Happiness was bearing down on him full speed, the event outrunning expectation.
Rambert understood that all would be restored to him in a flash, and joy break on him like a flame with which there is no dallying.
Everyone indeed, more or less consciously, felt as he did, and it is of all those people on the platform that we wish to speak.
Each was returning to his personal life, yet the sense of comradeship persisted and they were exchanging smiles and cheerful glances among themselves.
But the moment they saw the smoke of the approaching engine, the feeling of exile vanished before an uprush of overpowering, bewildering joy.
And when the train stopped, all those interminable-seeming separations which often had begun on this same platform came to an end in one ecstatic moment, when arms closed with hungry possessiveness on bodies whose living shape they had forgotten.
As for Rambert, he hadn’t time to see that form running toward him; already she had flung herself upon his breast.
And with his arms locked around her, pressing to his shoulder the head of which he saw only the familiar hair, he let his tears flow freely, unknowing if they rose from present joy or from sorrow too long repressed; aware only that they would prevent his making sure if the face buried in the hollow of his shoulder was the face of which he had dreamed so often or, instead, a stranger’s face.
For the moment he wished to behave like all those others around him who believed, or made believe, that plague can come and go without changing anything in men’s hearts.
Nestling to one another, they went to their homes, blind to the outside world and seemingly triumphant over the plague, forgetting every sadness and the plight of those who had come by the same train and found no one awaiting them, and were bracing themselves to hear in their homes a confirmation of the fear that the long silence had already implanted in their hearts.
For these last, who had now for company only their new-born grief, for those who at this moment were dedicating themselves to a life-long memory of bereavement—for these unhappy people matters were very different, the pangs of separation had touched their climax.
For the mothers, husbands, wives, and lovers who had lost all joy, now that the loved one lay under a layer of quicklime in a death-pit or was a mere handful of indistinctive ashes in a gray mound, the plague had not yet ended.
But who gave a thought to these lonely mourners?
Routing the cold flaws that had been threshing the air since early morning, the sun was pouring on the town a steady flood of tranquil light.
In the forts on the hills, under the sky of pure, unwavering blue, guns were thundering without a break.
And everyone was out and about to celebrate those crowded moments when the time of ordeal ended and the time of forgetting had not yet begun.
In streets and squares people were dancing.
Within twenty-four hours the motor traffic had doubled and the ever more numerous cars were held up at every turn by merry-making crowds.
Every church bell was in full peal throughout the afternoon, and the bells filled the blue and gold sky with their reverberations.
Indeed, in all the churches thanksgiving services were being held.
But at the same time the places of entertainment were packed, and the cafes, caring nothing for the morrow, were producing their last bottles of liquor.
A noisy concourse surged round every bar, including loving couples who fondled each other without a thought for appearances.
All were laughing or shouting.
The reserves of emotion pent up during those many months when for everybody the flame of life burned low were being recklessly squandered to celebrate this, the red-letter day of their survival.
Tomorrow real life would begin again, with its restrictions.
But for the moment people in very different walks of life were rubbing shoulders, fraternizing.
The leveling-out that death’s imminence had failed in practice to accomplish was realized at last, for a few gay hours, in the rapture of escape.
But this rather tawdry exuberance was only one aspect of the town that day; not a few of those filling the streets at sundown, among them Rambert and his wife, hid under an air of calm satisfaction subtler forms of happiness.
Many couples, indeed, and many families, looked like people out for a casual stroll, no more than that; in reality most of them were making sentimental pilgrimages to places where they had gone to school with suffering.
The newcomers were being shown the striking or obscurer tokens of the plague, relics of its passage.
In some cases the survivor merely played the part of guide, the eyewitness who has “been through it,” and talked freely of the danger without mentioning his fear.
These were the milder forms of pleasure, little more than recreation.
In other cases, however, there was more emotion to these walks about the town, as when a man, pointing to some place charged for him with sad yet tender associations, would say to the girl or woman beside him:
“This is where, one evening just like this, I longed for you so desperately—and you weren’t there!”
These passionate pilgrims could readily be distinguished; they formed oases of whispers, aloof, self-centered, in the turbulence of the crowd.
Far more effectively than the bands playing in the squares they vouched for the vast joy of liberation.
These ecstatic couples, locked together, hardly speaking, proclaimed in the midst of the tumult of rejoicing, with the proud egoism and injustice of happy people, that the plague was over, the reign of terror ended.
Calmly they denied, in the teeth of the evidence, that we had ever known a crazy world in which men were killed off like flies, or that precise savagery, that calculated frenzy of the plague, which instilled an odious freedom as to all that was not the here and now; or those charnel-house stenches which stupefied whom they did not kill. In short, they denied that we had ever been that hag-ridden populace a part of which was daily fed into a furnace and went up in oily fumes, while the rest, in shackled impotence, waited their turn.
That, anyhow, was what seemed evident to Rieux when towards the close of the afternoon, on his way to the outskirts of the town, he walked alone in an uproar of bells, guns, bands, and deafening shouts.
There was no question of his taking a day off; sick men have no holidays.
Through the cool, clear light bathing the town rose the familiar smells of roasting meat and anise-flavored liquor.
All around him happy faces were turned toward the shining sky, men and women with flushed cheeks embraced one another with low, tense cries of desire.
Yes, the plague had ended with the terror, and those passionately straining arms told what it had meant: exile and deprivation in the profoundest meaning of the words.
For the first time Rieux found that he could give a name to the family likeness that for several months he had detected in the faces in the streets.
He had only to look around him now.
At the end of the plague, with its misery and privations, these men and women had come to wear the aspect of the part they had been playing for so long, the part of emigrants whose faces first, and now their clothes, told of long banishment from a distant homeland.
Once plague had shut the gates of the town, they had settled down to a life of separation, debarred from the living warmth that gives forgetfulness of all.
In different degrees, in every part of the town, men and women had been yearning for a reunion, not of the same kind for all, but for all alike ruled out.
Most of them had longed intensely for an absent one, for the warmth of a body, for love, or merely for a life that habit had endeared.
Some, often without knowing it, suffered from being deprived of the company of friends and from their inability to get in touch with them through the usual channels of friendship—letters, trains, and boats.