“He would see that I am afraid!”

And, instead of ringing, he made a fire himself.  His hands quivered nervously as they touched various objects.  His head grew dizzy, his thoughts confused, disjointed, painful; a numbness seized his spirit, as if he had been drinking.

And all the time he kept on saying: 

“What shall I do?  What will become of me?”

His whole body trembled spasmodically; he rose, and, going to the window, drew back the curtains.

The day—­a summer day-was breaking.  The pink sky cast a glow on the city, its roofs, and its walls.  A flush of light enveloped the awakened world, like a caress from the rising sun, and the glimmer of dawn kindled new hope in the breast of the vicomte.  What a fool he was to let himself succumb to fear before anything was decided—­before his seconds had interviewed those of Georges Lamil, before he even knew whether he would have to fight or not!

He bathed, dressed, and left the house with a firm step.

He repeated as he went: 

“I must be firm—­very firm.  I must show that I am not afraid.”

His seconds, the marquis and the colonel, placed themselves at his disposal, and, having shaken him warmly by the hand, began to discuss details.

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

“Yes—­quite serious,” replied the vicomte.

“You insist on pistols?” put in the marquis.

“Yes.”

“Do you leave all the other arrangements in our hands?”

With a dry, jerky voice the vicomte answered: 

“Twenty paces—­at a given signal—­the arm to be raised, not lowered—­shots to be exchanged until one or other is seriously wounded.”

“Excellent conditions,” declared the colonel in a satisfied tone.  “You are a good shot; all the chances are in your favor.”

And they parted.  The vicomte returned home to, wait for them.  His agitation, only temporarily allayed, now increased momentarily.  He felt, in arms, legs and chest, a sort of trembling—­a continuous vibration; he could not stay still, either sitting or standing.  His mouth was parched, and he made every now and then a clicking movement of the tongue, as if to detach it from his palate.

He attempted, to take luncheon, but could not eat.  Then it occurred to him to seek courage in drink, and he sent for a decanter of rum, of which he swallowed, one after another, six small glasses.

A burning warmth, followed by a deadening of the mental faculties, ensued.  He said to himself: 

“I know how to manage.  Now it will be all right!”

But at the end of an hour he had emptied the decanter, and his agitation was worse than ever.  A mad longing possessed him to throw himself on the ground, to bite, to scream.  Night fell.

A ring at the bell so unnerved him that he had not the strength to rise to receive his seconds.