He was known in soci-ety 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 com-pany 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."