His nerves overwrought by sleeplessness, the doctor fancied he could hear, on the edge of the silence, that faint eerie sibilance which had haunted his ears ever since the beginning of the epidemic.
He made a sign to his mother, indicating she should go to bed.
She shook her head, and her eyes grew brighter; then she examined carefully, at her needle-tips, a stitch of which she was unsure.
Rieux got up, gave the sick man a drink, and sat down again.
Footsteps rang on the pavement, nearing, then receding; people were taking advantage of the lull to hurry home.
For the first time the doctor realized that this night, without the clang of ambulances and full of belated wayfarers, was just like a night of the past—a plague-free night.
It was as if the pestilence, hounded away by cold, the street-lamps, and the crowd, had fled from the depths of the town and taken shelter in this warm room and was launching its last offensive at Tarrou’s inert body.
No longer did it thresh the air above the houses with its flail.
But it was whistling softly in the stagnant air of the sickroom, and this it was that Rieux had been hearing since the long vigil began.
And now it was for him to wait and watch until that strange sound ceased here too, and here as well the plague confessed defeat.
A little before dawn Rieux leaned toward his mother and whispered:
“You’d better have some rest now, as you’ll have to relieve me at eight.
Mind you take your drops before going to bed.”
Mme. Rieux rose, folded her knitting, and went to the bedside. Tarrou had had his eyes shut for some time.
Sweat had plastered his hair on his stubborn forehead.
Mme. Rieux sighed, and he opened his eyes.
He saw the gentle face bent over him and, athwart the surge of fever, that steadfast smile took form again.
But at once the eyes closed.
Left to himself, Rieux moved into the chair his mother had just left.
The street was silent and no sound came from the sleeping town.
The chill of daybreak was beginning to make itself felt.
The doctor dozed off, but very soon an early cart rattling down the street awaked him.
Shivering a little, he looked at Tarrou and saw that a lull had come; he, too, was sleeping.
The iron-shod wheels rumbled away into the distance.
Darkness still was pressing on the windowpanes.
When the doctor came beside the bed, Tarrou gazed at him with expressionless eyes, like a man still on the frontier of sleep.
“You slept, didn’t you?” Rieux asked.
“Yes.”
“Breathing better?”
“A bit.
Does that mean anything?”
Rieux kept silent for some moments; then he said:
“No, Tarrou, it doesn’t mean anything.
You know as well as I that there’s often a remission in the morning.”
“Thanks.” Tarrou nodded his approval. “Always tell me the exact truth.”
Rieux was sitting on the side of the bed.
Beside him he could feel the sick man’s legs, stiff and hard as the limbs of an effigy on a tomb.
Tarrou was breathing with more difficulty.
“The fever’ll come back, won’t it, Rieux?” he gasped.
“Yes. But at noon we shall know where we stand.”
Tarrou shut his eyes; he seemed to be mustering up his strength.
There was a look of utter weariness on his face.
He was waiting for the fever to rise and already it was stirring somewhat in the depths of his being.
When he opened his eyes, his gaze was misted.
It brightened only when he saw Rieux bending over him, a tumbler in his hand.
“Drink.”
Tarrou drank, then slowly lowered his head on to the pillow.
“It’s a long business,” he murmured.
Rieux clasped his arm, but Tarrou, whose head was averted, showed no reaction.
Then suddenly, as if some inner dike had given way without warning, the fever surged back, dyeing his cheeks and forehead.