He was a journeyman carpenter, a good workman and a steady fellow,
twenty-seven years old, but, although the eldest son, Jacques Randel had
been forced to live on his family for two months, owing to the general
lack of work. He had walked about seeking work for over a month and had
left his native town, Ville-Avary, in La Manche, because he could find
nothing to do and would no longer deprive his family of the bread
they needed themselves, when he was the strongest of them all. His two
sisters earned but little as charwomen. He went and inquired at the town
hall, and the mayor's secretary told him that he would find work at
the Labor Agency, and so he started, well provided with papers and
certificates, and carrying another pair of shoes, a pair of trousers and
a shirt in a blue handkerchief at the end of his stick.
And he had walked almost without stopping, day and night, along
interminable roads, in sun and rain, without ever reaching that
mysterious country where workmen find work. At first he had the fixed
idea that he must only work as a carpenter, but at every carpenter's
shop where he applied he was told that they had just dismissed men on
account of work being so slack, and, finding himself at the end of his
resources, he made up his mind to undertake any job that he might
come across on the road. And so by turns he was a navvy, stableman,
stonecutter; he split wood, lopped the branches of trees, dug wells,
mixed mortar, tied up fagots, tended goats on a mountain, and all for a
few pence, for he only obtained two or three days' work occasionally
by offering himself at a shamefully low price, in order to tempt the
avarice of employers and peasants.
And now for a week he had found nothing, and had no money left, and
nothing to eat but a piece of bread, thanks to the charity of some women
from whom he had begged at house doors on the road. It was getting dark,
and Jacques Randel, jaded, his legs failing him, his stomach empty, and
with despair in his heart, was walking barefoot on the grass by the side
of the road, for he was taking care of his last pair of shoes, as
the other pair had already ceased to exist for a long time. It was a
Saturday, toward the end of autumn. The heavy gray clouds were being
driven rapidly through the sky by the gusts of wind which whistled
among the trees, and one felt that it would rain soon. The country was
deserted at that hour on the eve of Sunday. Here and there in the fields
there rose up stacks of wheat straw, like huge yellow mushrooms, and the
fields looked bare, as they had already been sown for the next year.
Randel was hungry, with the hunger of some wild animal, such a hunger as
drives wolves to attack men. Worn out and weakened with fatigue, he took
longer strides, so as not to take so many steps, and with heavy head,
the blood throbbing in his temples, with red eyes and dry mouth, he
grasped his stick tightly in his hand, with a longing to strike the
first passerby who might be going home to supper.
He looked at the sides of the road, imagining he saw potatoes dug up and
lying on the ground before his eyes; if he had found any he would have
gathered some dead wood, made a fire in the ditch and have had a capital
supper off the warm, round vegetables with which he would first of all
have warmed his cold hands. But it was too late in the year, and he
would have to gnaw a raw beetroot which he might pick up in a field as
he had done the day before.
For the last two days he had talked to himself as he quickened his steps
under the influence of his thoughts. He had never thought much hitherto,
as he had given all his mind, all his simple faculties to his mechanical
work. But now fatigue and this desperate search for work which he could
not get, refusals and rebuffs, nights spent in the open air lying on the
grass, long fasting, the contempt which he knew people with a settled
abode felt for a vagabond, and that question which he was continually
asked, “Why do you not remain at home?” distress at not being able to
use his strong arms which he felt so full of vigor, the recollection of
the relations he had left at home and who also had not a penny, filled
him by degrees with rage, which had been accumulating every day, every
hour, every minute, and which now escaped his lips in spite of himself
in short, growling sentences.
As he stumbled over the stones which tripped his bare feet, he grumbled:
“How wretched! how miserable! A set of hogs--to let a man die of
hunger--a carpenter--a set of hogs--not two sous--not two sous--and now
it is raining--a set of hogs!”
