The plague

by Albert Camus

  The three men were watching the scene when a brisk "Good morning" from behind them made them swing round. In spite of the heat Raoul was wearing a well-cut dark suit and a felt hat with rolled-up brim. He was tall and strongly built, his face rather pale. Hardly moving his lips, he said quickly and clearly:

  "Let's walk down to the center. You, Garcia, needn't come."

  Garcia lit a cigarette and remained there while they walked away. Placing himself between Rambert and Cottard, Raoul set the pace, a fast one.

  "Garcia's explained the situation," he said. "We can fix it. But I must warn you it'll cost you a cool ten thousand."

  Rambert said he agreed to these terms.

  "Lunch with me tomorrow at the Spanish restaurant near the docks."

  Rambert said: "Right," and Raoul shook his hand, smiling for the first time. After he had gone, Cottard said he wouldn't be able to come to lunch next day, as he had an engagement, but anyhow Rambert didn't need him any more.

  When next day Rambert entered the Spanish restaurant, everyone turned and stared at him. The dark, cellarlike room, below the level of the small yellow street, was patronized only by men, mostly Spaniards, judging by their looks. Raoul was sitting at a table at the back of the room. Once he had beckoned to the journalist and Rambert started to go toward him, the curiosity left the faces of others and they bent over their plates again. Raoul had beside him a tall, thin, ill-shaven man, with enormously wide shoulders, an equine face, and thinning hair. His shirtsleeves were rolled up, displaying long, skinny arms covered with black hair. When Rambert was introduced he gave three slow nods. His own name, however, was not announced and Raoul, when referring to him, always said "our friend."

  "Our friend here thinks he may be able to help you. He is going—" Raoul broke off, as the waitress had just come to take Rambert's order. "He is going to put you in touch with two of our friends who will introduce you to some sentries whom we've squared. But that doesn't mean you can start right away. You'll have to leave it to the sentries to decide on the best moment. The simplest thing will be for you to stay some nights with one of them; his home is quite near the gate. The first thing is for our friend here to give you the contacts needed; then when everything's set, you'll settle with him for the expenses."

  Again the "friend" slowly moved his equine head up and

  down, without ceasing to munch the tomato and pimento salad he was shoveling into his mouth. After which he began to speak, with a slight Spanish accent. He asked Rambert to meet him, the next day but one, at eight in the morning, in the Cathedral porch.

  "Another two days' wait," Rambert observed.

  "It ain't so easy as all that, you see," Raoul said. "Them boys take some finding."

  Horse-face nodded slow approval once more. Some time was spent looking for a subject of conversation. The problem was solved easily enough when Rambert discovered that horse-face was an ardent football-player. He, too, had been very keen on soccer. They discussed the French championship, the merits of professional English teams, and the technique of passing. By the end of the meal horse-face was in high good humor, was calling Rambert "old boy," and trying to convince him that the most sporting position by far on the football field was that of center half. "You see, old boy, it's the center half that does the placing. And that's the whole art of the game, isn't it?" Rambert was inclined to agree, though he, personally, had always played center forward. The discussion proceeded peacefully until a radio was turned on and, after at first emitting a series of sentimental songs, broke into the announcement that there had been a hundred and thirty-seven plague deaths on the previous day. No one present betrayed the least emotion. Horse-face merely shrugged and stood up. Raoul and Rambert followed his example.

  As they were going out, the center half shook Rambert's hand vigorously. "My name's Gonzales," he said.

  To Rambert the next two days seemed endless. He looked up Rieux and described to him the latest developments, then accompanied the doctor on one of his calls. He took leave of him on the doorstep of a house where a patient, suspected to have plague, was awaiting him. There was a sound

  of footsteps and voices in the hall; the family were being warned of the doctor's visit.

  "I hope Tarrou will be on time," Rieux murmured. He looked worn out.

  "Is the epidemic getting out of hand?" Rambert asked.

