On this day the Colonel had to shoot someone, on behalf of the Casino's directors; the decision had been made in the English Room (so named after a visit by the Prince of Wales).
The duel was to take place in the barracks that afternoon, and the man who had insulted the Casino was not to leave there alive.—Very well, I'll shoot the journalist—the Colonel said with a shrug. But he was becoming devilishly hungry. This was the sum total of his nervousness on the day of the deadly duel. An abominable, never before felt hunger now overpowered him. His stomach hungered, and so did his mouth; still half asleep, his lolling tongue explored his mouth savoring comestibles he had never tried, never tasted before. He had been told that the journalist condemned to death in the Casino's English Room—the sentence to be executed by the Colonel, the deadliest shot in the land—this journalist was reputed to be such a pauper that he ate his evening meal of cracklings with his fingers, from a paper bag, the salt coming from a waistcoat pocket, the radishes and onions from a desk drawer until the cracklings were gone. Naturally the man could not afford decent wine, and so he would have to walk a long distance to find a cheap dive where he could slosh down some cold wine to quench the flames in his stomach.
The Colonel, who normally gave questions of life and death about as much thought as a rook does in a game of chess, was dreadfully hungry now and overcome by cravings usually attributed to women in a delicate condition. "I'll be eating quicklime before long!"—he brooded.

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Translated by John Batki