colle 1 texte 1 The death of Leopoldine, Hugo’s daughter, drowned in 1843, divides les Contemplations into two main parts: “Autrefois” and “Aujourd’hui”. Written in 1847, this poem allows Hugo to meet his missing child, eternally present in his memory. Tomorrow, at dawn, at the moment when the land whitens, I will leave. You see, I know that you are waiting for me. I will go through the forest, I will go across mountains. I cannot stay away from you any longer. I will walk eyes fixed on my thoughts, Without seeing anything outside, without hearing a noise, Alone, unknown, back hunched, hands crossed, Sorrowed, as the day for me is like the night. I will watch neither the evening gold fall, Nor the faraway sails descending upon Harfleur. And when I arrive, I will put on your grave A bouquet of green holly and heather in bloom. texte 2 The Plague is first of all the chronicle of a struggle: that of the inhabitants of Oran faced with the absurdity of their situation, locked up in a city where the plague is becoming more and more frightening every day. In this excerpt, the plague reaches its climax and no one thinks of denying its existence. From now on, everyone must act, as they can, to ward off the disease. Thus week by week the prisoners of plague put up what fight they could. Some, like Rambert, even contrived to fancy they were still behaving as free men and had the power of choice. But actually it would have been truer to say that by this time, mid-August, the plague had swallowed up everything and everyone. No longer were there individual destinies; only a collective destiny, made of plague and the emotions shared by all. Strongest of these emotions was the sense of exile and of deprivation, with all the crosscurrents of revolt and fear set up by these. That is why the narrator thinks this moment, registering the climax of the summer heat and the disease, the best for describing, on general lines and by way of illustration, the excesses of the living, burials of the dead, and the plight of parted lovers. It was at this time that a high wind rose and blew for several days through the plague-stricken city. Wind is particularly dreaded by the inhabitants of Oran, since the plateau on which the town is built presents no natural obstacle, and it can sweep our streets with unimpeded violence. During the months when not a drop of rain had refreshed the town, a gray crust had formed on everything, and this flaked off under the wind, disintegrating into dust-clouds. What with the dust and scraps of paper whirled against people’s legs, the streets grew emptier. Those few who went out could be seen hurrying along, bent forward, 1 with handkerchiefs or their hands pressed to their mouths. At nightfall, instead of the usual throng of people, each trying to prolong a day that might well be his last, you met only small groups hastening home or to a favorite café. With the result that for several days when twilight came it fell much quicker at this time of the year—the streets were almost empty, and silent but for the long drawn stridence of the wind. A smell of brine and seaweed came from the unseen, storm-tossed sea. And in the growing darkness the almost empty town, palled in dust, swept by bitter sea-spray, and loud with the shrilling of the wind, seemed a lost island of the damned. Hitherto the plague had found far more victims in the more thickly populated and less well-appointed outer districts than in the heart of the town. Quite suddenly, however, it launched a new attack and established itself in the business center. Residents accused the wind of carrying infection, “broadcasting germs,” as the hotel manager put it. Whatever the reason might be, people living in the central districts realized that their turn had come when each night they heard oftener and oftener the ambulances clanging past, sounding the plague’s dismal, passionless tocsin under their windows. The authorities had the idea of segregating certain particularly affected central areas and permitting only those whose services were indispensable to cross the cordon. Dwellers in these districts could not help regarding these regulations as a sort of taboo specially directed at themselves, and thus they came, by contrast, to envy residents in other areas their freedom. And the latter, to cheer themselves up in despondent moments, fell to picturing the lot of those others less free than themselves. “Anyhow, there are some worse off than I,” was a remark that voiced the only solace to be had in those days. texte 3 Jean Giono creates the character of Angelo Pardi, brilliant rider, sparkling fencer, quick to be indignant in front of the lowesses. Fleeing the cholera, the young man befriends Pauline de Théus. This one, however, is in its turn reached by the disease. The night had become extremely dark and silent. “This isn’t the first time,” thought Angelo, “but they’ve all died in my hands.” The absence of hope, rather than despair, and above all physical exhaustion now made him more and more frequently turn to gaze into the night. He was not seeking help but some repose. Pauline seemed to be slipping away. He dared not question her. The words of the man in the riding-coat were still too recent. He remembered the lucidity of which the man had spoken, and he dreaded lucidity from this mouth, still discharging its whitish mud. He was amazed, even rather terrified, by the emptiness of the night. He won- 2 dered how he had managed not to be frightened till now, especially of things so menacing. Yet he never ceased to labor with his hands to bring back warmth to that groin at the edges of which the cold and marble hue still lurked. At length a whole series of little, highly colored, brightly lit thoughts came to him, some of them absurd and laughable, and, at the end of his tether, he rested his cheek on that stomach, now shuddering only feebly, and fell asleep. A pain in his eyes woke him; he saw red, opened his eyes. It was day. He could not think what the soft, warm thing was on which his head was resting. He could see he was covered to the chin by the folds of his cloak. He breathed deeply. A cool hand touched his cheek. “I covered you up,” said a voice. “You were cold.” He was on his feet in an instant. The voice was not entirely unfamiliar. Pauline was looking at him with almost human eyes. 3