  Rieux said it wasn't that; indeed, the death-graph was rising less steeply. Only they lacked adequate means of coping with the disease.

  "We're short of equipment. In all the armies of the world a shortage of equipment is usually compensated for by manpower. But we're short of man-power, too."

  "Haven't doctors and trained assistants been sent from other towns?"

  "Yes," Rieux said. "Ten doctors and a hundred helpers. That sounds a lot, no doubt. But it's barely enough to cope with the present state of affairs. And it will be quite inadequate if things get worse."

  Rambert, who had been listening to the sounds within the house, turned to Rieux with a friendly smile.

  "Yes," he said, "you'd better make haste to win your battle." Then a shadow crossed his face. "You know," he added in a low tone: "it's not because of that I'm leaving."

  Rieux replied that he knew it very well, but Rambert went on to say:

  "I don't think I'm a coward—not as a rule, anyhow. And I've had opportunities of putting it to the test. Only there are some thoughts I simply cannot endure."

  The doctor looked him in the eyes.

  "You'll see her again," he said.

  "Maybe. But I just can't stomach the thought that it may last on and on, and all the time she'll be growing older. At thirty one's beginning to age, and one's got to squeeze all one can out of life. But I doubt if you can understand."

  Rieux was replying that he thought he could, when Tarrou came up, obviously much excited.

  "I've just asked Paneloux to join us."

  "Well?" asked the doctor.

  "He thought it over, then said yes."

  "That's good," the doctor said. "I'm glad to know he's better than his sermon."

  "Most people are like that," Tarrou replied. "It's only a matter of giving them the chance." He smiled and winked at Rieux. "That's my job in life—giving people chances."

  "Excuse me," Rambert said, "I've got to be off."

  On Thursday, the day of the appointment, Rambert entered the Cathedral porch at five minutes to eight. The air was still relatively cool. Small fleecy clouds, which presently the sun would swallow at a gulp, were drifting across the sky. A faint smell of moisture rose from the lawns, parched though they were. Still masked by the eastward houses, the sun was warming up Joan of Arc's helmet only, and it made a solitary patch of brightness in the Cathedral square. A clock struck eight. Rambert took some steps in the empty porch. From inside came a low sound of intoning voices, together with stale wafts of incense and dank air. Then the voices ceased. Ten small black forms came out of the building and hastened away toward the center of the town. Rambert grew impatient. Other black forms climbed the steps and entered the porch. He was about to light a cigarette when it struck him that smoking might be frowned on here.

  At eight fifteen the organ began to play, very softly. Rambert entered. At first he could see nothing in the dim light of the aisle; after a moment he made out in the nave the small black forms that had preceded him. They were all grouped in a corner, in front of a makeshift altar on which stood a statue of St. Roch, carved in haste by one of our local sculptors. Kneeling, they looked even smaller than before, blobs of clotted darkness hardly more opaque than the gray, smoky haze in which they seemed to float. Above them the organ was playing endless variations.

  When Rambert stepped out of the Cathedral, he saw

  Gonzales already going down the steps on his way back to the town.

  "I thought you'd cleared off, old boy," he said to the journalist. "Considering how late it is."

  He proceeded to explain that he'd gone to meet his friends at
the place agreed on—which was quite near by—at ten to eight, the time they'd fixed, and waited twenty minutes without seeing them.

  "Something must have held them up. There's lots of snags, you know, in our line of business."

  He suggested another meeting at the same time on the following day, beside the war memorial. Rambert sighed and pushed his hat back on his head.

  "Don't take it so hard," Gonzales laughed. "Why, think of all the swerves and runs and passes you got to make to score a goal."

  "Quite so," Rambert agreed. "But the game lasts only an hour and a half."

