[adapted]

by
Guy De Maupassant

In society, he was called “Handsome Signoles.” His real name was Vicomte Gontran-Joseph de Signoles.

He was an orphan and had a lot of money, so he lived a very good life, as people say. He looked nice and behaved well. He spoke easily, had natural style, looked proud and noble, had a nice mustache, and soft eyes that women liked.

He was often invited to parties, danced beautifully, and other men looked at him with quiet jealousy, the way they look at popular people. Some people believed he had had love affairs, which made him even more interesting as a single man. He lived a happy and easy life—his body and mind both felt good. He was known as a very good fencer, and even more, as someone very good with a gun.

“When I have to fight a duel,” he would say, “I’ll choose pistols. With that weapon, I’m sure I’ll kill the other man.”

One evening, he went to the theatre with two women friends and their husbands. After the show, he invited them to eat some ice cream at Tortoni’s. They had only been sitting for a few minutes when Signoles noticed a man staring at one of the women. She looked bothered and lowered her eyes. Finally, she said to her husband:

“There’s a man over there looking at me. I don’t know him; do you?”

The husband, who hadn’t seen anything, looked at the man and said:

“No, not at all.”

His wife went on, half smiling, half annoyed:

“It’s really annoying! He’s ruining my ice cream.”

The husband lifted his shoulders in a small shrug.

“Nonsense! Don’t pay any attention to him. If we let rude people bother us, we wouldn’t have time for anything else.”

But the vicomte suddenly got up from his seat. He couldn’t let this rude man ruin his guest’s ice cream. It was his responsibility, since he had invited his friends to the restaurant. He walked over to the man and said:

“Sir, you are staring at those ladies in a way I cannot allow. I must ask you to stop being rude.”

The man answered:

“Leave me alone, will you!”

“Be careful, sir,” said the vicomte through his teeth, “or you will make me take serious action.”

The man replied with just one word—a very bad word, which could be heard all through the restaurant. Everyone was surprised. All the people who had their backs to the two men turned around; the others looked up; three waiters spun around quickly; the two lady cashiers jumped as if someone had shot a gun, then turned their bodies at the same time, like two machines with the same button.

There was complete silence. Then suddenly a loud, clear sound. The vicomte had slapped the other man’s face. Everyone stood up to stop a fight. The two men exchanged cards.

When the vicomte got home, he walked quickly up and down in his room for a few minutes. He was too upset to think clearly. Only one idea filled his mind: a duel. But this idea didn’t make him feel anything yet. He had done what he should do; he had acted as a brave man should. People would talk about it, say good things, and praise him. He spoke out loud, the way people do when they are very upset:

“What a horrible man!” Then he sat down and began to think. He would have to find two men to help him with the duel in the morning. Who should he ask? He thought about the most important and well-known men he knew. In the end, he chose the Marquis de la Tour-Noire and Colonel Bourdin—a nobleman and a soldier. That would be perfect. Their names would sound good in the newspapers. He was thirsty and drank three glasses of water, one after another; then he walked back and forth again. If he showed he was brave, ready, and serious about the duel, maybe the other man would back out and apologize. He picked up the card he had taken from his pocket and thrown on the table. He read it again, just like he had already done—first quickly in the restaurant, and then again on the way home under each street lamp: “Georges Lamil, 51 Rue Moncey.” That was all.

He looked carefully at this group of letters, which now seemed strange and full of meaning. Georges Lamil! Who was this man? What job did he have? Why had he stared at the woman like that? Wasn’t it crazy that a stranger, someone unknown, could suddenly turn his life upside down, just because he chose to be rude to a woman? And the vicomte said again out loud:

“What a horrible man!”

Then he stood still, thinking, his eyes still on the card. Anger filled his heart toward this small piece of paper—a bitter anger mixed with a strange feeling of worry. The whole thing was foolish! He picked up a penknife that was lying nearby and slowly pushed it into the middle of the printed name, like he was stabbing someone.

