A Piece of Bread

by François Coppée


The young Lord of Hardimont was finishing his breakfast while looking at the morning paper, when he read the news of the disastrous war between the French and German armies. He emptied his cup of coffee, put his knife and fork down on the restaurant table, told his servant to pack his cases, and two hours later took the express train to Paris. When he arrived there, he immediately joined the French army.

He had led the life of a rich and fashionable young lord from the age of nineteen to twenty-five. However, in times like these, he could not forget that his ancestor, Richard of Hardimont died while a soldier in Tunis, that Gabriel of Hardimont was a general in the victorious French army in 1678, and that Henri of Hardimont was killed fighting the British only a century before. When he learnt that France had lost a battle on her own land, the young lord felt his blood go to his face, giving him a horrible feeling of suffocation.

And so, early in November, 1870, the Lord of Hardimont returned to Paris with the army, guarding the city walls. It was a gloomy place – a broken, muddy road across some fields with an abandoned restaurant nearby, where the soldiers were camped. They had retreated here a few days before; bullets had broken some of the young trees. The roof of the restaurant was gone and the walls seemed washed with blood. The sign over the door, marked by bullets, announced: "Delicious steaks, mouth-watering chicken." All this from past days. And over everything, a winter sky with heavy clouds, an angry, hateful sky.

At the door of the broken restaurant stood the young lord, motionless, with his gun on his shoulder, his cap over his eyes, his numb hands in the pockets of his red trousers, and shivering in his sheepskin coat. He was lost in his dark thoughts and looked with sorry eyes towards a line of hills in the fog, where the smoke of a large gun could be seen each moment, followed by a loud bang.

Suddenly he felt hungry. He took a piece of bread from his backpack against the wall and, as he had lost his knife, he bit off a piece and slowly ate it. But after a few mouthfuls, he had enough of it; the bread was hard and bitter. He would get no fresh bread until the next morning. This was certainly a very hard life sometimes. Memories of recent breakfasts came to him when, the day after a heavy dinner, he would sit by a window on the ground floor of an expensive café, and eat a lamb cutlet or fresh eggs, and drink red orange juice. That was a good time and he would never get used to this life of misery.

In a moment of anger, the young man threw his bread into the mud.

At the same moment a soldier came from the abandoned restaurant and picked up the bread, walked back a few steps, cleaned it with his sleeve and ate it hungrily.

Henri of Hardimont was already ashamed of his action and, now with a feeling of pity, watched the poor soldier who had such a good appetite. He was a tall, large young man, but badly-made; with feverish eyes and so thin that Hardimont could see his shoulders under his old uniform.

"You are very hungry?" he said, approaching the soldier. "Excuse me then for throwing the bread away."

"I’m not fussy," replied the soldier.

"I’m sorry," said the gentleman. "It was wrong and I’m angry with myself. I don’t want you to have a bad opinion of me and, as I have something to drink in this bottle, let‘s have it together."

The man finished eating. The lord and he drank a mouthful and their friendship was already made.

"What’s your name?" asked the soldier.

"Hardimont," he replied, not mentioning that he was a lord. "And yours?"

"Jean-Victor – I’ve just arrived here – I’m only a few days out of the hospital – I was wounded. Oh! but it was good in the hospital, they gave me horse soup. But I only had a scratch and the major sent me back here. Now I’m going to be eaten alive by hunger again – because, believe me, I’ve been hungry all my life."

The words were shocking and the Lord of Hardimont looked in amazement. The soldier smiled sadly, showing his hungry, wolf-like teeth, as white as his sickly face, and explained:

"Come, let’s walk along the road to warm our feet, and I’ll tell you things which probably you’ve never heard before. I’m called Jean-Victor, that’s all, because I’m an orphan and my only happy memory is of my earliest childhood, at the orphanage. The sheets were white on our little beds; we played in a garden under large trees and a kind lady took care of us, quite young and pale – she died afterwards of lung trouble. I was her favourite and preferred to walk with her than play with the other children, because she used to pull me to her side and lay her warm, thin hand on my face.

