"It is the whole truth, sir," and having offered him a glass of cordial,
which he declined, the old woman insisted on the short weight of the
butcher being spoken of in the report.
On his return to the office, Duroy wrote his reply:
"An anonymous scribbler in the _Plume_ seeks to pick a quarrel
with me on the subject of an old woman whom he states was
arrested by an _agent des moeurs_, which fact I deny. I have
myself seen Madame Aubert--who is at least sixty years of
age--and she told me in detail her quarrel with the butcher
over the weighing of some chops, which led to an explanation
before the commissary of police. This is the whole truth. As to
the other insinuations of the writer in the _Plume_, I despise
them. Besides, a man does not reply to such things when they
are written under a mask.
"GEORGE DUROY."
Monsieur Walter and Jacques Rival, who had come in, thought this note
satisfactory, and it was settled that it should go in at once.
Duroy went home early, somewhat agitated and slightly uneasy. What reply
would the other man make? Who was he? Why this brutal attack? With the
brusque manners of journalists this affair might go very far. He slept
badly. When he read his reply in the paper next morning, it seemed to
him more aggressive in print than in manuscript. He might, it seemed to
him, have softened certain phrases. He felt feverish all day, and slept
badly again at night. He rose at dawn to get the number of the _Plume_
that must contain a reply to him.
The weather had turned cold again, it was freezing hard. The gutters,
frozen while still flowing, showed like two ribbons of ice alongside the
pavement. The morning papers had not yet come in, and Duroy recalled the
day of his first article, "The Recollections of a Chasseur d'Afrique."
His hands and feet getting numbed, grew painful, especially the tips of
his fingers, and he began to trot round the glazed kiosque in which the
newspaper seller, squatting over her foot warmer, only showed through
the little window a red nose and a pair of cheeks to match in a woolen
hood. At length the newspaper porter passed the expected parcel through
the opening, and the woman held out to Duroy an unfolded copy of the
_Plume_.
He glanced through it in search of his name, and at first saw nothing.
He was breathing again, when he saw between two dashes:
"Monsieur Duroy, of the _Vie Francaise_, contradicts us, and in
contradicting us, lies. He admits, however, that there is a
Madame Aubert, and that an agent took her before the commissary
of police. It only remains, therefore, to add two words, '_des
moeurs_,' after the word 'agent,' and he is right. But the
conscience of certain journalists is on a level with their
talent. And I sign,
"LOUIS LANGREMONT."
George's heart began to beat violently, and he went home to dress
without being too well aware of what he was doing. So he had been
insulted, and in such a way that no hesitation was possible. And why?
For nothing at all. On account of an old woman who had quarreled with
her butcher.
He dressed quickly and went to see Monsieur Walter, although it was
barely eight o'clock. Monsieur Walter, already up, was reading the
_Plume_. "Well," said he, with a grave face, on seeing Duroy, "you
cannot draw back now." The young fellow did not answer, and the other
went on: "Go at once and see Rival, who will act for you."
Duroy stammered a few vague words, and went out in quest of the
descriptive writer, who was still asleep. He jumped out of bed, and,
having read the paragraph, said: "By Jove, you must go out. Whom do you
think of for the other second?"
"I really don't know."
"Boisrenard? What do you think?"
"Yes. Boisrenard."
"Are you a good swordsman?"
"Not at all."
"The devil! And with the pistol?"
"I can shoot a little."
"Good. You shall practice while I look after everything else. Wait for
me a moment."
He went into his dressing-room, and soon reappeared washed, shaved,
correct-looking.
"Come with me," said he.
He lived on the ground floor of a small house, and he led Duroy to the
cellar, an enormous cellar, converted into a fencing-room and shooting
gallery, all the openings on the street being closed. After having lit a
row of gas jets running the whole length of a second cellar, at the
end of which was an iron man painted red and blue; he placed on a
table two pairs of breech-loading pistols, and began to give the word
of command in a sharp tone, as though on the ground: "Ready?
