The Cripple

by Guy de Maupassant

　　

---

The following adventure happened to me about 1882. I had just taken thetrain and settled down in a corner, hoping that I should be left alone,when the door suddenly opened again and I heard a voice say: "Take care,monsieur, we are just at a crossing; the step is very high."Another voice answered: "That's all right, Laurent, I have a firm hold onthe handle."Then a head appeared, and two hands seized the leather straps hanging oneither side of the door and slowly pulled up an enormous body, whose feetstriking on the step, sounded like two canes. When the man had hoistedhis torso into the compartment I noticed, at the loose edge of histrousers, the end of a wooden leg, which was soon followed by its mate.A head appeared behind this traveller and asked; "Are you all right,monsieur?""Yes, my boy.""Then here are your packages and crutches."And a servant, who looked like an old soldier, climbed in, carrying inhis arms a stack of bundles wrapped in black and yellow papers andcarefully tied; he placed one after the other in the net over hismaster's head. Then he said: "There, monsieur, that is all. There arefive of them--the candy, the doll the drum, the gun, and the pate defoies gras.""Very well, my boy.""Thank you, Laurent; good health!"The man closed the door and walked away, and I looked at my neighbor.He was about thirty-five, although his hair was almost white; he wore theribbon of the Legion of Honor; he had a heavy mustache and was quitestout, with the stoutness of a strong and active man who is keptmotionless on account of some infirmity. He wiped his brow, sighed, and,looking me full in the face, he asked: "Does smoking annoy you,monsieur?""No, monsieur."Surely I knew that eye, that voice, that face. But when and where had Iseen them? I had certainly met that man, spoken to him, shaken his hand.That was a long, long time ago. It was lost in the haze wherein the mindseems to feel around blindly for memories and pursues them like fleeingphantoms without being able to seize them. He, too, was observing me,staring me out of countenance, with the persistence of a man whoremembers slightly but not completely. Our eyes, embarrassed by thispersistent contact, turned away; then, after a few minutes, drawntogether again by the obscure and tenacious will of working memory, theymet once more, and I said: "Monsieur, instead of staring at each otherfor an hour or so, would it not be better to try to discover where wehave known each other?"My neighbor answered graciously: "You are quite right, monsieur."I named myself: "I am Henri Bonclair, a magistrate."He hesitated for a few minutes; then, with the vague look and voice whichaccompany great mental tension, he said: "Oh, I remember perfectly.I met you twelve years ago, before the war, at the Poincels!""Yes, monsieur. Ah! Ah! You are Lieutenant Revaliere?""Yes. I was Captain Revaliere even up to the time when I lost my feet--both of them together from one cannon ball."Now that we knew each other's identity we looked at each other again.I remembered perfectly the handsome, slender youth who led the cotillonswith such frenzied agility and gracefulness that he had been nicknamed"the fury." Going back into the dim, distant past, I recalled a storywhich I had heard and forgotten, one of those stories to which onelistens but forgets, and which leave but a faint impression upon thememory.There was something about love in it. Little by little the shadowscleared up, and the face of a young girl appeared before my eyes. Thenher name struck me with the force of an explosion: Mademoiselle deMandel. I remembered everything now. It was indeed a love story, butquite commonplace. The young girl loved this young man, and when I hadmet them there was already talk of the approaching wedding. The youthseemed to be very much in love, very happy.I raised my eye to the net, where all the packages which had been broughtin by the servant were trembling from the motion of the train, and thevoice of the servant came back to me, as if he had just finishedspeaking. He had said: "There, monsieur, that is all. There are five ofthem: the candy, the doll, the drum, the gun, and the pate de foiesgras."Then, in a second, a whole romance unfolded itself in my head. It waslike all those which I had already read, where the young lady marriednotwithstanding the catastrophe, whether physical or financial;therefore, this officer who had been maimed in the war had returned,after the campaign, to the young girl who had given him her promise, andshe had kept her word.I considered that very beautiful, but simple, just as one, considerssimple