He was indignant at the injustice of fate, and cast the blame on men, on
all men, because nature, that great, blind mother, is unjust, cruel and
perfidious, and he repeated through his clenched teeth:
“A set of hogs” as he looked at the thin gray smoke which rose from the
roofs, for it was the dinner hour. And, without considering that there
is another injustice which is human, and which is called robbery and
violence, he felt inclined to go into one of those houses to murder the
inhabitants and to sit down to table in their stead.
He said to himself: “I have no right to live now, as they are letting me
die of hunger, and yet I only ask for work--a set of hogs!” And the pain
in his limbs, the gnawing in his heart rose to his head like terrible
intoxication, and gave rise to this simple thought in his brain: “I have
the right to live because I breathe and because the air is the common
property of everybody. So nobody has the right to leave me without
bread!”
A fine, thick, icy cold rain was coming down, and he stopped and
murmured: “Oh, misery! Another month of walking before I get home.” He
was indeed returning home then, for he saw that he should more easily
find work in his native town, where he was known--and he did not mind
what he did--than on the highroads, where everybody suspected him. As
the carpentering business was not prosperous, he would turn day laborer,
be a mason's hodman, a ditcher, break stones on the road. If he only
earned a franc a day, that would at any rate buy him something to eat.
He tied the remains of his last pocket handkerchief round his neck to
prevent the cold rain from running down his back and chest, but he soon
found that it was penetrating the thin material of which his clothes
were made, and he glanced about him with the agonized look of a man who
does not know where to hide his body and to rest his head, and has no
place of shelter in the whole world.
Night came on and wrapped the country in obscurity, and in the distance,
in a meadow, he saw a dark spot on the grass; it was a cow, and so he
got over the ditch by the roadside and went up to her without exactly
knowing what he was doing. When he got close to her she raised her great
head to him, and he thought: “If I only had a jug I could get a little
milk.” He looked at the cow and the cow looked at him and then, suddenly
giving her a kick in the side, he said: “Get up!”
The animal got up slowly, letting her heavy udders bang down. Then the
man lay down on his back between the animal's legs and drank for a long
time, squeezing her warm, swollen teats, which tasted of the cowstall,
with both hands, and he drank as long as she gave any milk. But the icy
rain began to fall more heavily, and he saw no place of shelter on the
whole of that bare plain. He was cold, and he looked at a light which
was shining among the trees in the window of a house.
The cow had lain down again heavily, and he sat down by her side and
stroked her head, grateful for the nourishment she had given him. The
animal's strong, thick breath, which came out of her nostrils like two
jets of steam in the evening air, blew on the workman's face, and he
said: “You are not cold inside there!” He put his hands on her chest and
under her stomach to find some warmth there, and then the idea struck
him that he might pass the night beside that large, warm animal. So he
found a comfortable place and laid his head on her side, and then, as he
was worn out with fatigue, fell asleep immediately.
He woke up, however, several times, with his back or his stomach half
frozen, according as he put one or the other against the animal's flank.
Then he turned over to warm and dry that part of his body which had
remained exposed to the night air, and soon went soundly to sleep again.
The crowing of a cock woke him; the day was breaking, it was no longer
raining, and the sky was bright. The cow was resting with her muzzle
on the ground, and he stooped down, resting on his hands, to kiss those
wide, moist nostrils, and said: “Good-by, my beauty, until next time.
You are a nice animal. Good-by.” Then he put on his shoes and went off,
and for two hours walked straight before him, always following the same
road, and then he felt so tired that he sat down on the grass. It was
broad daylight by that time, and the church bells were ringing; men in
blue blouses, women in white caps, some on foot, some in carts, began to
pass along the road, going to the neighboring villages to spend Sunday
with friends or relations.
A stout peasant came in sight, driving before him a score of frightened,
bleating sheep, with the help of an active dog. Randel got up, and
raising his cap, said: “You do not happen to have any work for a man
who is dying of hunger?” But the other, giving an angry look at the
vagabond, replied: “I have no work for fellows whom I meet on the road.”
And the carpenter went back and sat down by the side of the ditch again.
