Story: A Piece of Bread
Theme: Story
Level: B2
Total Words: 1086
TRANSCRIPT:
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 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."
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