  The war memorial at Oran stands at the one place where one has a glimpse of the sea, a sort of esplanade following for a short distance the brow of the cliff overlooking the harbor. Next day, being again the first to arrive at the meeting-place, Rambert whiled away the time reading the list of names of those who had died for their country. Some minutes later two men strolled up, gave him a casual glance, then, resting their elbows on the parapet of the esplanade, gazed down intently at the empty, lifeless harbor. Both wore short-sleeved jerseys and blue trousers, and were of much the same height. The journalist moved away and, seated on a stone bench, studied their appearance at leisure. They were obviously youngsters, not more than twenty. Just then he saw Gonzales coming up.

  "Those are our friends," he said, after apologizing for being late. Then he led Rambert to the two youths, whom he introduced as Marcel and Louis. They looked so much alike that Rambert had no doubt they were brothers.

  "Right," said Gonzales. "Now you know each other, you can get down to business."

  Marcel, or Louis, said that their turn of guard duty began in two days and lasted a week; they'd have to watch out for the night when there was the best chance of bringing it off. The trouble was that there were two other sentries, regular soldiers, besides themselves, at the west gate. These two men had better be kept out of the business; one couldn't depend on them, and anyhow it would pile up expenses unnecessarily. Some evenings, however, these two sentries spent several hours in the back room of a near-by bar. Marcel, or Louis, said that the best thing Rambert could do would be to stay at their place, which was only a few minutes' walk from the gate, and wait till one of them came to tell him the coast was clear. It should then be quite easy for him to "make his get-away." But there was no time to lose; there had been talk about setting up duplicate sentry posts a little farther out.

  Rambert agreed and handed some of his few remaining cigarettes to the young men. The one who had not yet spoken asked Gonzales if the question of expenses had been settled and whether an advance would be given.

  "No," Gonzales said, "and you needn't bother about that; he's a pal of mine. He'll pay when he leaves."

  Another meeting was arranged. Gonzales suggested their dining together on the next day but one, at the Spanish restaurant. It was at easy walking-distance from where the young men lived. "For the first night," he added, "I'll keep you company, old boy."

  Next day on his way to his bedroom Rambert met Tarrou coming down the stairs at the hotel.

  "Like to come with me?" he asked. "I'm just off to see Rieux."

  Rambert hesitated.

  "Well, I never feel sure I'm not disturbing him."

  "I don't think you need worry about that; he's talked about you quite a lot."

  The journalist pondered. Then, "Look here," he said. "If you've any time to spare after dinner, never mind how late, why not come to die hotel, both of you, and have a drink with me?"

  "That will depend on Rieux." Tarrou sounded doubtful. "And on the plague," said Tarrou.

  At eleven o'clock that night, however, Rieux and Tarrou entered the small, narrow bar of the hotel. Some thirty people were crowded into it, all talking at the top of their voices. Coming from the silence of the plague-bound town, the two newcomers were startled by the sudden burst of noise, and halted in the doorway. They understood the reason for it when they saw that liquor was still to be had here. Rambert, who was perched on a stool at a corner of the bar, beckoned to them. With complete coolness he elbowed away a noisy customer beside him to make room for his friends.

  "You've no objection to a spot of something strong?"

  "No," Tarrou replied. "Quite the contrary."

  Rieux sniffed the pungency of bitter herbs in the drink that Rambert handed him. It was hard to make oneself heard in the din of voices, but Rambert seemed chiefly concerned with drinking. The doctor couldn't make up his mind whether he was drunk yet. At one of the two tables that occupied all the remaining space beyond the half-circle round the bar, a naval officer, with a girl on each side of him, was describing to a fat, red-faced man a typhus epidemic at Cairo. "They had camps, you know," he was saying, "for the natives, with tents for the sick ones and a ring of sentries all round. If a member of the family came along and tried to smuggle in one of those damn-fool native remedies, they fired at sight. A bit tough, I grant you, but it was the only thing to do." At the other table, round which sat a

  bevy of bright young people, the talk was incomprehensible, half drowned by the stridence of St. fames Infirmary corning from a loud-speaker just above their heads.

  "Any luck?" Rieux had to raise his voice.

