Чума

           TheoldmanhadgreetedTarroubygigglingandrubbinghishands.Hewasinbed,proppedupagainsthispillow,abovehistwosaucepansofchick-peas."Ah,anotherone,"hesaid,whenhesawTarrou."It’stheworldturnedupsidedown,moredoctorsthanpatients.Thatmeansit’sgoingfast,huh?Thepriestisright,it’swelldeserved."Thenextday,withoutwarning,Tarroucameback.

           Ifoneistobelievethenotebooks,theoldasthmatic,adraperbytrade,haddecidedattheageoffiftythathehaddoneenough.Hehadgonetobedandnotgotupsince.Hisasthma,however,wasbettersuitedtoastandingposition.Asmallprivateincomehadcarriedhimontotheseventy-fiveyearswhichnowsatlightlyonhim.Hecouldnotstandthesightofawatchand,indeed,hadnotasingleoneinhishouse."Awatch",hewouldsay,"isexpensiveandstupid."Hejudgedtime,especiallymealtimes—theonlyonesthatreallymatteredtohim—byhistwosaucepans,oneofwhichwasfullofpeaswhenhewokeup.Hefilledtheother,peabypea,withasingle,regularandassiduousmovement.Inthiswayhefoundhisbearingsthroughadaymeasuredsaucepanbysaucepan."Everyfifteenpans,"hesaid,"Ineedasnack.It’squitesimple."

           Infact,ifonewastobelievehiswife,hehadgivensignsofhisvocationquiteearlyinlife.Nothinghadreallyinterestedhim—work,friends,cafes,music,womenorwalks.