THE COLLECTED NOVELS OF GUY DE MAUPASSANT. Guy de Maupassant
obliged to open his mouth, so difficult did his breathing become.
The seconds got out first, and then the doctor and the principal. Rival had taken the pistol-case and walked away with Boisrenard to meet two of the strangers who came towards them. Duroy watched them salute one another ceremoniously, and then walk up and down the clearing, looking now on the ground and now at the trees, as though they were looking for something that had fallen down or might fly away. Then they measured off a certain number of paces, and with great difficulty stuck two walking sticks into the frozen ground. They then reassembled in a group and went through the action of tossing, like children playing heads or tails.
Doctor Le Brument said to Duroy: “Do you feel all right? Do you want anything?”
“No, nothing, thanks.”
It seemed to him that he was mad, that he was asleep, that he was dreaming, that supernatural influences enveloped him. Was he afraid? Perhaps. But he did not know. Everything about him had altered.
Jacques Rival returned, and announced in low tones of satisfaction: “It is all ready. Luck has favored us as regards the pistols.”
That, so far as Duroy was concerned, was a matter of profound indifference.
They took off his overcoat, which he let them do mechanically. They felt the breast-pocket of his frock-coat to make certain that he had no pocketbook or papers likely to deaden a ball. He kept repeating to himself like a prayer: “When the word is given to fire, I must raise my arm.”
They led him up to one of the sticks stuck in the ground and handed him his pistol. Then he saw a man standing just in front of him — a short, stout, bald-headed man, wearing spectacles. It was his adversary. He saw him very plainly, but he could only think: “When the word to fire is given, I must raise my arm and fire at once.”
A voice rang out in the deep silence, a voice that seemed to come from a great distance, saying: “Are you ready, gentlemen?”
George exclaimed “Yes.”
The same voice gave the word “Fire!”
He heard nothing more, he saw nothing more, he took note of nothing more, he only knew that he raised his arm, pressing strongly on the trigger. And he heard nothing. But he saw all at once a little smoke at the end of his pistol barrel, and as the man in front of him still stood in the same position, he perceived, too, a little cloud of smoke drifting off over his head.
They had both fired. It was over.
His seconds and the doctor touched him, felt him and unbuttoned his clothes, asking, anxiously: “Are you hit?”
He replied at haphazard: “No, I do not think so.”
Langremont, too, was as unhurt as his enemy, and Jacques Rival murmured in a discontented tone: “It is always so with those damned pistols; you either miss or kill. What a filthy weapon.”
Duroy did not move, paralyzed by surprise and joy. It was over. They had to take away his weapon, which he still had clenched in his hand. It seemed to him now that he could have done battle with the whole world. It was over. What happiness! He felt suddenly brave enough to defy no matter whom.
The whole of the seconds conversed together for a few moments, making an appointment to draw up their report of the proceedings in the course of the day. Then they got into the carriage again, and the driver, who was laughing on the box, started off, cracking his whip. They breakfasted together on the boulevards, and in chatting over the event, Duroy narrated his impressions. “I felt quite unconcerned, quite. You must, besides, have seen it yourself.”
Rival replied: “Yes, you bore yourself very well.”
When the report was drawn up it was handed to Duroy, who was to insert it in the paper. He was astonished to read that he had exchanged a couple of shots with Monsieur Louis Langremont, and rather uneasily interrogated Rival, saying: “But we only fired once.”
The other smiled. “Yes, one shot apiece, that makes a couple of shots.”
Duroy, deeming the explanation satisfactory, did not persist. Daddy Walter embraced him, saying: “Bravo, bravo, you have defended the colors of Vie Francaise; bravo!”
George showed himself in the course of the evening at the principal newspaper offices, and at the chief cafés on the boulevards. He twice encountered his adversary, who was also showing himself. They did not bow to one another. If one of them had been wounded they would have shaken hands. Each of them, moreover, swore with conviction that he had heard the whistling of the other’s bullet.
The next day, at about eleven, Duroy received a telegram. “Awfully alarmed. Come at once. Rue de Constantinople. — Clo.”
He hastened to their meeting-place, and she threw herself into his arms, smothering him with kisses.
“Oh, my darling! if you only knew what I felt when I saw the papers this morning. Oh, tell me all about it! I want to know everything.”
He had to give minute details. She said: “What a dreadful night you must have passed before the duel.”
“No, I slept very well.”
“I should not have closed an eye. And on the ground — tell me all that happened.”
He gave a dramatic account. “When we were face to face with one another at twenty paces, only four times the length of this room, Jacques, after asking if we were ready, gave the word ‘Fire.’ I raised my arm at once, keeping a good line, but I made the mistake of trying to aim at the head. I had a pistol with an unusually stiff pull, and I am accustomed to very easy ones, so that the resistance of the trigger caused me to fire too high. No matter, it could not have gone very far off him. He shoots well, too, the rascal. His bullet skimmed by my temple. I felt the wind of it.”
She was sitting on his knees, and holding him in her arms as though to share his dangers. She murmured: “Oh, my poor darling! my poor darling!”
When he had finished his narration, she said: “Do you know, I cannot live without you. I must see you, and with my husband in Paris it is not easy. Often I could find an hour in the morning before you were up to run in and kiss you, but I won’t enter that awful house of yours. What is to be done?”
He suddenly had an inspiration, and asked: “What is the rent here?”
“A hundred francs a month.”
“Well, I will take the rooms over on my own account, and live here altogether. Mine are no longer good enough for my new position.”
She reflected a few moments, and then said: “No, I won’t have that.”
He was astonished, and asked: “Why not?”
“Because I won’t.”
“That is not a reason. These rooms suit me very well. I am here, and shall remain here. Besides,” he added, with a laugh, “they are taken in my name.”
But she kept on refusing, “No, no, I won’t have it.”
“Why not, then?”
Then she whispered tenderly: “Because you would bring women here, and I won’t have it.”
He grew indignant. “Never. I can promise you that.”
“No, you will bring them all the same.”
“I swear I won’t.”
“Truly?”
“Truly, on my word of honor. This is our place, our very own.”
She clasped him to her in an outburst of love, exclaiming: “Very well, then, darling. But you know if you once deceive me, only once, it will be all over between us, all over for ever.”
He swore again with many protestations, and it was agreed that he should install himself there that very day, so that she could look in on him as she passed the door. Then she said: “In any case, come and dine with us