"Because they have nothing to give," she answered, half inclined to
turn back. The American barracks were opposite, and in the yard, under a
shelter of planks, the men were eating round a complicated travelling
kitchen on wheels. "They have all the latest, richest things," thought
Fanny, jealous for the French, antagonistic, yet hungry. But when she
was among the Americans, they were simple and kind to her, offering her
a great tray of fried bacon chips, concerned that she should have to eat
them with her hand, washing out their tin mugs and filling them with
coffee for her, making her sit on a barrel while she ate. "It's only
that they are so different," she thought. "So different from the French
that they can never meet without hurting and jarring each other."

Russians slouched about in the snow, washing the pans. When they had
finished eating the Americans called to the Russians to eat what
remained of the bacon chips. Watching them eat with the hunger of
animals, they said:

"They starve them in the French barracks. We give them food here, or
they'd sure die."

"They give them what they can in the French barracks; the soldiers don't
get a ration like this, you know, even for themselves."

"Their fault for not kicking up a shindy," said the free-born Americans.
"We wouldn't stand it."

"You have no idea of poverty."

Food was even lying in the snow. A soldier cook thrust his head out of a