The Beggar by Guy de Maupassant
He had seen better days, despite his present misery and infirmities.
At the age of fifteen both his legs had been crushed by a carriage on the
Varville highway. From that time forth he begged, dragging himself along
the roads and through the farmyards, supported by crutches which forced
his shoulders up to his ears. His head looked as if it were squeezed in
between two mountains.
A foundling, picked up out of a ditch by the priest of Les Billettes on
the eve of All Saints' Day and baptized, for that reason, Nicholas
Toussaint, reared by charity, utterly without education, crippled in
consequence of having drunk several glasses of brandy given him by the
baker (such a funny story!) and a vagabond all his life
afterward—the only thing he knew how to do was to hold out his hand
At one time the Baroness d'Avary allowed him to sleep in a kind of recess
spread with straw, close to the poultry yard in the farm adjoining the
chateau, and if he was in great need he was sure of getting a glass of
cider and a crust of bread in the kitchen. Moreover, the old lady often
threw him a few pennies from her window. But she was dead now.
In the villages people gave him scarcely anything—he was too well
known. Everybody had grown tired of seeing him, day after day for forty
years, dragging his deformed and tattered person from door to door on his
wooden crutches. But he could not make up his mind to go elsewhere,
because he knew no place on earth but this particular corner of the
country, these three or four villages where he had spent the whole of his
miserable existence. He had limited his begging operations and would not
for worlds have passed his accustomed bounds.
He did not even know whether the world extended for any distance beyond
the trees which had always bounded his vision. He did not ask himself the
question. And when the peasants, tired of constantly meeting him in their
fields or along their lanes, exclaimed: "Why don't you go to other
villages instead of always limping about here?" he did not answer, but
slunk away, possessed with a vague dread of the unknown—the dread
of a poor wretch who fears confusedly a thousand things—new faces,
taunts, insults, the suspicious glances of people who do not know him and
the policemen walking in couples on the roads. These last he always
instinctively avoided, taking refuge in the bushes or behind heaps of
stones when he saw them coming.
When he perceived them in the distance, 'With uniforms gleaming in the
sun, he was suddenly possessed with unwonted agility—the agility of
a wild animal seeking its lair. He threw aside his crutches, fell to the
ground like a limp rag, made himself as small as possible and crouched
like a bare under cover, his tattered vestments blending in hue with the
earth on which he cowered.
He had never had any trouble with the police, but the instinct to avoid
them was in his blood. He seemed to have inherited it from the parents he
had never known.
He had no refuge, no roof for his head, no shelter of any kind. In summer
he slept out of doors and in winter he showed remarkable skill in
slipping unperceived into barns and stables. He always decamped before
his presence could be discovered. He knew all the holes through which one
could creep into farm buildings, and the handling of his crutches having
made his arms surprisingly muscular he often hauled himself up through
sheer strength of wrist into hay-lofts, where he sometimes remained for
four or five days at a time, provided he had collected a sufficient store
of food beforehand.
He lived like the beasts of the field. He was in the midst of men, yet
knew no one, loved no one, exciting in the breasts of the peasants only a
sort of careless contempt and smoldering hostility. They nicknamed him
"Bell," because he hung between his two crutches like a church bell
between its supports.
For two days he had eaten nothing. No one gave him anything now. Every
one's patience was exhausted. Women shouted to him from their doorsteps
when they saw him coming:
"Be off with you, you good-for-nothing vagabond! Why, I gave you a piece
of bread only three days ago!"
And he turned on his crutches to the next house, where he was received in
the same fashion.
The women declared to one another as they stood at their doors:
"We can't feed that lazy brute all the year round!"
And yet the "lazy brute" needed food every day.
He had exhausted Saint-Hilaire, Varville and Les Billettes without
getting a single copper or so much as a dry crust. His only hope was in
Tournolles, but to reach this place he would have to walk five miles
along the highroad, and he felt so weary that he could hardly drag
himself another yard. His stomach and his pocket were equally empty, but
he started on his way.
It was December and a cold wind blew over the fields and whistled through
the bare branches of the trees; the clouds careered madly across the
black, threatening sky. The cripple dragged himself slowly along, raising
one crutch after the other with a painful effort, propping himself on the
one distorted leg which remained to him.