Fire--one--two--three."
Duroy, dumbfounded, obeyed, raising his arm, aiming and firing, and as
he often hit the mark fair on the body, having frequently made use of an
old horse pistol of his father's when a boy, against the birds, Jacques
Rival, well satisfied, exclaimed: "Good--very good--very good--you will
do--you will do."
Then he left George, saying: "Go on shooting till noon; here is plenty
of ammunition, don't be afraid to use it. I will come back to take you
to lunch and tell you how things are going."
Left to himself, Duroy fired a few more shots, and then sat down and
began to reflect. How absurd these things were, all the same! What did a
duel prove? Was a rascal less of a rascal after going out? What did an
honest man, who had been insulted, gain by risking his life against a
scoundrel? And his mind, gloomily inclined, recalled the words of
Norbert de Varenne.
Then he felt thirsty, and having heard the sound of water dropping
behind him, found that there was a hydrant serving as a douche bath, and
drank from the nozzle of the hose. Then he began to think again. It was
gloomy in this cellar, as gloomy as a tomb. The dull and distant rolling
of vehicles sounded like the rumblings of a far-off storm. What o'clock
could it be? The hours passed by there as they must pass in prisons,
without anything to indicate or mark them save the visits of the warder.
He waited a long time. Then all at once he heard footsteps and voices,
and Jacques Rival reappeared, accompanied by Boisrenard. He called out
as soon as he saw Duroy: "It's all settled."
The latter thought the matter terminated by a letter of apology, his
heart beat, and he stammered: "Ah! thanks."
The descriptive writer continued: "That fellow Langremont is very
square; he accepted all our conditions. Twenty-five paces, one shot, at
the word of command raising the pistol. The hand is much steadier that
way than bringing it down. See here, Boisrenard, what I told you."
And taking a pistol he began to fire, pointed out how much better one
kept the line by raising the arm. Then he said: "Now let's go and lunch;
it is past twelve o'clock."
They went to a neighboring restaurant. Duroy scarcely spoke. He ate in
order not to appear afraid, and then, in course of the afternoon,
accompanied Boisrenard to the office, where he got through his work in
an abstracted and mechanical fashion. They thought him plucky. Jacques
Rival dropped in in the course of the afternoon, and it was settled that
his seconds should call for him in a landau at seven o'clock the next
morning, and drive to the Bois de Vesinet, where the meeting was to take
place. All this had been done so unexpectedly, without his taking part
in it, without his saying a word, without his giving his opinion,
without accepting or refusing, and with such rapidity, too, that he was
bewildered, scared, and scarcely able to understand what was going on.
He found himself at home at nine o'clock, after having dined with
Boisrenard, who, out of self-devotion, had not left him all day. As soon
as he was alone he strode quickly up and down his room for several
minutes. He was too uneasy to think about anything. One solitary idea
filled his mind, that of a duel on the morrow, without this idea
awakening in him anything else save a powerful emotion. He had been a
soldier, he had been engaged with the Arabs, without much danger to
himself though, any more than when one hunts a wild boar.
To reckon things up, he had done his duty. He had shown himself what he
should be. He would be talked of, approved of, and congratulated. Then
he said aloud, as one does under powerful impressions: "What a brute of
a fellow."
He sat down and began to reflect. He had thrown upon his little table
one of his adversary's cards, given him by Rival in order to retain his
address. He read, as he had already done a score of times during the
day: "Louis Langremont, 176 Rue Montmartre." Nothing more. He examined
these assembled letters, which seemed to him mysterious and full of some
disturbing import. Louis Langremont. Who was this man? What was his age,
his height, his appearance? Was it not disgusting that a stranger, an
unknown, should thus come and suddenly disturb one's existence without
cause and from sheer caprice, on account of an old woman who had had a
quarrel with her butcher. He again repeated aloud: "What a brute."
