Stooping, he drew 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.