Jasper County Democrat, Volume 1, Number 24, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 24 September 1898 — A PIECE OF BREAD. [ARTICLE]

A PIECE OF BREAD.

IN 1870 the young Duke de Hardimont was at Aix, taking the waters. He had finished his luncheon, when, throwing a careless glance over the paper, be read the news of the disaster of the French arms at Reichshoffen. He emptied his glass of chartreuse, threw his serviette on the restaurant table, sent word to his valet to pack up, •Ml having caught the express to Paris, rtubed off to the recruiting office, and enlisted in a regiment of the line. And this is why, in the early days of November, 1870, having re-entered Parle with his regiment, which was attached to the corps of General Vlnoy, Henri de Hardlmont, private In the Third Battalion of the second of the iin« 1 and a member of the Jockey Club, was on outpost duty with his company, before the redoubt of Houtes-Bruyeree, a hastily fortified position protected by the cannon of the fort of Blcetre. The place was forbidding, a road broken into muddy ruts aud planted with broomsticks, running through the polluted fields of the Paris outskirts; on the edge of this road a deserted little cabaret —a cabaret with trellised bowers where the soldiers had established their post. A few days before there had been some fighting there, and aeveral of the broomsticks by the roadside had been snapped In two, while tboee left still showed on their bark the white scars of the bullets. The asspect of the house itself made one shiver. The roof had been ripped open by s Shell ; the wine-stained walls seemed bespattered with blood. At’ the door of the cabaret the young duke was standing, his chassepot slung •cross him, his kepi p.ver his eyes, his nnmb hands In the pockets of his red trousers, shivering under his sheepskin. All at once he felt that he was bunfry. He knelt down and drew from his knapsack, which rested against the wall near by, a lump of regulation bread, which, having lost his knife, he bit into and began slowly to eat But after a few mouthfuls he had had enough; the bread was hard, and had a bitter taste. And to think there was no getting any fresh before to-morrow’s distribution, and then only at the good will of the commissary! Ah, well! there was a deal Just now that was pretty rough to bear, and, with a leap of memory, be recalled wbat in past days he bad been wont to term his hygienic luncheons, when, on the morrow, after • supper a trifle too exciting, he would sit flown near some window on the cround floor of the Case Anglais, and tare served to him the veriest trifle—- * cutlet, perhaps—and the waiter, knowing his, habits, would lay on the tablecloth, and carefully open a bottle of fine old leoville, which be then set down to repose in its wicker cradle. Deuce take it! those were good times all the same; he should never get used to this bread of poverty. And In a moment of Impatience the young man flung his lump of bread into the mud.

At that same moment a private was leaving the cabaret; he stooped, picked up the bread, and, going on a few steps, wiped it with his sleeve, and began to devour it ravenously. Henri de Hardlmont was already ashamed of his action, and was looking with pity on the poor wretch who gave proof of such a good appetite. He was a tall, gaunt fellow, ill made, with feverish eyes and a hospital beard, and so thin that his shoulder blades stuck out under the cloth of his worn greatcoat. “Art thou then so hungry, comrade?” he said, approaching the soldier. “As thou seest,” he answered with his mouth full. “Excuse me, then. If I had known that thou wouldst have cared for It I would not have thrown the bread away.” “It Is not the worse for that,” replied the soldier. “I am not so particular.” “No matter,” said the gentleman. "What I did was wrong, and I reproach myself for It, but I do not wish thee to carry away a bad opinion of me, and as I have some good old cognac in my can, we’ll have a drop together.” The man had finished eating. The duke and he took a mouthful each of the brandy; the acquaintance was ■tde. “And thou art called?” asked the private. “Hardlmont,” replied the duke, suppressing his title and prefix. , . . “A<rttt>ou?” 1 k Jean Victor. . . . I’ve only Jnst Joined the company. I came from the ambulance. ... I was wounded at Gbatillon. . . . Ah, one Is well off at the ambulance, and doesn’t the nurse gtve you good horse rfoup? ... But mine was only a scratch; the major signed my discharge, and, worse lack, sat I had to go to begin again to die as hanger. . . For, believe nje If you wfl, comrade, but, as I stand before yea, I have beeS hungry all my litt.”

