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SOCIETY CALLED HIM HANDSOME SIGNOLES. HIS NAME was ViscountGontran-Joseph de Signoles.

An orphan, and possessed of an adequate income, he cut a dash, asthe saying is. He had a good figure and a good carriage, asufficient flow of words to pass for wit, a certain natural grace,an air of nobility and pride, a gallant moustache and an eloquenteye, attributes which women like.He was in demand in drawing-rooms, sought after for valses, and inmen he inspired that smiling hostility which is reserved for vitaland attractive rivals. He had been suspected of severallove-affairs of a sort calculated to create a good opinion of ayoungster. He lived a happy, care-free life, in the most completewell-being of body and mind. He was known to be a fine swordsmanand a still finer shot with the pistol.

"When I come to fight a duel," he would say, "I shall choosepistols. With that weapon, I'm sure of killing my man."

One evening, he went to the theatre with two ladies, quite young,friends of his, whose husbands were also of the party, and afterthe performance he invited them to take ices at Tortoni's.

They had been sitting there for a few minutes when he noticed agentleman at a neighbouring table staring obstinately at one of theladies of the party. She seemed embarrassed and ill at ease, andbent her head. At last she said to her husband:

"There's a man staring at me. I don't know him; do you?"

The husband, who had seen nothing, raised his eyes, butdeclared:

"No, not in the least."

Half smiling, half in anger, she replied:

"It's very annoying; the creature's spoiling my ice."

Her husband shrugged his shoulders.

"Deuce take him, don't appear to notice it. If we had to deal withall the discourteous people one meets, we'd never have done withthem."

But the Viscount had risen abruptly. He could not permit thisstranger to spoil an ice of his giving. It was to him that theinsult was addressed, since it was at his invitation and on hisaccount that his friends had come to the cafe. The affair was nobusiness of anyone but himself.

He went up to the man and said:

"You have a way of looking at those ladies, sir, which I cannotstomach. Please be so good as to set a limit to yourpersistence."

"You hold your tongue," replied the other.

"Take care, sir," retorted the Viscount, clenching his teeth;"you'll force me to overstep the bounds of common politeness."

The gentleman replied with a single word, a vile word which rangacross the cafe from one end to the other, and, like the release ofa spring, jerked every person present into an abrupt movement. Allthose with their backs towards him turned round, all the restraised their heads; three waiters spun round on their heels liketops; the two ladies behind the counter started, then the wholeupper half of their bodies twisted round, as though they were acouple of automata worked by the same handle.

There was a profound silence. Then suddenly a sharp noise resoundedin the air. The Viscount had boxed his adversary's ears. Every onerose to intervene. Cards were exchanged.

Back in his home, the Viscount walked for several minutes up anddown his room with long quick strides. He was too excited to think.A solitary idea dominated his mind: "a duel"; but as yet the ideastirred in him no emotion of any kind. He had done what he wascompelled to do; he had shown himself to be what he ought to be.People would talk of it, would approve of him, congratulate him. Herepeated aloud, speaking as a man speaks in severe mentaldistress:

"What a hound the fellow is!"

Then he sat down and began to reflect. In the morning he must findseconds. Whom should he choose? He searched his mind for the mostimportant and celebrated names of his acquaintance. At last hedecided on the Marquis de la Tour-Noire and Colonel Bourdin, anaristocrat and a soldier; they would do excellently. Their nameswould look well in the papers. He realised that he was thirsty, anddrank three glasses of water one after the other; then he began towalk up and down again. He felt full of energy. If he played thegallant, showed himself determined, insisted on the most strict anddangerous arrangements, demanded a serious duel, a thoroughlyserious duel, a positively terrible duel, his adversary wouldprobably retire and apologist.

He took up once more the card which he had taken from his pocketand thrown down upon the table, and read it again as he had read itbefore, in the cafe, at a glance, and in the cab, by the light ofeach gas-lamp, on his way home.

"Georges Lamil, 51 rue Moncey." Nothing more.

He examined the grouped letters; they seemed to him mysterious,full of confused meaning. Georges Lamil? Who was this man? What didhe do? Why had he looked at the woman in that way? Was it notrevolting that a stranger, an unknown man, could thus disturb aman's life, without warning, just because he chose to fix hisinsolent eyes upon a woman? Again the Viscount repeated aloud:

"What a hound!"

Then he remained standing stock-still, lost in thought, his eyesstill fixed upon the card. A fury against this scrap of paper awokein him, a fury of hatred in which was mingled a queer sensation ofuneasiness. This sort of thing was so stupid! He took up an openknife which lay close at hand and thrust it through the middle ofthe printed name, as though he had stabbed a man.

