A Duel (Story of the Month)

He was known in society as "Handsome Signoles"; his real name was Viscount Gontran-Joseph de Signoles. He was an orphan... and rich, of ample wealth, and he had an attractive appearance... a gay young man, dark of face, fine of feature, sweet of countenance, with the marks of nobility and pride upon him; no wonder, then, that the sight of him inspired confidence in hearts when women's eyes fell upon him.

He was famous for his skill at fencing with the sword, and he seldom missed with the pistol. He once said:

"If I must ever take part in a duel, I shall not hesitate to choose the pistol for my weapon, for I am certain that with this weapon I shall overcome my adversary."

One evening he escorted two ladies of his acquaintance, with their husbands, to the theater. When the play was over he proposed that they all take ices at "Tortoni's." Ten minutes after they had seated themselves in the restaurant, Signoles noticed that a man sitting near them was fixing one of the two ladies with sharp stares. She appeared agitated and confused, lowered her eyes, and at last said to her husband:

"That man is staring at me insolently, and I do not know him. Do you know him?"

The husband, who had noticed nothing of what was going on, looked over and said:

"No... I don't know him at all."

The lady replied, half laughing, half angry:

"It is very annoying. That person has spoiled the taste of my ice."

The husband shrugged his shoulders indifferently, saying:

"Pay no attention to him. If we had to take notice of all the fools we meet, we should never find time enough for it."

But the Viscount left his seat abruptly. He could not permit this insolent fellow to spoil the plate of ices he had offered his guests. And since it was he who had invited his friends to the café and they had accepted his invitation, he considered the insult directed at himself.

He went up to the man and said to him:

"Sir... you are prolonging your stares at these two ladies in a manner not to be borne. I ask you not to intrude upon them with your insolent stares."

The other answered:

"So you are ordering me to keep out of your way?"

The Viscount ground his teeth and answered:

"Sir... take care, or you will force me to lose command of my temper!"

The stranger's reply was a single word. A foul word that rang through the whole café. The company turned; even those seated in the front rows turned round to see what had happened; necks craned, curious and questioning; three of the waiters spun on their heels. There followed a dreadful silence — then a sharp sound tore the stillness: the Viscount had slapped his adversary. Everyone rose to mediate in the affair... and the two men exchanged the cards bearing their names.

When the Viscount returned to his house and went into his room, he paced the room for several minutes with agitated, anxious, bewildered steps.

He was in a state of anger and turmoil, a state that paralyzed his thinking. One single idea took possession of his mind — "a duel" — and yet this idea stirred no feeling in him. He had done what he had to do... he had shown himself as he ought to be shown. People would talk of him in this affair; they would side with him and congratulate him.

He kept repeating in a loud voice, seething with rage and fury:

"What a brute the man is!"

Then he sat down and began to think... He must look for two seconds. But whom should he choose? He passed in review the names of the closest friends he had singled out in this period of his life, and at last his choice fell upon the Marquis de La Tour-Noire and Colonel Bourdin. Their two names would spread across the pages of the journals and make a great stir.

He felt thirsty, and drank three glasses of water; then he began to pace the room anew. Ah — if he appeared more courageous and more resolute, he would strike terror into his adversary's heart and force him to withdraw from the duel after offering his apology.

He took up the card he had taken from his pocket and threw it on the table... He read it once more, having cast a fleeting glance at it in the café by the light of a gas lamp,

and again in the cab on his way home: "Georges Lamil, 51 Rue Moncey."

That was all there was on the card! He began examining the group of letters of which the name was composed, and they seemed to him obscure and mysterious...

Georges Lamil! Who could this man be? And why had he gazed at the lady in that fashion? Does a man not feel a surge of rage when a stranger bursts into the course of his life and turns it upside down — all for an insolent fellow who devours the ladies with his sharp, offensive stares?

And the Viscount repeated his phrase once more:

"What a brute!"

Then he stood still in his place, making no movement, thinking... and thinking, his eyes fixed upon the card. He felt a fury blaze up in his heart, as though that scrap of paper were its source... a fury mixed with bitter hatred and pain. He took up a penknife and drove it into the card, tearing it and splitting his adversary's name printed at its center, as though he were running a man through.

So then, he must fight! Should he choose the sword or the pistol? To use the sword was less dangerous... duels with the sword rarely end in death, for the two adversaries fight separated from one another by so great a distance that the thrusts are not mortal.

"I must be firm and steadfast. That will cast terror into my adversary's heart." The tone of his own voice frightened him, and he looked about him. He was in a state of agitation beyond all measure. He drank another glass of water, then began taking off his clothes to prepare for sleep; and when he had finished, he put out the light and closed his eyes.

"I have the whole of tomorrow before me to settle my affairs. Now I must take to my bed and keep my calm." He felt entirely warm as he turned in his bed, but he could not taste sleep. He felt thirsty, rose from his bed, and drank. And a strange question leapt into his head:

"Is it possible that I am afraid? Why does my heart pound so hard whenever any sound in the room reaches my ear?"

And he began to weigh matters within himself.

"Of what am I afraid?"

No, certainly not... he was not afraid, since he had determined to go the whole course to the end, since he had resolved to fight without hesitation or twinge of conscience.

