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           ButRieuxfoundhispatientlyinghalfoutofbed,onehandonhisbellyandtheotheraroundhisneck,convulsivelyvomitingreddishbileintoarubbishbin.Afterlongeffortstheconciergelaybackonthebed,gaspingforbreath.Histemperaturewas38.5,thelymphnodesonhisneckandhislimbshadswollenandtwoblackishpatcheswerespreadingonhissides.Hewasnowcomplainingofinternalpains.

           "It’sburning,"hesaid."Theswineisburningme."

           Hiscloggedthroatmadehimstumbleoverhiswordsandhisheadwasachingsomuchthatthereweretearsinthebulgingeyesthatheturnedtowardsthedoctor.HiswifelookedanxiouslyatRieux,whosaidnothing.

           "Doctor,"sheasked."Whatisit?"

           "Itcouldbeanything.Sofar,wecan’tbesure.Untilthisevening,dietandpurgatives.Hemustdrinkalot."

           Indeed,theconciergewasconsumedwiththirst.

           OncehegothomeRieuxtelephonedhiscolleagueDrRichard,oneoftheleadingdoctorsinthetown.

           "No,"Richardsaid."Ihaven’tseenanythingoutoftheordinary."

           "Nothightemperaturewithlocalinflammation?"

           "Well,yes,asithappens:twocaseswithveryenlargedlymphnodes."

           "Abnormallyso?"

           "Huh!"saidRichard."Youknow…What’snormal?"

           Thateveningtheconciergewasdeliriousand,withhistemperatureat40degrees,wascomplainingabouttherats.