weight of the butcher being spoken of in the report.
On his return to the office, Duroy wrote his reply:
“An anonymous scribbler in the Plume seeks to pick a quarrel with me on the subject of an old woman whom he states was arrested by an agent des mœurs, which fact I deny. I have myself seen Madame Aubert — who is at least sixty years of age — and she told me in detail her quarrel with the butcher over the weighing of some chops, which led to an explanation before the commissary of police. This is the whole truth. As to the other insinuations of the writer in the Plume, I despise them. Besides, a man does not reply to such things when they are written under a mask.
“George Duroy.”
Monsieur Walter and Jacques Rival, who had come in, thought this note satisfactory, and it was settled that it should go in at once.
Duroy went home early, somewhat agitated and slightly uneasy. What reply would the other man make? Who was he? Why this brutal attack? With the brusque manners of journalists this affair might go very far. He slept badly. When he read his reply in the paper next morning, it seemed to him more aggressive in print than in manuscript. He might, it seemed to him, have softened certain phrases. He felt feverish all day, and slept badly again at night. He rose at dawn to get the number of the Plume that must contain a reply to him.
The weather had turned cold again, it was freezing hard. The gutters, frozen while still flowing, showed like two ribbons of ice alongside the pavement. The morning papers had not yet come in, and Duroy recalled the day of his first article, “The Recollections of a Chasseur d’Afrique.” His hands and feet getting numbed, grew painful, especially the tips of his fingers, and he began to trot round the glazed kiosque in which the newspaper seller, squatting over her foot warmer, only showed through the little window a red nose and a pair of cheeks to match in a woolen hood. At length the newspaper porter passed the expected parcel through the opening, and the woman held out to Duroy an unfolded copy of the Plume.
He glanced through it in search of his name, and at first saw nothing. He was breathing again, when he saw between two dashes:
“Monsieur Duroy, of the Vie Francaise, contradicts us, and in contradicting us, lies. He admits, however, that there is a Madame Aubert, and that an agent took her before the commissary of police. It only remains, therefore, to add two words, ‘des mœurs,’ after the word ‘agent,’ and he is right. But the conscience of certain journalists is on a level with their talent. And I sign,
“Louis Langremont.”
George’s heart began to beat violently, and he went home to dress without being too well aware of what he was doing. So he had been insulted, and in such a way that no hesitation was possible. And why? For nothing at all. On account of an old woman who had quarreled with her butcher.
He dressed quickly and went to see Monsieur Walter, although it was barely eight o’clock. Monsieur Walter, already up, was reading the Plume. “Well,” said he, with a grave face, on seeing Duroy, “you cannot draw back now.” The young fellow did not answer, and the other went on: “Go at once and see Rival, who will act for you.”
Duroy stammered a few vague words, and went out in quest of the descriptive writer, who was still asleep. He jumped out of bed, and, having read the paragraph, said: “By Jove, you must go out. Whom do you think of for the other second?”
“I really don’t know.”
“Boisrenard? What do you think?”
“Yes. Boisrenard.”
“Are you a good swordsman?”
“Not at all.”
“The devil! And with the pistol?”
“I can shoot a little.”
“Good. You shall practice while I look after everything else. Wait for me a moment.”
He went into his dressing-room, and soon reappeared washed, shaved, correct-looking.
“Come with me,” said he.
He lived on the ground floor of a small house, and he led Duroy to the cellar, an enormous cellar, converted into a fencing-room and shooting gallery, all the openings on the street being closed. After having lit a row of gas jets running the whole length of a second cellar, at the end of which was an iron man painted red and blue; he placed on a table two pairs of breech-loading pistols, and began to give the word of command in a sharp tone, as though on the ground: “Ready? Fire — one — two — three.”
Duroy, dumbfounded, obeyed, raising his arm, aiming and firing, and as he often hit the mark fair on the body, having frequently made use of an old horse pistol of his father’s when a boy, against the birds, Jacques Rival, well satisfied, exclaimed: “Good — very good — very good — you will do — you will do.”
Then he left George, saying: “Go on shooting till noon; here is plenty of ammunition, don’t be afraid to use it. I will come back to take you to lunch and tell you how things are going.”
Left to himself, Duroy fired a few more shots, and then sat down and began to reflect. How absurd these things were, all the same! What did a duel prove? Was a rascal less of a rascal after going out? What did an honest man, who had been insulted, gain by risking his life against a scoundrel? And his mind, gloomily inclined, recalled the words of Norbert de Varenne.
Then he felt thirsty, and having heard the sound of water dropping behind him, found that there was a hydrant serving as a douche bath, and drank from the nozzle of the hose. Then he began to think again. It was gloomy in this cellar, as gloomy as a tomb. The dull and distant rolling of vehicles sounded like the rumblings of a far-off storm. What o’clock could it be? The hours passed by there as they must pass in prisons, without anything to indicate or mark them save the visits of the warder. He waited a long time. Then all at once he heard footsteps and voices, and Jacques Rival reappeared, accompanied by Boisrenard. He called out as soon as he saw Duroy: “It’s all settled.”
The latter thought the matter terminated by a letter of apology, his heart beat, and he stammered: “Ah! thanks.”
The descriptive writer continued: “That fellow Langremont is very square; he accepted all our conditions. Twenty-five paces, one shot, at the word of command raising the pistol. The hand is much steadier that way than bringing it down. See here, Boisrenard, what I told you.”
And taking a pistol he began to fire, pointed out how much better one kept the line by raising the arm. Then he said: “Now let’s go and lunch; it is past twelve o’clock.”
They went to a neighboring restaurant. Duroy scarcely spoke. He ate in order not to appear afraid, and then, in course of the afternoon, accompanied Boisrenard to the office, where he got through his work in an abstracted and mechanical fashion. They thought him plucky. Jacques Rival dropped in in the course of the afternoon, and it was settled that his seconds should call for him in a landau at seven o’clock the next morning, and drive to the Bois de Vesinet, where the meeting was to take place. All this had been done so unexpectedly, without his taking part in it, without his saying a word, without his giving his opinion, without accepting or refusing, and with such rapidity, too, that he was bewildered, scared, and scarcely able to understand what was going on.
He found himself at home at nine o’clock, after having dined with Boisrenard, who, out of self-devotion, had not left him all day. As soon