“But after I was twelve years old, there was nothing but poverty. The managers sent me to a chair mender in Paris to learn his business. That’s not a skill, you know, it’s impossible to earn a living at it and, most of the time, the man could only employ poor little blind boys. It was there that I began to live with hunger.

"The man and his wife were terrible misers and the bread, cut in very, very small pieces for each meal, was kept under lock and key the rest of the time. You should have seen the woman at supper time with the soup, angry at each spoonful she gave us. The two blind boys were less unhappy; they weren’t given any more than I was, but they couldn’t see the angry look the woman gave me as she handed me my plate. And then I was always so hungry. Was it my fault, do you think? I worked there for three years, always hungry. Three years! And you can learn the work in one month. But the managers couldn’t know everything and had no idea that the children were hungry.

"Ah! You were amazed just now when you saw me take the bread out of the mud? I always do it. Sometimes I was lucky, I found pieces of bread only half-eaten, which the children would throw on the streets as they came home from school. I used to look around there when I went on errands.

"At last, my time at this job ended. Well, I did many other things because I was happy to work. I’ve been shop-boy, waiter, I can’t remember all the jobs I’ve done! But sometimes there was no work; another time I lost my job. In a word, I’ve never had enough to eat. How often I’ve been crazy with hunger as I’ve passed the bakeries! Luckily for me, at these times I’ve always remembered the good lady at the orphanage, who so often told me to be honest, and I seemed to feel her little hand on my face.

"When I was eighteen I became a soldier. You know as well as I do that a soldier has only just enough. Now, I could almost laugh: we’ve got a famine! You see, I didn’t lie when I told you just now that I’ve always, always, been hungry!"

The young lord had a kind heart and was upset by this terrible story, told by a man like himself, by a soldier in the same uniform. It was lucky that the night wind dried his eyes.

"Jean-Victor," he said, stopping to speak to the orphan, "if we’re still alive when this dreadful war finishes, we will meet again and I hope I can be useful to you. But, in the meantime, as there’s no bakery, and as I have too much bread, we’ll share it like good friends."

Then, worn out by their long day, as night came they returned to the abandoned restaurant, where twelve soldiers were sleeping on the floor; and lying side by side, they were soon sleeping deeply.

Towards midnight Jean-Victor woke up, probably because he was hungry. The clouds had gone and moonlight made its way into the room through holes in the roof, lighting up the handsome blond head of the young lord, who was still sleeping.

Touched by the kindness of his new friend, Jean-Victor was looking at him with admiration, when an officer opened the door and called the five men who had to guard the camp. The lord was one of them, but he didn’t wake up when his name was called.

"Hardimont, stand up!" repeated the officer.

"If it makes no difference to you, sir," said Jean-Victor getting up, "I’ll take his duty, he is sleeping so deeply – and he’s my friend."

"If you like."

The five men left and the snoring started again.

But half an hour later the noise of near and rapid shots travelled through the night. In a moment, every man was on his feet with his hand on his gun, looking along the road, lying white in the moonlight.

"What time is it?" asked the duke. "I was on duty tonight."

"Jean-Victor went in your place."

At that moment a soldier was seen running towards them along the road.

"What is it?" they shouted as he stopped, out of breath.

"The Germans have attacked us. Let’s retreat."

"And your friends?"

"They’re coming – all except poor Jean-Victor."

"Where is he?" cried the lord.

"Shot through the head – died without a word!"

* * * *

One night last winter, the Lord of Hardimont left his club about two o'clock in the morning, with a friend. The lord had lost a lot of money and had a headache.

"If you don’t mind, André," he said, "we’ll walk home – I need the air."

"If you like, although the walk may be cold."

They set off. Suddenly something moved in front of the lord which he’d kicked with his boot. It was a large piece of bread covered with mud.

Then to his amazement, his friend saw the Lord of Hardimont pick up the piece of bread, clean it carefully with his handkerchief, and put it on a seat under the light of the street lamps.

"What did you do that for?" asked his friend, laughing. "Are you crazy?"

"It is in memory of a poor friend who died for me," replied the lord in a shaking voice. "Don’t laugh, my friend, it upsets me."