Now and then he sat down beside a ditch for a few moments' rest. Hunger
was gnawing his vitals, and in his confused, slow-working mind he had
only one idea-to eat-but how this was to be accomplished he did not know.
For three hours he continued his painful journey. Then at last the sight
of the trees of the village inspired him with new energy.
The first peasant he met, and of whom he asked alms, replied:
"So it's you again, is it, you old scamp? Shall I never be rid of you?"
And "Bell" went on his way. At every door he got nothing but hard words.
He made the round of the whole village, but received not a halfpenny for
Then he visited the neighboring farms, toiling through the muddy land, so
exhausted that he could hardly raise his crutches from the ground. He met
with the same reception everywhere. It was one of those cold, bleak days,
when the heart is frozen and the temper irritable, and hands do not open
either to give money or food.
When he had visited all the houses he knew, "Bell" sank down in the
corner of a ditch running across Chiquet's farmyard. Letting his crutches
slip to the ground, he remained motionless, tortured by hunger, but
hardly intelligent enough to realize to the full his unutterable misery.
He awaited he knew not what, possessed with that vague hope which
persists in the human heart in spite of everything. He awaited in the
corner of the farmyard in the biting December wind, some mysterious aid
from Heaven or from men, without the least idea whence it was to arrive.
A number of black hens ran hither and thither, seeking their food in the
earth which supports all living things. Ever now and then they snapped up
in their beaks a grain of corn or a tiny insect; then they continued
their slow, sure search for nutriment.
"Bell" watched them at first without thinking of anything. Then a thought
occurred rather to his stomach than to his mind—the thought that
one of those fowls would be good to eat if it were cooked over a fire of
He did not reflect that he was going to commit a theft. He took up a
stone which lay within reach, and, being of skillful aim, killed at the
first shot the fowl nearest to him. The bird fell on its side, flapping
its wings. The others fled wildly hither and thither, and "Bell," picking
up his crutches, limped across to where his victim lay.
Just as he reached the little black body with its crimsoned head he
received a violent blow in his back which made him let go his hold of his
crutches and sent him flying ten paces distant. And Farmer Chiquet,
beside himself with rage, cuffed and kicked the marauder with all the
fury of a plundered peasant as "Bell" lay defenceless before him.
The farm hands came up also and joined their master in cuffing the lame
beggar. Then when they were tired of beating him they carried him off and
shut him up in the woodshed, while they went to fetch the police.
"Bell," half dead, bleeding and perishing with hunger, lay on the floor.
Evening came—then night—then dawn. And still he had not
About midday the police arrived. They opened the door of the woodshed
with the utmost precaution, fearing resistance on the beggar's part, for
Farmer Chiquet asserted that he had been attacked by him and had had
great, difficulty in defending himself.
The sergeant cried:
"Come, get up!"
But "Bell" could not move. He did his best to raise himself on his
crutches, but without success. The police, thinking his weakness feigned,
pulled him up by main force and set him between the crutches.
Fear seized him—his native fear of a uniform, the fear of the game
in presence of the sportsman, the fear of a mouse for a cat-and by the
exercise of almost superhuman effort he succeeded in remaining upright.
"Forward!" said the sergeant. He walked. All the inmates of the farm
watched his departure. The women shook their fists at him the men scoffed
at and insulted him. He was taken at last! Good riddance! He went off
between his two guards. He mustered sufficient energy—the energy of
despair—to drag himself along until the evening, too dazed to know
what was happening to him, too frightened to understand.
People whom he met on the road stopped to watch him go by and peasants
"It's some thief or other."
Toward evening he reached the country town. He had never been so far
before. He did not realize in the least what he was there for or what was
to become of him. All the terrible and unexpected events of the last two
days, all these unfamiliar faces and houses struck dismay into his heart.
He said not a word, having nothing to say because he understood nothing.
Besides, he had spoken to no one for so many years past that he had
almost lost the use of his tongue, and his thoughts were too
indeterminate to be put into words.
He was shut up in the town jail. It did not occur to the police that he
might need food, and he was left alone until the following day. But when
in the early morning they came to examine him he was found dead on the
floor. Such an astonishing thing!