The word was bonrlbls, ssld to s voluptuary who a moment before caught himself regretting the cuisine of the Case Anglais, and the Due de Hardlmont looked at his companion with an astonishment approaching terror. The soldier was smiling mournfully, letting his wolf-like teeth be seen, the teeth of the hungry, showing so white In his sickly face, and as If he was' aware that further confidence was expected from him. “Look here," he said, brusquely: “look here, let us walk a little up and down upon the road to warm our feet, and I will tell yon of things which most likely you have never heard of before. . . . I am called Jean Victor. Jean Victor quite short because I am a foundling, and my only happy recollection Is of the time pf my early childhood In the asylum. The Bheets of our little beds in the dormitory were white; we played under the big trees In a garden, and there was a good sister, quite young, as white as wax—she was going Into consumption—and I was her favorite, and often I chose to walk with her rather than to play with the other children, because she would draw me close to her skirt and put on my forehead her thin, hot hand. . . . But at twelve years, after making our first communion, nothing more than misery. The governors had apprenticed me to a mender of chairs In the Faubourg St. Jacques. It isn’t a trade, you know. You can’t get a living by It; to prove It, for the most part the master could only entice as apprentices the poor boys from the Asylum for the ‘Young Blind!’ And It was there that I first learned to suffer the pangs of hunger. The master and his wifetwo old Llmouslns who worried themselves to death—were terrible misers, and the bread which they cut into pieces for each meal, they kept for the rest of the time under lock and key. And every evening at supper you would see the mistress, with her old black cap, when she was serving the soup, heave a dismal sigh with each ladleful she took from the tureen. The other two apprentices, the 'Young Blind,’ were less unhappy; not that they got more than I did, but they were not able to see the look of reproach that that miserable woman gave as she handed me my plate. My misfortune was to have a good appetite, but I ask you was that my fault? I served “7 three years of apprenticeship In a constant state of hunger. . . . Threfl years! and you knew all about the trade in a month. But the governors can’t be expected to be up to everything; they have not an idea of the way In which the children are turned to account. . . . Ah, you were surprised to see me take a piece of bread out of the mud? It’s not the first time, not by many, that I have picked up crusts out of the dust heaps, and when they were too dry I used to soak them all night in my water jug. At last when my aprenticeship was finished, and I took to my trade, as I have said, you couldn’t earn by It enough to sustain a man. Oh, rtried many others. I had a good heart for work. I was a mason’s laborer, a porter, a floor polisher and a dozen others! Bah! to-day it was the work was wanting; another time I lost my place. . . . But all the same I never had enough to eat to satisfy Tonnerre! What fury I have felt in passing before baker’s shops! Happily for me at those times, I always remembered the good sister at the asylum, who s|o often Impressed on me to keep honest, and I would even believe that I could feel on my forehead the warmth of her little hand. ... At last, at eighteen, I enlisted. . . . You know as well as I do that the soldier has only Just enough, and now—lt’s almost enough to make one laugh—behold the siege and famine! You see now that I didn’t tell you lies when I said that I had always, always, been hungry.”

The young duke had a good heart, and, listening to this terrible lament, told him by a man like himself, by a solldler whose uniform made him his equal, he felt himself profoundly stirred. . “Jean Victor,” he said, "If we both survive this frightful war we Bhall see more of each other, and I hope I shall be of use to you. But Just now, as there Is no other baker at the outposts but the corporal of the commissariat, and as my ration of bread is twice too much for my small appetite—lt Is understood, Is It not?—we will share like good comrades.” A hearty shake of the hand was exchanged between the two men, and as night was falling, and they were being harassed by watches and alarms, they re-entered the cabaret, where a dozen soldiers lay sleeping upon the straw, and, throwing themselves down side by side, they sank into a heavy sleep. Toward midnight Jean Victor awoke; he was probably hungry. The wind had blown away the clouds, and a moonbeam, shlnlpg Into the room through the rent in the roof, lit up the charming, fair head of the young duke, sleeping rike an Endymlon. Still touched by the kindness of his comrade, Jean Victor was looking at him with naive admiration, when the sergeant of the platoon opened the door to call the five men who were to relieve the sentinels at the outposts. The duke was of the number, but when his name was called he did not awake. “Hardimont, get up," repeated the sergeant 1 “If you will be good enough to let me, sergeant” said Jean Victor, rising, ‘Til mount guard for him . . . he’s so fast asleep . . . and he’s my comrade.” l “As thou choosest” , And the five men gone, the snoring began again. But half an hour after the sound of firing, sharp and very near, broke, in upon the night In an instant they had all sprung to their feet; the men hastened from the cabaret and with finger on trigger, stole

•long stealthily looking along the road, which showed white in the moonlight. “But what o’clock Is It?" asked the duke. “I was to bare been on guard.” Some one answered him. “Jean Victor has gone In yonr place." At that moment a soldier came running along the road; “What’s happened?" they asked as he stopped breathless. “The Prussians are attacking . . . we must fall back on the redonbt" “And our comrades?” "They’re coming ... all bnt that poor Jean Victor.” “What?” cried the duke. “Hilled dead on the spot, with a bullet through his head ... he hadn’t time to say, ‘Ouf!’ ” • • • One night last winter, toward two o’clock In the morning, the Due de Hardlmont was leaving the club with bis neighbor, the Count de Saulnes; he had lost a few hundred lonto, and felt something of a headache. “If you don’t mind, Andre,” he said to bis companion, “we will walk home ... I want some fresh air.” "As yon like, ’cher ami,* although the pavement is horribly bad.” They sent away their broughams, turned up the collars of their fur coats and walked toward the Madeleine. Presently the duke sent rolling something which he had struck with the toe of his boot; it was a large crust of bread, all covered with mud. Then, to his amazement, M. de Saulnes saw the Due de Hardlmont pick up the lump of bread, carefully wipe It with his crest-embroidered handkerchief and place It on a bench of the boulevard under the light of a gas lamp, where It could well be seen. “But what on earth Is It you are doing?” said the count, bursting into a laugh. “Are yon mad?” j “It Is In memory of a poor man who died for me,” replied the duke, his voice slightly trembling. . . . “Don’t laugh, mon cher; you hurt me!”—From the French of Francois Coppee.