International Short Stories: French | Page 2

from his knapsack, which stood near him leaning
against the wall, a piece of ammunition bread, and as he had lost his
knife, he bit off a morsel and slowly ate it.
But after a few mouthfuls, he had enough of it; the bread was hard and
had a bitter taste. No fresh would be given until the next morning's
distribution, so the commissary officer had willed it. This was certainly
a very hard life sometimes. The remembrance of former breakfasts
came to him, such as he had called "hygienic," when, the day after too

over-heating a supper, he would seat himself by a window on the
ground floor of the Café-Anglais, and be served with a cutlet, or
buttered eggs with asparagus tips, and the butler, knowing his tastes,
would bring him a fine bottle of old Léoville, lying in its basket, and
which he would pour out with the greatest care. The deuce take it! That
was a good time, all the same, and he would never become accustomed
to this life of wretchedness.
And, in a moment of impatience, the young man threw the rest of his
bread into the mud.
At the same moment a soldier of the line came from the tavern, stooped
and picked up the bread, drew back a few steps, wiped it with his
sleeve and began to devour it eagerly.
Henri de Hardimont was already ashamed of his action, and now with a
feeling of pity, watched the poor devil who gave proof of such a good
appetite. He was a tall, large young fellow, but badly made; with
feverish eyes and a hospital beard, and so thin that his shoulder-blades
stood out beneath his well-worn cape.
"You are very hungry?" he said, approaching the soldier.
"As you see," replied the other with his mouth full.
"Excuse me then. For if I had known that you would like the bread, I
would not have thrown it away."
"It does not harm it," replied the soldier, "I am not dainty."
"No matter," said the gentleman, "it was wrong to do so, and I reproach
myself. But I do not wish you to have a bad opinion of me, and as I
have some old cognac in my can, let us drink a drop together."
The man had finished eating. The duke and he drank a mouthful of
brandy; the acquaintance was made.
"What is your name?" asked the soldier of the line.
"Hardimont," replied the duke, omitting his title. "And yours?"
"Jean-Victor--I have just entered this company--I am just out of the
ambulance--I was wounded at Châtillon--oh! but it was good in the
ambulance, and in the infirmary they gave me horse bouillon. But I had
only a scratch, and the major signed my dismissal. So much the worse
for me! Now I am going to commence to be devoured by hunger
again--for, believe me, if you will, comrade, but, such as you see me, I
have been hungry all my life."
The words were startling, especially to a Sybarite who had just been

longing for the kitchen of the Café-Anglais, and the Duc de Hardimont
looked at his companion in almost terrified amazement. The soldier
smiled sadly, showing his hungry, wolf-like teeth, as white as his sickly
face, and, as if understanding that the other expected something further
in the way of explanation or confidence:
"Come," said he, suddenly ceasing his familiar way of speaking,
doubtless divining that his companion belonged to the rich and happy;
"let us walk along the road to warm our feet, and I will tell you things,
which probably you have never heard of--I am called Jean-Victor, that
is all, for I am a foundling, and my only happy remembrance is of my
earliest childhood, at the Asylum. The sheets were white on our little
beds in the dormitory; we played in a garden under large trees, and a
kind Sister took care of us, quite young and as pale as a wax-taper--she
died afterwards of lung trouble--I was her favorite, and would rather
walk by her than play with the other children, because she used to draw
me to her side and lay her warm thin hand on my forehead. But when I
was twelve years old, after my first communion, there was nothing but
poverty. The managers put me as apprentice with a chair mender in
Faubourg Saint-Jacques. That is not a trade, you know, it is impossible
to earn one's living at it, and as proof of it, the greater part of the time
the master was only able to engage the poor little blind boys from the
Blind Asylum. It was there that I began to suffer with hunger. The
master and mistress, two old Limousins--afterwards murdered, were
terrible misers, and the bread, cut