So he would have to fight! Should he choose swords or pistols?—because he believed he was the one who had been insulted. With the sword, there would be less risk, but with pistols, maybe the other man would back out. A duel with swords is rarely deadly, because both men are careful and don’t get close enough for the blade to go in very deep. With pistols, he would really be risking his life; but, on the other hand, he might end the whole thing successfully—without having to fight at all.

“I must be strong,” he said. “The man will be scared.”

The sound of his own voice surprised him, and he looked around the room nervously. He felt shaky. He drank another glass of water, then started getting undressed so he could go to bed.

As soon as he was in bed, he turned off the light and closed his eyes.

“I have all day tomorrow,” he thought, “to put my affairs in order. I must sleep now so I can stay calm when the time comes.”

He was very warm in bed, but he couldn’t fall asleep. He tossed and turned, lay on his back for five minutes, then turned to his left side, then rolled over to his right. He was thirsty again and got up to drink. Then a strange feeling came over him:

“Is it possible that I’m afraid?”

Why was his heart beating so fast every time he heard a sound he knew in his room? When the clock was about to strike, the first click of its spring made him jump, and for several seconds he couldn’t breathe, he was so nervous.

He started to ask himself if it could be true: “Could I actually be afraid?”

No, of course not; he couldn’t be afraid, because he had made up his mind to go all the way with this, because he had firmly decided to fight and not back down. And yet he was so upset in both his mind and body that he asked himself again:

“Is it possible to feel afraid, even if you don’t want to be?”

And this doubt, this scary question, took over his thoughts. If a strong feeling, stronger than his own will, took away his courage, what would happen? He would still go to the place for the duel; his willpower would take him that far. But what if, once there, he started shaking or fainted? And he thought about what people would think of him—his reputation, his name.

Suddenly, he decided to get up and look at himself in the mirror. He lit his candle. When he saw his reflection, he hardly recognized himself. It looked like a different man. His eyes looked too big, and his face was very pale.

He stood there in front of the mirror. He stuck out his tongue, as if checking if he was sick, and suddenly a thought came to him:

“This time the day after tomorrow, I might be dead.”

His heart beat hard.

“This time the day after tomorrow, I might be dead. This person in the mirror, this ‘me’ I see, might not exist anymore. What! I’m standing here, looking at myself, feeling alive—and yet in twenty-four hours I could be lying on that bed, with my eyes closed, dead, cold, not moving.”

He turned around, and could clearly imagine himself lying on his back on the bed he had just left. His face looked sunken, and his hands were weak and still, like a dead person.

Then he got scared of the bed, and to avoid looking at it, he went into his smoking-room. He picked up a cigar without thinking, lit it, and began walking back and forth. He felt cold; he reached toward the bell to call his valet, but stopped, his hand in the air, just before pulling the bell rope.

“He would see that I am afraid!”

So, instead of ringing the bell, he made a fire by himself. His hands shook nervously as he touched things. His head felt dizzy, his thoughts were mixed up, broken, and painful. He felt numb, like he had been drinking.

And the whole time he kept saying:

“What should I do? What will happen to me?”

His whole body shook again and again. He got up, went to the window, and pulled back the curtains.

The day—a summer day—was starting. The pink sky gave a soft light to the city, to the roofs and the buildings. A warm light covered the waking world, like a gentle touch from the rising sun, and this early light gave new hope to the vicomte. How silly he had been to feel afraid before anything was even decided—before his seconds had spoken with Georges Lamil’s seconds, before he even knew if there would really be a fight!

He took a bath, got dressed, and left the house with a strong step.

As he walked, he kept saying to himself:

“I must be strong—very strong. I must show that I’m not afraid.”

His seconds, the marquis and the colonel, said they were ready to help him. They shook his hand warmly and started talking about the details.

“You want a serious duel?” asked the colonel.

“Yes—very serious,” said the vicomte.