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Rieux
saw
him
go
into
the
hotel
where
Jean
Tarrou
was
living
.
After
a
moment
the
doctor
shook
his
head
.
The
journalist
was
right
to
be
impatient
for
happiness
.
But
was
he
right
to
accuse
Rieux
?
"
You
are
thinking
in
abstract
terms
.
"
Was
it
truly
an
abstraction
,
spending
his
days
in
the
hospital
where
the
plague
was
working
overtime
,
bringing
the
number
of
victims
up
to
five
hundred
on
average
per
week
?
Yes
,
there
was
an
element
of
abstraction
and
unreality
in
misfortune
.
But
when
an
abstraction
starts
to
kill
you
,
you
have
to
get
to
work
on
it
.
And
Rieux
knew
that
this
was
not
the
easiest
thing
to
do
.
It
was
not
easy
,
for
example
,
to
manage
this
auxiliary
hospital
which
was
his
responsibility
—
there
were
now
three
of
them
in
all
.
He
had
had
to
convert
one
room
,
opening
onto
the
consulting
-
room
,
into
an
admissions
area
.
A
pit
dug
into
the
floor
formed
a
lake
of
disinfectant
in
the
midst
of
which
was
a
small
island
of
brick
.
The
patient
was
transported
onto
the
island
,
quickly
undressed
and
his
clothes
thrown
into
the
water
.
Washed
,
dried
and
covered
in
the
coarse
hospital
gown
,
he
was
passed
on
to
Rieux
,
then
taken
to
one
of
the
wards
.
They
had
been
forced
to
use
the
courtyard
of
a
school
which
now
contained
five
hundred
beds
in
all
,
almost
all
of
them
occupied
.
After
the
morning
admissions
which
he
was
in
charge
of
himself
,
the
patients
were
vaccinated
and
the
swellings
lanced
.
Then
Rieux
once
again
checked
the
figures
before
going
back
to
his
afternoon
rounds
.
Finally
,
in
the
evening
,
he
made
his
house
visits
and
came
home
late
at
night
.
The
previous
night
,
when
his
mother
handed
him
a
telegram
from
the
younger
Mme
Rieux
,
she
had
pointed
out
that
the
doctor
’
s
hands
were
shaking
.
"
Yes
,
"
he
said
.
"
But
if
I
persevere
,
I
shall
be
less
nervous
.
"
He
was
healthy
and
tough
.
Really
,
he
was
not
yet
tired
,
but
his
house
visits
,
for
example
,
were
becoming
unbearable
.
Diagnosing
the
infection
meant
quickly
removing
the
patient
.
And
here
the
difficulty
and
the
abstraction
began
because
the
family
knew
that
they
would
not
see
the
patient
again
until
he
or
she
was
cured
or
dead
.
"
Have
pity
,
doctor
!
"
said
Mme
Loret
,
mother
of
the
chambermaid
who
worked
at
Tarrou
’
s
hotel
.
What
did
that
mean
?
Of
course
he
had
pity
.
But
where
did
that
get
anyone
?
He
had
to
telephone
.
Then
the
siren
of
the
ambulance
sounded
.
In
the
early
days
,
the
neighbours
would
open
their
windows
and
look
out
.
Later
,
they
hurriedly
closed
them
.
Then
began
struggles
,
tears
,
pleas
,
in
short
,
abstraction
.
In
these
apartments
,
overheated
by
fever
and
anguish
,
scenes
of
madness
were
played
out
.
But
the
sick
person
was
taken
away
.
Rieux
could
go
.
On
the
first
few
occasions
he
had
merely
rung
for
the
ambulance
,
then
sped
off
towards
other
patients
without
waiting
for
it
to
arrive
.
But
then
the
relatives
locked
their
doors
,
preferring
a
tête
-
à
-
tête
with
the
plague
to
a
separation
—
knowing
now
what
that
meant
.