But he found himself so profoundly disturbed that he began asking himself:

"Can it be that I am afraid in spite of myself?"

A sudden idea took hold of him, and he rose and went to the mirror to look at his face in it... He lit the candle, and when his image was reflected on the surface of the mirror he did not recognize himself; he seemed to see a man he had never known before. His eyes were dilated... his face was covered with pallor. Then he put out his tongue, as though to test his condition — and suddenly a new thought came upon him:

"At this very hour tomorrow I may be numbered among the dead." He turned about... and saw himself lying on the bed in his outdoor clothes, with the marks of death upon his face. Terror of his bed took hold of him... and to avoid the sight of that spectacle he went to the smoking room. He took a roll of tobacco and lit it, then began walking about the room. He was shivering with cold, and he moved toward the bell to wake his servant — but his hand remained gripping the cord without moving it.

"My servant will notice that I am afraid."

So he lit a fire for himself, and his hands trembled whenever they knocked against any of his things. His head began to spin, and his thoughts to churn and tangle, as though he had drunk to excess:

"What shall I do?... What is going to happen to me?" His whole body was trembling. He rose from his place and drew back the window curtains. Dawn broke — and it was the dawn of a summer day... The red glow was reflected upon the roofs and walls of the houses. A ray of light stole into his room and revived in the Viscount's heart the dead embers of hope.

What a fool he was... to let fear take hold of him before anything at all had happened... before his seconds had met the seconds of Georges Lamil... and before he knew whether he would go through with his duel or not.

He rose, put on his clothes, and left the house with a firm step, never ceasing to repeat:

"I must appear firm and steadfast, so as not to seem in the guise of a frightened man."

The two seconds, the Marquis and the Colonel, placed themselves at his command, and after exchanging greetings they began to discuss certain matters between them. The Colonel said:

"Do you wish the duel to be serious?"

"Yes, serious... serious to the utmost limit..."

"You will use the pistol as your weapon?"

"Yes."

"And now we shall leave you free to settle some of the details..."

The Viscount said in a dry, quavering voice:

"Twenty paces... and at the raising of the arm — rather, its lowering — the exchange of fire begins, until one of the two is gravely wounded..."

The Colonel said:

"These are good conditions. You are skilled with the pistol, and all the chances are in your favor."

So they parted... and the Viscount returned to his house to wait for them. Hardly had his agitation left him

for a moment before it returned afresh. His limbs trembled. He could not endure keeping still. His mouth went dry and his gaze grew fixed... He wished to take some food, but he could not. There stirred in his mind the idea of drinking spirits, for they would put courage into him, and he said to himself:

"I have found the remedy... Things will go as I desire." But his agitation came back upon him, and he felt a mad urge to fling himself on the ground, to scream, and to bite.

Night let down its curtains... And at the sound of the ringing bell he felt he did not possess his full strength to rise and receive his two seconds; he was unable to offer them a greeting... or even to utter a single letter, lest they discover the trembling of his voice. The Colonel said:

"Everything has been arranged as you wish. Your adversary at first claimed to enjoy all the privileges belonging to the offended party, but in the end he bowed to your conditions and accepted them. As for his seconds, they are two military men."

The Viscount said:

"Thank you..."

The Marquis added:

"We must look for a doctor, since the duel is not to end until one of you falls... and for a spot near a house to which the wounded man may be carried if need be."

The Colonel asked the Viscount:

"Do you feel calm?"

"Yes... thank you."

The two men withdrew. And when he found himself alone once more, he felt as though he had been struck mad... His servant had lit the lamps, and the Viscount sat down at the table to write some letters. But when his pen had traced at the top of the letter "This is my will," he sprang shuddering from his seat, feeling himself incapable of forming any idea or of doing anything at all...

So he was going to fight... he could not avoid entering the contest. He wanted to fight — that had been his decision and his desire; and yet, in spite of all this, he felt that his strength had failed and that he was incapable of walking, or of standing, on the dueling ground. From time to time his teeth chattered with an audible sound. He tried to read... and took up Châteauvillard's book on the principles and rules of dueling. And he kept asking himself:

"Is my adversary a skilled duelist? Is he known? How am I to find that out?" He suddenly remembered de Vaux's book on the most famous marksmen, and went at once to his library, took down the book, and leafed through the whole of it — but the name of Georges Lamil was not to be found. And yet — is it conceivable that the man would accept his challenge and consent to fight him if he were not skilled in the use of the pistol?

He opened one of the cases and took from it a pistol, gripped it in the correct hold for firing, and raised his arm... But he felt the tremor running through his body, and he said, addressing himself:

"It is beyond me to fight in this condition."

He contemplated the mouth of the pistol's muzzle... that muzzle which spits forth death; then he thought of the disgrace that would fasten upon him... the stinging whispers in society... the laughter of mockery in the clubs, the affronts that would be heaped on him by the ladies, the digs the journalists would publish... and the insults the cowards would pin upon him. He went back to examining the pistol and contemplating it — and how great was his delight when he discovered that, by chance, the pistol was loaded.

He opened his mouth, placed the muzzle of the pistol in it, and pressed the trigger... And when his servant came running at the sound of the shot, he found him a lifeless corpse, without motion. There was a thread of blood that had stained a white sheet of paper on which was written:

"This is my will."