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- Альбер Камю
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- Стр. 162/187
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He
stopped
,
wild
-
eyed
and
trembling
in
every
limb
.
Rieux
took
his
hand
.
It
was
burning
.
"
We
must
go
back
.
"
But
Grand
escaped
from
him
and
ran
a
few
steps
,
then
stopped
,
held
his
arms
wide
and
began
to
sway
backwards
and
forwards
.
He
reeled
over
and
fell
on
to
the
icy
pavement
,
his
face
streaked
with
the
tears
that
continued
to
run
down
his
cheeks
.
People
passing
in
the
street
looked
on
from
a
distance
,
stopping
suddenly
and
not
daring
to
come
forward
.
Rieux
had
to
take
the
old
man
in
his
arms
.
Once
in
his
own
bed
,
Grand
struggled
for
breath
.
The
lungs
were
affected
.
Rieux
thought
about
it
.
The
civil
servant
had
no
family
.
Why
move
him
?
He
would
be
alone
,
with
Tarrou
to
look
after
him
…
Grand
was
pressed
into
his
pillow
,
his
skin
greenish
and
his
eyes
dull
.
He
was
staring
at
a
paltry
fire
that
Tarrou
had
lit
in
the
grate
with
the
remains
of
a
packing
case
.
"
I
’
m
not
well
,
"
he
said
.
And
an
odd
crackling
sound
emerged
from
the
depths
of
his
burning
lungs
accompanying
everything
he
said
.
Rieux
advised
him
to
keep
quiet
and
told
him
he
would
come
back
.
The
sick
man
gave
a
strange
smile
and
,
with
it
,
a
look
almost
of
tenderness
rose
to
his
face
.
"
If
I
get
through
this
,
hats
off
to
you
,
doctor
!
"
Immediately
after
saying
this
he
fell
back
in
a
state
of
prostration
.
A
few
hours
later
Rieux
and
Tarrou
found
him
half
-
seated
in
his
bed
,
and
Rieux
was
horrified
to
see
on
his
face
the
progress
of
the
disease
that
was
eating
him
up
.
But
he
seemed
more
lucid
and
at
once
,
in
a
strangely
hollow
voice
,
asked
them
to
bring
him
the
manuscript
from
one
of
his
drawers
.
Tarrou
gave
him
the
pages
which
he
grasped
without
looking
at
them
,
then
handed
them
to
the
doctor
,
gesturing
to
him
to
read
them
.
It
was
a
short
manuscript
of
some
fifty
pages
.
The
doctor
leafed
through
it
and
realized
that
all
these
pages
contained
only
the
same
sentence
,
copied
out
over
and
over
,
reworked
to
make
it
richer
or
poorer
.
Ceaselessly
,
the
month
of
May
,
the
elegant
horsewoman
and
the
avenues
of
the
Bois
de
Boulogne
were
made
and
remade
in
different
ways
.
The
work
also
contained
explanations
,
sometimes
excessively
long
,
and
different
versions
.
But
at
the
end
of
the
last
page
,
in
ink
that
was
still
fresh
,
a
studious
hand
had
written
simply
:
"
My
dearest
Jeanne
,
today
is
Christmas
…
"
Above
it
,
meticulously
inscribed
,
was
the
latest
version
of
the
sentence
.
"
Read
it
,
"
said
Grand
.
And
Rieux
read
:
"
On
a
fine
morning
in
the
month
of
May
,
an
elegant
woman
was
riding
a
magnificent
sorrel
mare
,
amid
the
flowers
,
down
the
avenues
of
the
Bois
de
Boulogne
.
"
"
Is
that
it
?
"
the
old
man
said
feverishly
.
