International Short Stories: French

International Short Stories:
French

Project Gutenberg's International Short Stories: French, by Various
This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with
almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or
re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included
with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.net
Title: International Short Stories: French
Author: Various
Release Date: January 2, 2004 [EBook #10577]
Language: English
Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1
*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK FRENCH
SHORT STORIES ***

Produced by Juliet Sutherland, David Schaal and PG Distributed
Proofreaders

INTERNATIONAL SHORT STORIES
COMPILED BY FRANCIS J. REYNOLDS
FRENCH
1910

FRENCH STORIES
A PIECE OF BREAD By Francois Coppee THE ELIXIR OF LIFE By
Honore de Balzac THE AGE FOR LOVE By Paul Bourget MATEO

FALCONE By Prosper Merimee THE MIRROR By Catulle Mendes
MY NEPHEW JOSEPH By Ludovic Halevy A FOREST
BETROTHAL _By Erckmann-Chatrian_
ZADIG THE BABYLONIAN By Francois Marie Arouet de Voltaire
ABANDONED By Guy de Maupassant THE GUILTY SECRET By
Paul de Kock JEAN MONETTE By Eugene Francois Vidocq
SOLANGE By Alexandre Dumas THE BIRDS IN THE LETTER-BOX
By Rene Bazin JEAN GOURDON'S FOUR DAYS By Emile Zola
BARON DE TRENCK By Clemence Robert THE PASSAGE OF THE
RED SEA By Henry Murger THE WOMAN AND THE CAT By
Marcel Prevost GIL BLAS AND DR. SANGRADO By Alain Rene Le
Sage A FIGHT WITH A CANNON By Victor Hugo TONTON _By A.
Cheneviere_
THE LAST LESSON By Alphonse Daudet CROISILLES By Alfred de
Musset THE VASE OF CLAY By Jean Aicard
A PIECE OF BREAD
BY FRANCOIS COPPEE
The young Due de Hardimont happened to be at Aix in Savoy, whose
waters he hoped would benefit his famous mare, Perichole, who had
become wind-broken since the cold she had caught at the last
Derby,--and was finishing his breakfast while glancing over the
morning paper, when he read the news of the disastrous engagement at
Reichshoffen.
He emptied his glass of chartreuse, laid his napkin upon the restaurant
table, ordered his valet to pack his trunks, and two hours later took the
express to Paris; arriving there, he hastened to the recruiting office and
enlisted in a regiment of the line.
In vain had he led the enervating life of a fashionable swell--that was
the word of the time--and had knocked about race-course stables from
the age of nineteen to twenty-five. In circumstances like these, he could
not forget that Enguerrand de Hardimont died of the plague at Tunis the
same day as Saint Louis, that Jean de Hardimont commanded the Free
Companies under Du Guesclin, and that Francois-Henri de Hardimont
was killed at Fontenoy with "Red" Maison. Upon learning that France
had lost a battle on French soil, the young duke felt the blood mount to
his face, giving him a horrible feeling of suffocation.
And so, early in November, 1870, Henri de Hardimont returned to Paris

with his regiment, forming part of Vinoy's corps, and his company
being the advance guard before the redoubt of Hautes Bruyères, a
position fortified in haste, and which protected the cannon of Fort
Bicêtre.
It was a gloomy place; a road planted with clusters of broom, and
broken up into muddy ruts, traversing the leprous fields of the
neighborhood; on the border stood an abandoned tavern, a tavern with
arbors, where the soldiers had established their post. They had fallen
back here a few days before; the grape-shot had broken down some of
the young trees, and all of them bore upon their bark the white scars of
bullet wounds. As for the house, its appearance made one shudder; the
roof had been torn by a shell, and the walls seemed whitewashed with
blood. The torn and shattered arbors under their network of twigs, the
rolling of an upset cask, the high swing whose wet rope groaned in the
damp wind, and the inscriptions over the door, furrowed by bullets;
"Cabinets de societé--Absinthe--Vermouth--Vin à 60 cent. le
litre"--encircling a dead rabbit painted over two billiard cues tied in a
cross by a ribbon,--all this recalled with cruel irony the popular
entertainment of former days. And over all, a wretched winter sky,
across which rolled heavy leaden clouds, an odious sky, angry and
hateful.
At the door of the tavern stood the young duke, motionless, with his
gun in his shoulder-belt, his cap over his eyes, his benumbed hands in
the pockets of his red trousers, and shivering in his sheepskin coat. He
gave himself up to his sombre thoughts, this defeated soldier, and
looked with sorrowful eyes toward a line of hills, lost in the fog, where
could be seen each moment, the flash and smoke of a Krupp gun,
followed by a report.
Suddenly he felt hungry.
Stooping, he drew