He waited there for a long time, watching the country people pass and
looking for a kind, compassionate face before he renewed his request,
and finally selected a man in an overcoat, whose stomach was adorned
with a gold chain. “I have been looking for work,” he said, “for the
last two months and cannot find any, and I have not a sou in my pocket.”
But the would-be gentleman replied: “You should have read the notice
which is stuck up at the entrance to the village: 'Begging is prohibited
within the boundaries of this parish.' Let me tell you that I am the
mayor, and if you do not get out of here pretty quickly I shall have you
arrested.”
Randel, who was getting angry, replied: “Have me arrested if you like; I
should prefer it, for, at any rate, I should not die of hunger.” And he
went back and sat down by the side of his ditch again, and in about a
quarter of an hour two gendarmes appeared on the road. They were walking
slowly side by side, glittering in the sun with their shining hats,
their yellow accoutrements and their metal buttons, as if to frighten
evildoers, and to put them to flight at a distance. He knew that they
were coming after him, but he did not move, for he was seized with a
sudden desire to defy them, to be arrested by them, and to have his
revenge later.
They came on without appearing to have seen him, walking heavily, with
military step, and balancing themselves as if they were doing the goose
step; and then, suddenly, as they passed him, appearing to have noticed
him, they stopped and looked at him angrily and threateningly, and the
brigadier came up to him and asked: “What are you doing here?” “I am
resting,” the man replied calmly. “Where do you come from?” “If I had
to tell you all the places I have been to it would take me more than an
hour.” “Where are you going to?” “To Ville-Avary.” “Where is that?” “In
La Manche.” “Is that where you belong?” “It is.” “Why did you leave it?”
“To look for work.”
The brigadier turned to his gendarme and said in the angry voice of a
man who is exasperated at last by an oft-repeated trick: “They all say
that, these scamps. I know all about it.” And then he continued: “Have
you any papers?” “Yes, I have some.” “Give them to me.”
Randel took his papers out of his pocket, his certificates, those poor,
worn-out, dirty papers which were falling to pieces, and gave them to
the soldier, who spelled them through, hemming and hawing, and then,
having seen that they were all in order, he gave them back to Randel
with the dissatisfied look of a man whom some one cleverer than himself
has tricked.
After a few moments' further reflection, he asked him: “Have you any
money on you?” “No.” “None whatever?” “None.” “Not even a sou?” “Not
even a son!” “How do you live then?” “On what people give me.” “Then you
beg?” And Randel answered resolutely: “Yes, when I can.”
Then the gendarme said: “I have caught you on the highroad in the act
of vagabondage and begging, without any resources or trade, and so I
command you to come with me.” The carpenter got up and said: “Wherever
you please.” And, placing himself between the two soldiers, even before
he had received the order to do so, he added: “Well, lock me up; that
will at any rate put a roof over my head when it rains.”
And they set off toward the village, the red tiles of which could be
seen through the leafless trees, a quarter of a league off. Service was
about to begin when they went through the village. The square was full
of people, who immediately formed two lines to see the criminal pass.
He was being followed by a crowd of excited children. Male and female
peasants looked at the prisoner between the two gendarmes, with hatred
in their eyes and a longing to throw stones at him, to tear his skin
with their nails, to trample him under their feet. They asked each other
whether he had committed murder or robbery. The butcher, who was an
ex-'spahi', declared that he was a deserter. The tobacconist thought
that he recognized him as the man who had that very morning passed a bad
half-franc piece off on him, and the ironmonger declared that he was the
murderer of Widow Malet, whom the police had been looking for for six
months.
In the municipal court, into which his custodians took him, Randel saw
the mayor again, sitting on the magisterial bench, with the schoolmaster
by his side. “Aha! aha!” the magistrate exclaimed, “so here you are
again, my fine fellow. I told you I should have you locked up. Well,
brigadier, what is he charged with?”
