ace-course stables from the
age of nineteen to twenty-five. In circumstances like these, he could not
forget that Enguerrand de Hardimont died of the plague at Tunis the same
day as Saint Louis, that Jean de Hardimont commanded the Free Companies
under Du Guesclin, and that Francois-Henri de Hardimont was killed at
Fontenoy with "Red" Maison. Upon learning that France had lost a battle on
French soil, the young duke felt the blood mount to his face, giving him a
horrible feeling of suffocation.

And so, early in November, 1870, Henri de Hardimont returned to Paris with
his regiment, forming part of Vinoy's corps, and his company being the
advance guard before the redoubt of Hautes Bruyeres, a position fortified
in haste, and which protected the cannon of Fort Bicetre.

It was a gloomy place; a road planted with clusters of broom, and broken
up into muddy ruts, traversing the leprous fields of the neighborhood; on
the border stood an abandoned tavern, a tavern with arbors, where the
soldiers had established their post. They had fallen back here a few days
before; the grape-shot had broken down some of the young trees, and all of
them bore upon their bark the white scars of bullet wounds. As for the
house, its appearance made one shudder; the roof had been torn by a shell,
and the walls seemed whitewashed with blood. The torn and shattered arbors
under their network of twigs, the rolling of an upset cask, the high swing
whose wet rope groaned in the damp wind, and the inscriptions over the
door, furrowed by bullets; "Cabinets de societe--Absinthe--Vermouth--Vin a
60 cent. le litre"--encircling a dead rabbit painted over two billiard
cues tied in a cross by a ribbon,--all this recalled with cruel irony the
popular entertainment of former days. And over all, a wretched winter sky,
across which rolled heavy leaden clouds, an odious sky, angry and hateful.

At the door of the tavern stood the young duke, motionless, with his gun
in his shoulder-belt, his cap over his eyes, his benumbed hands in the
pockets of his red trousers, and shivering in his sheepskin coat. He gave
himself up to his sombre thoughts, this defeated soldier, and looked with
sorrowful eyes toward a line of hills, lost in the fog, where could be
seen each moment, the flash and smoke of a Krupp gun, followed by a
report.

Suddenly he felt hungry.

Stooping, he drew from his knapsack, which stood near him leaning against
the wall, a piece of ammunition bre