all devotions and climaxes in books or in plays. It always seems,when one reads or listens to these stories of magnanimity, that one couldsacrifice one's self with enthusiastic pleasure and overwhelming joy.But the following day, when an unfortunate friend comes to borrow somemoney, there is a strange revulsion of feeling.But, suddenly, another supposition, less poetic and more realistic,replaced the first one. Perhaps he had married before the war, beforethis frightful accident, and she, in despair and resignation, had beenforced to receive, care for, cheer, and support this husband, who haddeparted, a handsome man, and had returned without his feet, a frightfulwreck, forced into immobility, powerless anger, and fatal obesity.Was he happy or in torture? I was seized with an irresistible desire toknow his story, or, at least, the principal points, which would permit meto guess that which he could not or would not tell me. Still thinkingthe matter over, I began talking to him. We had exchanged a fewcommonplace words; and I raised my eyes to the net, and thought: "He musthave three children: the bonbons are for his wife, the doll for hislittle girl, the drum and the gun for his sons, and this pate de foiesgras for himself."Suddenly I asked him: "Are you a father, monsieur?"He answered: "No, monsieur."I suddenly felt confused, as if I had been guilty of some breach ofetiquette, and I continued: "I beg your pardon. I had thought that youwere when I heard your servant speaking about the toys. One listens anddraws conclusions unconsciously."He smiled and then murmured: "No, I am not even married. I am still atthe preliminary stage."I pretended suddenly to remember, and said:"Oh! that's true! When I knew you, you were engaged to Mademoiselle deMandel, I believe.""Yes, monsieur, your memory is excellent."I grew very bold and added: "I also seem to remember hearing thatMademoiselle de Mandel married Monsieur--Monsieur--"He calmly mentioned the name: "Monsieur de Fleurel.""Yes, that's it! I remember it was on that occasion that I heard of yourwound."I looked him full in the face, and he blushed. His full face, which wasalready red from the oversupply of blood, turned crimson. He answeredquickly, with a sudden ardor of a man who is pleading a cause which islost in his mind and in his heart, but which he does not wish to admit."It is wrong, monsieur, to couple my name with that of Madame de Fleurel.When I returned from the war-without my feet, alas! I never would havepermitted her to become my wife. Was it possible? When one marries,monsieur, it is not in order to parade one's generosity; it is in orderto live every day, every hour, every minute, every second beside a man;and if this man is disfigured, as I am, it is a death sentence to marryhim! Oh, I understand, I admire all sacrifices and devotions when theyhave a limit, but I do not admit that a woman should give up her wholelife, all joy, all her dreams, in order to satisfy the admiration of thegallery. When I hear, on the floor of my room, the tapping of my woodenlegs and of my crutches, I grow angry enough to strangle my servant. Doyou think that I would permit a woman to do what I myself am unable totolerate? And, then, do you think that my stumps are pretty?"He was silent. What could I say? He certainly was right. Could I blameher, hold her in contempt, even say that she was wrong? No. However,the end which conformed to the rule, to the truth, did not satisfy mypoetic appetite. These heroic deeds demand a beautiful sacrifice, whichseemed to be lacking, and I felt a certain disappointment. I suddenly.asked: "Has Madame de Fleurel any children?""Yes, one girl and two boys. It is for them that I am bringing thesetoys. She and her husband are very kind to me."The train was going up the incline to Saint-Germain. It passed throughthe tunnels, entered the station, and stopped. I was about to offer myarm to the wounded officer, in order to help him descend, when two handswere stretched up to him through the open door."Hello! my dear Revaliere!""Ah! Hello, Fleurel!"Standing behind the man, the woman, still beautiful, was smiling andwaving her hands to him. A little girl, standing beside her, was jumpingfor joy, and two young boys were eagerly watching the drum and the gun,which were passing from the car into their father's hands.When the cripple was on the ground, all the children kissed him. Thenthey set off, the little girl holding in her hand the small varnishedrung of a crutch, just as she might walk beside her big friend and holdhis thumb.

---

The Cripple was featured as TheShort Story of the Day on Thu, Nov 03, 2016

---