of crudely carved wooden toys.
Tears were steadily flowing down the old fellow’s cheeks, and they wrung the doctor’s heart, for he could understand them, and he felt his own tears welling up in sympathy.
A picture rose before him of that scene of long ago—the youngster standing in front of another shop-window, like this one dressed for Christmas, and Jeanne turning toward him in a sudden access of emotion and saying how happy she was.
He could guess that through the mists of the past years, from the depth of his fond despair, Jeanne’s young voice was rising, echoing in Grand’s ears.
And he knew, also, what the old man was thinking as his tears flowed, and he, Rieux, thought it too: that a loveless world is a dead world, and always there comes an hour when one is weary of prisons, of one’s work, and of devotion to duty, and all one craves for is a loved face, the warmth and wonder of a loving heart.
Grand saw the doctor’s reflection in the window.
Still weeping, he turned and, leaning against the shop-front, watched Rieux approach.
“Oh, Doctor, Doctor!” He could say no more.
Rieux, too, couldn’t speak; he made a vague, understanding gesture.
At this moment he suffered with Grand’s sorrow, and what filled his breast was the passionate indignation we feel when confronted by the anguish all men share.
“Yes, Grand,” he murmured.
“Oh, if only I could have time to write to her!
To let her know … and to let her be happy without remorse!”
Almost roughly Rieux took Grand’s arm and drew him forward.
Grand did not resist and went on muttering broken phrases.
“Too long! It’s lasted too long.
All the time one’s wanting to let oneself go, and then one day one has to.
Oh, Doctor, I know I look a quiet sort, just like anybody else.
But it’s always been a terrible effort only to be—just normal.
And now—well, even that’s too much for me.”
He stopped dead. He was trembling violently, his eyes were fever-bright.
Rieux took his hand; it was burning hot.
“You must go home.”
But Grand wrenched himself free and started running. After a few steps he halted and stretched out his arms, swaying to and fro.
Then he spun round on himself and fell flat on the pavement, his face stained with the tears that went on flowing.
Some people who were approaching stopped abruptly and watched the scene from a little way off, not daring to come nearer.
Rieux had to carry the old man to the car.
Grand lay in bed, gasping for breath; his lungs were congested.
Rieux pondered.
The old fellow hadn’t any family.
What would be the point of having him evacuated? He and Tarrou could look after him.
Grand’s head was buried in the pillow, his cheeks were a greenish gray, his eyes had gone dull, opaque.
He seemed to be gazing fixedly at the scanty fire Tarrou was kindling with the remains of an old packing-case.
“I’m in a bad way,” he muttered.
A queer crackling sound came from his flame-seared lungs whenever he tried to speak.
Rieux told him not to talk and promised to come back.
The sick man’s lips parted in a curious smile, and a look of humorous complicity flickered across the haggard face.
“If I pull through, Doctor—hats off!”
A moment later he sank into extreme prostration.
Visiting him again some hours later, they found him half sitting up in bed, and Rieux was horrified by the rapid change that had come over his face, ravaged by the fires of the disease consuming him.
However, he seemed more lucid and almost immediately asked them to get his manuscript from the drawer where he always kept it.
When Tarrou handed him the sheets, he pressed them to his chest without looking at them, then held them out to the doctor, indicating by a gesture that he was to read them.
There were some fifty pages of manuscript.
Glancing through them, Rieux saw that the bulk of the writing consisted of the same sentence written again and again with small variants, simplifications or elaborations.
Persistently the month of May, the lady on horseback, the avenues of the Bois recurred, regrouped in different patterns.
There were, besides, explanatory notes, some exceedingly long, and lists of alternatives.
But at the foot of the last page was written in a studiously clear hand:
“My dearest Jeanne, Today is Christmas Day and …” Eight words only. Above it, in copperplate script, was the latest version of the famous phrase.