So he must fight. Should he choose swords or pistols?--for heregarded himself as the insulted party. With swords there would beless risk, but with pistols there was a chance that his adversarymight withdraw. It is very rare that a duel with swords is fatal,for mutual prudence is apt to restrain combatants from engaging atsufficiently close quarters for a point to penetrate deeply. Withpistols he ran a grave risk of death; but he might also extricatehimself from the affair with all the honours of the situation andwithout actually coming to a meeting.

"I must be firm," he said. "He will take fright."

The sound of his voice set him trembling, and he looked round. Hefelt very nervous. He drank another glass of water, then began toundress for bed.

As soon as he was in bed, he blew out the light and closed hiseyes.

"I've the whole of to-morrow," he thought, "in which to set myaffairs in order. I'd better sleep now, so that I shall be quitecalm."

He was very warm in the blankets, but he could not manage tocompose himself to sleep. He turned this way and that, lay for fiveminutes upon his back, turned on to his left side, then rolled overon to his right.

He was still thirsty. He got up to get a drink. A feeling ofuneasiness crept over him:

"Is it possible that I'm afraid?"

Why did his heart beat madly at each familiar sound in his room?When the clock was about to strike, the faint squeak of the risingspring made him start; so shaken he was that for several secondsafterwards he had to open his mouth to get his breath.

He began to reason with himself on the possibility of his beingafraid.

"Shall I be afraid?"

No, of course he would not be afraid, since he was resolved to seethe matter through, and had duly made up his mind to fight and notto tremble. But he felt so profoundly distressed that hewondered:

"Can a man be afraid in spite of himself?"

He was attacked by this doubt, this uneasiness, this terror;suppose a force more powerful than himself, masterful,irresistible, overcame him, what would happen? Yes, what might nothappen? Assuredly he would go to the place of the meeting, since hewas quite ready to go. But supposing he trembled? Supposing hefainted? He thought of the scene, of his reputation, his goodname.

There came upon him a strange need to get up and look at himself inthe mirror. He relit his candle. When he saw his face reflected inthe polished glass, he scarcely recognised it, it seemed to him asthough he had never yet seen himself. His eyes looked to himenormous; and he was pale; yes, without doubt he was pale, verypale.

He remained standing in front of the mirror. He put out his tongue,as though to ascertain the state of his health, and abruptly thethought struck him like a bullet:

"The day after to-morrow, at this very hour, I may be dead."

His heart began again its furious beating.

"The day after to-morrow, at this very hour, I may be dead. Thisperson facing me, this me I see in the mirror, will be no more.Why, here I am, I look at myself, I feel myself alive, and intwenty-four hours I shall be lying in that bed, dead, my eyesclosed, cold, inanimate, vanished."

He turned back towards the bed, and distinctly saw himself lying onhis back in the very sheets he had just left. He had the hollowface of a corpse, his hands had the slackness of hands that willnever make another movement.

At that he was afraid of his bed, and, to get rid of the sight ofit, went into the smoking-room. Mechanically he picked up a cigar,lit it, and began to walk up and down again. He was cold; he wentto the bell to wake his valet; but he stopped, even as he raisedhis hand to the rope.

"He will see that I am afraid."

He did not ring; he lit the fire. His hands shook a little, with anervous tremor, whenever they touched anything. His brain whirled,his troubled thoughts became elusive, transitory, and gloomy; hismind suffered all the effects of intoxication, as though he wereactually drunk.

Over and over again he thought:

"What shall I do? What is to become of me?"

His whole body trembled, seized with a jerky shuddering; he got upand, going to the window, drew back the curtains.

Dawn was at hand, a summer dawn. The rosy sky touched the town, itsroofs and walls, with its own hue. A broad descending ray, like thecaress of the rising sun, enveloped the awakened world; and withthe light, hope--a gay, swift, fierce hope--filled the Viscount'sheart! Was he mad, that he had allowed himself to be struck down byfear, before anything was settled even, before his seconds had seenthose of this Georges Lamil, before he knew whether he was going tofight?

He washed, dressed, and walked out with a firm step.

He repeated to himself, as he walked:

"I must be energetic, very energetic. I must prove that I am notafraid."

His seconds, the Marquis and the Colonel, placed themselves at hisdisposal, and after hearty handshakes discussed the conditions.

"You are anxious for a serious duel? " asked the Colonel.

"Yes, a very serious one," replied the Viscount.

"You still insist on pistols?" said the Marquis.

"Yes."

"You will leave us free to arrange the rest?"

In a dry, jerky voice the Viscount stated:

"Twenty paces; at the signal, raising the arm, and not lowering it.Exchange of shots till one is seriously wounded."