Shouts
,
orders
,
the
arrival
of
the
police
,
then
,
later
,
of
the
army
,
and
the
patient
was
seized
by
force
.
In
the
early
weeks
Rieux
was
obliged
to
wait
until
the
ambulance
came
.
After
that
,
when
every
doctor
was
accompanied
on
his
visits
by
a
volunteer
inspector
,
Rieux
was
again
able
to
run
from
one
patient
to
the
next
.
But
at
the
beginning
,
every
evening
was
like
the
one
when
he
had
come
into
Mme
Loret
’
s
,
in
a
little
apartment
decorated
with
fans
and
artificial
flowers
,
to
be
greeted
by
the
mother
who
said
with
a
forced
smile
:
"
I
do
hope
it
’
s
not
that
fever
that
everyone
’
s
talking
about
.
"
And
he
,
turning
back
the
sheet
and
the
nightdress
,
stared
in
silence
at
the
red
patches
on
the
belly
and
the
thighs
,
and
the
swollen
lymph
nodes
.
The
mother
looked
between
her
daughter
’
s
legs
and
howled
,
unable
to
control
herself
.
Every
evening
mothers
would
shout
like
that
,
in
a
distraught
manner
,
at
the
sight
of
bellies
displaying
all
their
signs
of
death
;
every
evening
hands
would
grasp
Rieux
’
s
arms
,
while
useless
words
,
promises
and
tears
poured
forth
;
and
every
evening
the
ambulance
siren
would
set
off
scenes
of
distress
as
pointless
as
any
kind
of
pain
.
At
the
end
of
a
long
succession
of
such
evenings
,
each
like
the
next
,
Rieux
could
no
longer
hope
for
anything
except
a
continuing
series
of
similar
scenes
,
forever
repeated
.
Yes
,
the
plague
,
like
abstraction
,
was
monotonous
.
Only
one
thing
may
have
changed
,
and
that
was
Rieux
himself
.
He
felt
it
that
evening
,
beneath
the
monument
to
the
Republic
,
aware
only
of
the
hard
indifference
that
was
starting
to
fill
him
,
still
looking
at
the
hotel
door
where
Rambert
had
vanished
.
At
the
end
of
these
harrowing
weeks
,
after
all
these
evenings
when
the
town
poured
into
the
streets
to
wander
round
them
,
Rieux
realized
that
he
no
longer
needed
to
protect
himself
against
pity
.
When
pity
is
useless
one
grows
tired
of
it
.
And
the
doctor
found
his
only
consolation
for
these
exhausting
days
in
this
feeling
of
a
heart
slowly
closing
around
itself
.
He
knew
that
it
would
make
his
task
easier
.
That
is
why
he
welcomed
it
.
When
his
mother
,
meeting
him
as
he
came
in
at
two
o
’
clock
in
the
morning
,
was
pained
by
the
empty
look
he
gave
her
,
she
was
actually
regretting
the
only
comfort
that
Rieux
by
then
could
enjoy
.
To
struggle
against
abstraction
,
one
must
come
to
resemble
it
a
little
.
But
how
could
Rambert
be
persuaded
of
that
?
Abstraction
for
Rambert
was
everything
that
stood
in
the
way
of
his
happiness
.
In
truth
,
Rieux
knew
that
in
a
certain
sense
the
journalist
was
right
.
But
he
also
knew
that
sometimes
abstraction
may
become
stronger
than
happiness
,
and
that
then
,
and
only
then
,
should
one
take
it
into
account
.
This
is
what
would
happened
to
Rambert
,
and
the
doctor
would
learn
of
it
in
the
details
that
Rambert
would
later
confide
in
him
.
In
this
way
,
and
at
a
different
level
,
he
would
follow
the
sort
of
dreary
struggle
between
the
happiness
of
each
individual
and
the
abstractions
of
the
plague
,
that
was
to
make
up
the
life
of
our
town
for
this
long
period
of
time
.
*
*
*