“He is a vagabond without house or home, Monsieur le Maire, without any
resources or money, so he says, who was arrested in the act of begging,
but he is provided with good testimonials, and his papers are all in
order.”
“Show me his papers,” the mayor said. He took them, read them, reread,
returned them and then said: “Search him.” So they searched him, but
found nothing, and the mayor seemed perplexed, and asked the workman:
“What were you doing on the road this morning?” “I was looking for
work.” “Work? On the highroad?” “How do you expect me to find any if I
hide in the woods?”
They looked at each other with the hatred of two wild beasts which
belong to different hostile species, and the magistrate continued: “I
am going to have you set at liberty, but do not be brought up before me
again.” To which the carpenter replied: “I would rather you locked me
up; I have had enough running about the country.” But the magistrate
replied severely: “be silent.” And then he said to the two gendarmes:
“You will conduct this man two hundred yards from the village and let
him continue his journey.”
“At any rate, give me something to eat,” the workman said, but the other
grew indignant: “Have we nothing to do but to feed you? Ah! ah! ah! that
is rather too much!” But Randel went on firmly: “If you let me nearly
die of hunger again, you will force me to commit a crime, and then, so
much the worse for you other fat fellows.”
The mayor had risen and he repeated: “Take him away immediately or I
shall end by getting angry.”
The two gendarmes thereupon seized the carpenter by the arms and dragged
him out. He allowed them to do it without resistance, passed through the
village again and found himself on the highroad once more; and when
the men had accompanied him two hundred yards beyond the village, the
brigadier said: “Now off with you and do not let me catch you about here
again, for if I do, you will know it.”
Randel went off without replying or knowing where he was going. He
walked on for a quarter of an hour or twenty minutes, so stupefied that
he no longer thought of anything. But suddenly, as he was passing a
small house, where the window was half open, the smell of the soup
and boiled meat stopped him suddenly, and hunger, fierce, devouring,
maddening hunger, seized him and almost drove him against the walls of
the house like a wild beast.
He said aloud in a grumbling voice: “In Heaven's name! they must give me
some this time!” And he began to knock at the door vigorously with his
stick, and as no one came he knocked louder and called out: “Hey! hey!
you people in there, open the door!” And then, as nothing stirred, he
went up to the window and pushed it wider open with his hand, and the
close warm air of the kitchen, full of the smell of hot soup, meat and
cabbage, escaped into the cold outer air, and with a bound the carpenter
was in the house. Two places were set at the table, and no doubt the
proprietors of the house, on going to church, had left their dinner on
the fire, their nice Sunday boiled beef and vegetable soup, while there
was a loaf of new bread on the chimney-piece, between two bottles which
seemed full.
Randel seized the bread first of all and broke it with as much violence
as if he were strangling a man, and then he began to eat voraciously,
swallowing great mouthfuls quickly. But almost immediately the smell of
the meat attracted him to the fireplace, and, having taken off the lid
of the saucepan, he plunged a fork into it and brought out a large
piece of beef tied with a string. Then he took more cabbage, carrots and
onions until his plate was full, and, having put it on the table, he sat
down before it, cut the meat into four pieces, and dined as if he had
been at home. When he had eaten nearly all the meat, besides a quantity
of vegetables, he felt thirsty and took one of the bottles off the
mantelpiece.
Scarcely had he poured the liquor into his glass when he saw it was
brandy. So much the better; it was warming and would instill some fire
into his veins, and that would be all right, after being so cold; and
he drank some. He certainly enjoyed it, for he had grown unaccustomed
to it, and he poured himself out another glassful, which he drank at two
gulps. And then almost immediately he felt quite merry and light-hearted
from the effects of the alcohol, just as if some great happiness filled
his heart.
He continued to eat, but more slowly, and dipping his bread into the
soup. His skin had become burning, and especially his forehead, where
the veins were throbbing. But suddenly the church bells began to ring.