"They are excellent conditions," declared the Colonel in a tone ofsatisfaction. "You shoot well, you have every chance."

They departed. The Viscount went home to wait for them. Hisagitation, momentarily quietened, was now growing minute by minute.He felt a strange shivering, a ceaseless vibration, down his arms,down his legs, in his chest; he could not keep still in one place,neither seated nor standing. There was not the least moistening ofsaliva in his mouth, and at every instant he made a violentmovement of his tongue, as though to prevent it sticking to hispalate.

He was eager to have breakfast, but could not eat. Then the ideacame to him to drink in order to give himself courage, and he sentfor a decanter of rum, of which he swallowed six liqueur glassesfull one after the other.

A burning warmth flooded through his body, followed immediately bya sudden dizziness of the mind and spirit.

"Now I know what to do," he thought. "Now it is all right."

But by the end of an hour he had emptied the decanter, and hisstate of agitation had once more become intolerable. He wasconscious of a wild need to roll on the ground, to scream, to bite.Night was falling.

The ringing of a bell gave him such a shock that he had notstrength to rise and welcome his seconds.

He did not even dare to speak to them, to say "Good evening" tothem, to utter a single word, for fear they guessed the whole thingby the alteration in his voice.

"Everything is arranged in accordance with the conditions youfixed," observed the Colonel. "At first your adversary claimed theprivileges of the insulted party, but he yielded almost at once,and has accepted everything. His seconds are two military men."

"Thank you," said the Viscount.

"Pardon us," interposed the Marquis, "if we merely come in andleave again immediately, but we have a thousand things to see to.We must have a good doctor, since the combat is not to end until aserious wound is inflicted, and you know that pistol bullets are nolaughing-matter. We must appoint the ground, near a house to whichwe may carry the wounded man if necessary, etc. In fact, we shallbe occupied for two or three hours arranging all that there is toarrange."

"Thank you," said the Viscount a second time.

"You are all right?" asked the Colonel. "You are calm?"

"Yes, quite calm, thank you."

The two men retired.

When he realised that he was once more alone, he thought that hewas going mad. His servant had lit the lamps, and he sat down atthe table to write letters. After tracing, at the head of a sheet:"This is my will," he rose shivering and walked away, feelingincapable of connecting two ideas, of taking a resolution, ofmaking any decision whatever.

So he was going to fight! He could no longer avoid it. Then whatwas the matter with him? He wished to fight, he had absolutelydecided upon this plan of action and taken his resolve, and he nowfelt clearly, in spite of every effort of mind and forcing of will,that he could not retain even the strength necessary to get him tothe place of meeting. He tried to picture the duel, his ownattitude and the bearing of his adversary.

From time to time his teeth chattered in his mouth with a slightclicking noise. He tried to read, and took down Chateauvillard'scode of duelling. Then he wondered:

"Does my adversary go to shooting-galleries? Is he well known? Ishe classified anywhere? How can I find out?"

He bethought himself of Baron Vaux's book on marksmen with thepistol, and ran through it from end to end. Georges Lamil was notmentioned in it. Yet if the man were not a good shot, he wouldsurely not have promptly agreed to that dangerous weapon and thosefatal conditions?

He opened, in passing, a case by Gastinne Renette standing on asmall table, and took out one of the pistols, then placed himselfas though to shoot and raised his arm. But he was trembling fromhead to foot and the barrel moved in every direction.

At that, he said to himself:

"It's impossible. I cannot fight in this state."

He looked at the end of the barrel, at the little, black, deep holethat spits death; he thought of the disgrace, of the whispers atthe club, of the laughter in drawing-rooms, of the contempt ofwomen, of the allusions in the papers, of the insults which cowardswould fling at him.

He was still looking at the weapon, and, raising the hammer, caughta glimpse of a cap gleaming beneath it like a tiny red flame; Bygood fortune or forgetfulness, the pistol had been left loaded. Atthe knowledge, he was filled with a confused inexplicable sense ofjoy.

If, when face to face with the other man, he did not show a propergallantry and calm, he would be lost for ever. He would be sullied,branded with a mark of infamy, hounded out of society. And he wouldnot be able to achieve that calm, that swaggering poise; he knewit, he felt it. Yet he was brave, since he wanted to fight I ... Hewas brave, since....

The thought which hovered in him did not even fulfil itself in hismind; but, opening his mouth wide, he thrust in the barrel of hispistol with savage gesture until it reached his throat, and pressedon the trigger.

When his valet ran in, at the sound of the report, he found himlying dead upon his back. A shower of blood had splashed the whitepaper on the table, and made a great red mark beneath these fourwords:

"This is my will."