And he stood lost in thought, his eyes fixed on the card. Anger was
aroused in him against this bit of paper, an anger with which was
blended a strange sense of uneasiness. What a stupid business it was. He
took a pair of nail scissors which were lying about, and stuck their
points into the printed name, as though he was stabbing someone. So he
was to fight, and with pistols. Why had he not chosen swords? He would
have got off with a prick in the hand or arm, while with the pistols one
never knew the possible result. He said: "Come, I must keep my pluck
up."
The sound of his own voice made him shudder, and he glanced about him.
He began to feel very nervous. He drank a glass of water and went to
bed.
As soon as he was in bed he blew out his candle and closed his eyes. He
was warm between the sheets, though it was very cold in his room, but
he could not manage to doze off. He turned over and over, remained five
minutes on his back, then lay on his left side, then rolled on the
right. He was still thirsty, and got up to drink. Then a sense of
uneasiness assailed him. Was he going to be afraid? Why did his heart
beat wildly at each well-known sound in the room? When his clock was
going to strike, the faint squeak of the lever made him jump, and he had
to open his mouth for some moments in order to breathe, so oppressed did
he feel. He began to reason philosophically on the possibility of his
being afraid.
No, certainly he would not be afraid, now he had made up his mind to go
through with it to the end, since he was firmly decided to fight and not
to tremble. But he felt so deeply moved that he asked himself: "Can one
be afraid in spite of one's self?" This doubt assailed him. If some
power stronger than his will overcame it, what would happen? Yes, what
would happen? Certainly he would go on the ground, since he meant to.
But suppose he shook? suppose he fainted? And he thought of his
position, his reputation, his future.
A strange need of getting up to look at himself in the glass suddenly
seized him. He relit the candle. When he saw his face so reflected, he
scarcely recognized himself, and it seemed to him that he had never seen
himself before. His eyes appeared enormous, and he was pale; yes, he was
certainly pale, very pale. Suddenly the thought shot through his mind:
"By this time to-morrow I may be dead." And his heart began to beat
again furiously. He turned towards his bed, and distinctly saw himself
stretched on his back between the same sheets as he had just left. He
had the hollow cheeks of the dead, and the whiteness of those hands that
no longer move. Then he grew afraid of his bed, and in order to see it
no longer he opened the window to look out. An icy coldness assailed him
from head to foot, and he drew back breathless.
The thought occurred to him to make a fire. He built it up slowly,
without looking around. His hands shook slightly with a kind of nervous
tremor when he touched anything. His head wandered, his disjointed,
drifting thoughts became fleeting and painful, an intoxication invaded
his mind as though he had been drinking. And he kept asking himself:
"What shall I do? What will become of me?"
He began to walk up and down, repeating mechanically: "I must pull
myself together. I must pull myself together." Then he added: "I will
write to my parents, in case of accident." He sat down again, took some
notepaper, and wrote: "Dear papa, dear mamma." Then, thinking these
words rather too familiar under such tragic circumstances, he tore up
the first sheet, and began anew, "My dear father, my dear mother, I am
to fight a duel at daybreak, and as it might happen that--" He did not
dare write the rest, and sprang up with a jump. He was now crushed by
one besetting idea. He was going to fight a duel. He could no longer
avoid it. What was the matter with him, then? He meant to fight, his
mind was firmly made up to do so, and yet it seemed to him that, despite
every effort of will, he could not retain strength enough to go to the
place appointed for the meeting. From time to time his teeth absolutely
chattered, and he asked himself: "Has my adversary been out before? Is
he a frequenter of the shooting galleries? Is he known and classed as a
shot?" He had never heard his name mentioned. And yet, if this man was
not a remarkably good pistol shot, he would scarcely have accepted that
dangerous weapon without discussion or hesitation.