Mass was over, and instinct rather than fear, the instinct of prudence,
which guides all beings and makes them clear-sighted in danger, made the
carpenter get up. He put the remains of the loaf into one pocket and the
brandy bottle into the other, and he furtively went to the window and
looked out into the road. It was still deserted, so he jumped out and
set off walking again, but instead of following the highroad he ran
across the fields toward a wood he saw a little way off.
He felt alert, strong, light-hearted, glad of what he had done, and
so nimble that he sprang over the enclosure of the fields at a single
bound, and as soon as he was under the trees he took the bottle out of
his pocket again and began to drink once more, swallowing it down as he
walked, and then his ideas began to get confused, his eyes grew dim, and
his legs as elastic as springs, and he started singing the old popular
song:
“Oh! what joy, what joy it is,
To pick the sweet, wild strawberries.”
He was now walking on thick, damp, cool moss, and that soft carpet under
his feet made him feel absurdly inclined to turn head over heels as he
used to do when a child, so he took a run, turned a somersault, got up
and began over again. And between each time he began to sing again:
“Oh! what joy, what joy it is,
To pick the sweet, wild strawberries.”
Suddenly he found himself above a deep road, and in the road he saw a
tall girl, a servant, who was returning to the village with two pails of
milk. He watched, stooping down, and with his eyes as bright as those of
a dog who scents a quail, but she saw him raised her head and said: “Was
that you singing like that?” He did not reply, however, but jumped down
into the road, although it was a fall of at least six feet and when she
saw him suddenly standing in front of her, she exclaimed: “Oh! dear, how
you frightened me!”
But he did not hear her, for he was drunk, he was mad, excited by
another requirement which was more imperative than hunger, more feverish
than alcohol; by the irresistible fury of the man who has been deprived
of everything for two months, and who is drunk; who is young, ardent and
inflamed by all the appetites which nature has implanted in the vigorous
flesh of men.
The girl started back from him, frightened at his face, his eyes,
his half-open mouth, his outstretched hands, but he seized her by the
shoulders, and without a word, threw her down in the road.
She let her two pails fall, and they rolled over noisily, and all the
milk was spilt, and then she screamed lustily, but it was of no avail in
that lonely spot.
When she got up the thought of her overturned pails suddenly filled her
with fury, and, taking off one of her wooden sabots, she threw it at the
man to break his head if he did not pay her for her milk.
But he, mistaking the reason of this sudden violent attack, somewhat
sobered, and frightened at what he had done, ran off as fast as he
could, while she threw stones at him, some of which hit him in the back.
He ran for a long time, very long, until he felt more tired than he had
ever been before. His legs were so weak that they could scarcely carry
him; all his ideas were confused, he lost recollection of everything and
could no longer think about anything, and so he sat down at the foot
of a tree, and in five minutes was fast asleep. He was soon awakened,
however, by a rough shake, and, on opening his eyes, he saw two cocked
hats of shiny leather bending over him, and the two gendarmes of the
morning, who were holding him and binding his arms.
“I knew I should catch you again,” said the brigadier jeeringly. But
Randel got up without replying. The two men shook him, quite ready to
ill treat him if he made a movement, for he was their prey now. He had
become a jailbird, caught by those hunters of criminals who would not
let him go again.
“Now, start!” the brigadier said, and they set off. It was late
afternoon, and the autumn twilight was setting in over the land, and in
half an hour they reached the village, where every door was open, for
the people had heard what had happened. Peasants and peasant women and
girls, excited with anger, as if every man had been robbed and every
woman attacked, wished to see the wretch brought back, so that they
might overwhelm him with abuse. They hooted him from the first house in
the village until they reached the Hotel de Ville, where the mayor was
waiting for him to be himself avenged on this vagabond, and as soon as
he saw him approaching he cried:
“Ah! my fine fellow! here we are!” And he rubbed his hands, more pleased
than he usually was, and continued: “I said so. I said so, the moment I
saw him in the road.”
And then with increased satisfaction:
“Oh, you blackguard! Oh, you dirty blackguard! You will get your twenty
years, my fine fellow!”