  "I'm getting on," Rambert replied. "In the course of the week, perhaps."

  "A pity!" Tarrou shouted.

  "Why?"

  "Oh," Rieux put in, "Tarrou said that because he thinks you might be useful to us here. But, personally, I understand your wish to get away only too well."

  Tarrou stood the next round of drinks.

  Rambert got off his stool and looked him in the eyes for the first time.

  "How could I be useful?"

  "Why, of course," Tarrou replied, slowly reaching toward his glass, "in one of our sanitary squads."

  The look of brooding obstinacy that Rambert so often had came back to his face, and he climbed again on to his stool.

  "Don't you think these squads of ours do any good?" asked Tarrou, who had just taken a sip of his glass and was gazing hard at Rambert.

  "I'm sure they do," the journalist replied, and drank off his glass.

  Rieux noticed that his hand was shaking, and he decided, definitely, that the man was far gone in drink.

  Next day, when for the second time Rambert entered the Spanish restaurant, he had to make his way through a group of men who had taken chairs out on the sidewalk and were sitting in the green-gold evening light, enjoying the first breaths of cooler air. They were smoking an acrid-smelling tobacco. The restaurant itself was almost empty. Rambert went to the table at the back at which Gonzales had sat when they met for the first time. He told the waitress he would wait a bit. It was seven thirty.

  In twos and threes the men from outside began to dribble

  in and seat themselves at the tables. The waitresses started serving them, and a tinkle of knives and forks, a hum of conversation, began to fill the cellarlike room. At eight Rambert was still waiting. The lights were turned on. A new set of people took the other chairs at his table. He ordered dinner. At half past eight he had finished without having seen either Gonzales or the two young men. He smoked several cigarettes. The restaurant was gradually emptying. Outside, night was falling rapidly. The curtains hung across the doorway were billowing in a warm breeze from the sea. At nine Rambert realized that the restaurant was quite empty and the waitress was eying him curiously. He paid, went out, and, noticing that a cafe across the street was open, settled down there at a place from which he could keep an eye on the entrance of the restaurant. At half past nine he walked slowly back to his hotel, racking his brains for some method of tracking down Gonzales, whose address he did not know, and bitterly discouraged by the not unlikely prospect of having to start the tiresome business all over again.

  It was at this moment, as he walked in the dark streets along which ambulances were speeding, that it suddenly struck him—as he informed Dr. Rieux subsequently—that all this time he'd practically forgotten the woman he loved,
so absorbed had he been in trying to find a rift in the walls that cut him off from her. But at this same moment, now that once more all ways of escape were sealed against him, he felt his longing for her blaze up again, with a violence so sudden, so intense, that he started running to his hotel, as if to escape the burning pain that none the less pervaded him, racing like wildfire in his blood.

  Very early next day, however, he called on Rieux, to ask him where he could find Cottard.

  "The only thing to do is to pick up the thread again where I dropped it."

  "Come tomorrow night," Rieux said. "Tarrou asked me

  to invite Cottard here—I don't know why. He's due to come at ten. Come at half past ten."

  When Cottard visited the doctor next day, Tarrou and Rieux were discussing the case of one of Rieux's patients who against all expectation had recovered.

  "It was ten to one against," Tarrou commented. "He was in luck."

  "Oh, come now," Cottard said. "It can't have been plague, that's all."

  They assured him there was no doubt it was a case of plague.

  "That's impossible, since he recovered. You know as well as I do, once you have plague your number's up."

  "True enough, as a general rule," Rieux replied. "But if you refuse to be beaten, you have some pleasant surprises."

  Cottard laughed.

  "Precious few, anyhow. You saw the number of deaths this evening?"

  Tarrou, who was gazing amiably at Cottard, said he knew the latest figures, and that the position was extremely serious. But what did that prove? Only that still more stringent measures should be applied.

  "How? You can't make more stringent ones than those we have now."

  "No. But every person in the town must apply them to himself."