Then Duroy pictured to himself their meeting, his own attitude, and the
bearing of his opponent. He wearied himself in imagining the slightest
details of the duel, and all at once saw in front of him the little
round black hole in the barrel from which the ball was about to issue.
He was suddenly seized with a fit of terrible despair. His whole body
quivered, shaken by short, sharp shudderings. He clenched his teeth to
avoid crying out, and was assailed by a wild desire to roll on the
ground, to tear something to pieces, to bite. But he caught sight of a
glass on the mantelpiece, and remembered that there was in the cupboard
a bottle of brandy almost full, for he had kept up a military habit of a
morning dram. He seized the bottle and greedily drank from its mouth in
long gulps. He only put it down when his breath failed him. It was a
third empty. A warmth like that of flame soon kindled within his body,
and spreading through his limbs, buoyed up his mind by deadening his
thoughts. He said to himself: "I have hit upon the right plan." And as
his skin now seemed burning he reopened the window.
Day was breaking, calm and icy cold. On high the stars seemed dying away
in the brightening sky, and in the deep cutting of the railway, the red,
green, and white signal lamps were paling. The first locomotives were
leaving the engine shed, and went off whistling, to be coupled to the
first trains. Others, in the distance, gave vent to shrill and repeated
screeches, their awakening cries, like cocks of the country. Duroy
thought: "Perhaps I shall never see all this again." But as he felt that
he was going again to be moved by the prospect of his own fate, he
fought against it strongly, saying: "Come, I must not think of anything
till the moment of the meeting; it is the only way to keep up my pluck."
And he set about his toilet. He had another moment of weakness while
shaving, in thinking that it was perhaps the last time he should see his
face. But he swallowed another mouthful of brandy, and finished
dressing. The hour which followed was difficult to get through. He
walked up and down, trying to keep from thinking. When he heard a knock
at the door he almost dropped, so violent was the shock to him. It was
his seconds. Already!
They were wrapped up in furs, and Rival, after shaking his principal's
hand, said: "It is as cold as Siberia." Then he added: "Well, how goes
it?"
"Very well."
"You are quite steady?"
"Quite."
"That's it; we shall get on all right. Have you had something to eat and
drink?"
"Yes; I don't need anything."
Boisrenard, in honor of the occasion, sported a foreign order, yellow
and green, that Duroy had never seen him display before.
They went downstairs. A gentleman was awaiting them in the carriage.
Rival introduced him as "Doctor Le Brument." Duroy shook hands, saying,
"I am very much obliged to you," and sought to take his place on the
front seat. He sat down on something hard that made him spring up again,
as though impelled by a spring. It was the pistol case.
Rival observed: "No, the back seat for the doctor and the principal, the
back seat."
Duroy ended by understanding him, and sank down beside the doctor. The
two seconds got in in their turn, and the driver started. He knew where
to go. But the pistol case was in the way of everyone, above all of
Duroy, who would have preferred it out of sight. They tried to put it at
the back of the seat and it hurt their own; they stuck it upright
between Rival and Boisrenard, and it kept falling all the time. They
finished by stowing it away under their feet. Conversation languished,
although the doctor related some anecdotes. Rival alone replied to him.
Duroy would have liked to have given a proof of presence of mind, but he
was afraid of losing the thread of his ideas, of showing the troubled
state of his mind, and was haunted, too, by the disturbing fear of
beginning to tremble.
The carriage was soon right out in the country. It was about nine
o'clock. It was one of those sharp winter mornings when everything is as
bright and brittle as glass. The trees, coated with hoar frost, seemed
to have been sweating ice; the earth rang under a footstep, the dry air
carried the slightest sound to a distance, the blue sky seemed to shine
like a mirror, and the sun, dazzling and cold itself, shed upon the
frozen universe rays which did not warm anything.
Rival observed to Duroy: "I got the pistols at Gastine Renette's. He
loaded them himself. The box is sealed. We shall toss up, besides,
whether we use them or those of our adversary."