On April 28, when the Ransdoc Bureau announced that 8,000 rats had been collected, a wave of something like panics wept the town. There was a demand for drastic measures, the authorities were accused of slackness, and people who had houses on the coast spoke of moving there, early in the year thought it was. But next day the bureau informed them that the phenomenon had abruptly ended and the sanitary service had collected only a trifling number of rats. Everyone breathed more freely.
It was, however, on this same day, at noon, that Dr. Rieux, when parking his car in front of the apartment house where he lived, noticed the concierge coming toward him from the end of the street. He was draggling himself along, his head bent, arms and legs curiously splayed out, with the jerky movements of a clockwork doll. The old man was leaning on the arm of a priest whom the doctor knew. It was Father Paneloux, a learned and militant Jesuit, whom he had met occasionally and who was very highly thought of in our town, even in circles quite in different to religion. Rieus waited for the two men to draw up to him. M. Michel’s eyes were fever-bright and he was breathing wheezily. The old man explained that, feeling “a bit off color,” he had gone out to take the air. But he had started feeling pains in all sorts of places---in his neck, armpits, and groin---and had been obliged to turn back and ask Father Paneloux to give him an arm.
“It’s just swellings,” he said. “I must have strained myself somehow”.
Leaning out of the window of the car, the doctor ran his hand over the base of Michel’s neck; a hard lump, like a knot in wood, had formed there.
“Go to bed at once, and take your temperature. I’ll come to see you this afternoon.”
When the old man had gone, Rieux asked Father Paneloux what he made of the queer business about the rats.“Oh, I suppose it’s an epidemic they’ve been having.”The Father’s eyes were smiling behind his big round glasses.
After lunch, while Riex was reading for the second time the telegram his wife had sent from the sanatorium, announcing her arrival, the phone rang. It was one of his former patients, a clerk in the Municipal Office, ringing him up. He had suffered for a long time from a constriction of aorta, and, as he was poor, Rieux had charged no fee. “Thanks, doctor, for remembering me. But this time it’s somebody else. The man next door has had an accident. Please come at once”. He sounded out of breath.
Rieux thought quickly: yes, he could see the concierge afterwards. A few minutes later he was entering a small house the rue Faidherbe, on the out skirts of the town. Halfway up the drafty, foul-smelling stairs, he saw Jeseph Grand, the clerk, hurrying down to meet him. He was a man of about fifty years of age, tall and drooping, with narrow shoulders, thin limbs, and a yellowish mustache.
“He looks better bow,” he told Rieux, “but I really thought his number was up”. He blew his nose vigorously.
On the top floor, the third, Rieux noticed something scrawled in red chalk on a door on the left:”Come in, I’ve hanged myself”.
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