[English Story] A Coward

Society called him Handsome Signoles. His name was
Viscount Gontran-Joseph de Signoles.
An orphan, and possessed of an adequate income, he
cut a dash, as the saying is. He had a good figure and a
good carriage, a sufficient flow of words to pass for wit,
a certain natural grace, an air of nobility and pride, a
gallant moustache and an eloquent eye, attributes which
women like.
He was in demand in drawing-rooms, sought after for
valses, and in men he inspired that smiling hostility
which is reserved for vital and attractive rivals. He had
been suspected of several love-affairs of a sort
calculated to create a good opinion of a youngster. He
lived a happy, care-free life, in the most complete well-
being of body and mind. He was known to be a fine
swordsman and a still finer shot with the pistol.
"When I come to fight a duel," he would say, "I shall
choose pistols. 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 after the performance he invited them
to take ices at Tortoni's.
They had been sitting there for a few minutes when he
noticed a gentleman at a neighbouring table staring
obstinately at one of the ladies of the party. She seemed
embarrassed and ill at ease, and bent 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,
but declared:
"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 with all the discourteous people one meets, we'd
never have done with them."
But the Viscount had risen abruptly. He could not permit
this stranger to spoil an ice of his giving. It was to him
that the insult was addressed, since it was at his
invitation and on his account that his friends had come
to the cafe. The affair was no business of anyone but
himself.
He went up to the man and said:
"You have a way of looking at those ladies, sir, which I
cannot stomach. Please be so good as to set a limit to
your persistence."
"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 rang across the cafe from one end to the other,
and, like the release of a spring, jerked every person
present into an abrupt movement. All those with their
backs towards him turned round, all the rest raised their
heads; three waiters spun round on their heels like tops;
the two ladies behind the counter started, then the
whole upper half of their bodies twisted round, as
though they were a couple of automata worked by the
same handle.
There was a profound silence. Then suddenly a sharp
noise resounded in the air. The Viscount had boxed his
adversary's ears. Every one rose to intervene. Cards
were exchanged.
Back in his home, the Viscount walked for several
minutes up and down his room with long quick strides.
He was too excited to think. A solitary idea dominated
his mind: "a duel"; but as yet the idea stirred in him no
emotion of any kind. He had done what he was
compelled to do; he had shown himself to be what he
ought to be. People would talk of it, would approve of
him, congratulate him. He repeated aloud, speaking as a
man speaks in severe mental distress:
"What a hound the fellow is!"
Then he sat down and began to reflect. In the morning
he must find seconds. Whom should he choose? He
searched his mind for the most important and celebrated
names of his acquaintance. At last he decided on the
Marquis de la Tour-Noire and Colonel Bourdin, an
aristocrat and a soldier; they would do excellently. Their
names would look well in the papers. He realised that he
was thirsty, and drank three glasses of water one after
the other; then he began to walk up and down again. He
felt full of energy. If he played the gallant, showed
himself determined, insisted on the most strict and
dangerous arrangements, demanded a serious duel, a
thoroughly serious duel, a positively terrible duel, his
adversary would probably retire an apologist.
He took up once more the card which he had taken from
his pocket and thrown down upon the table, and read it
again as he had read it before, in the cafe, at a glance,
and in the cab, by the light of each 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 did he do? Why had he looked
at the woman in that way? Was it not revolting that a
stranger, an unknown man, could thus disturb a man's
life, without warning, just because he chose to fix his
insolent eyes upon a woman? Again the Viscount
repeated aloud:
"What a hound!"
Then he remained standing stock-still, lost in thought,
his eyes still fixed upon the card. A fury against this
scrap of paper awoke in him, a fury of hatred in which
was mingled a queer sensation of uneasiness. This sort
of thing was so stupid! He took up an open knife which
lay close at hand and thrust it through the middle of the
printed name, as though he had stabbed a man.
So he must fight. Should he choose swords or pistols?--
for he regarded himself as the insulted party. With
swords there would be less risk, but with pistols there
was a chance that his adversary might withdraw. It is
very rare that a duel with swords is fatal, for mutual
prudence is apt to restrain combatants from engaging at
sufficiently close quarters for a point to penetrate deeply.
With pistols he ran a grave risk of death; but he might
also extricate himself from the affair with all the honours
of the situation and without 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. He felt very nervous. He drank another glass of
water, then began to undress for bed.
As soon as he was in bed, he blew out the light and
closed his eyes.
"I've the whole of to-morrow," he thought, "in which to
set my affairs in order. I'd better sleep now, so that I
shall be quite calm."
He was very warm in the blankets, but he could not
manage to compose himself to sleep. He turned this way
and that, lay for five minutes upon his back, turned on to
his left side, then rolled over on to his right.
He was still thirsty. He got up to get a drink. A feeling of
uneasiness 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 rising spring made him start; so shaken
he was that for several seconds afterwards he had to
open his mouth to get his breath.
He began to reason with himself on the possibility of his
being afraid.
"Shall I be afraid?"
No, of course he would not be afraid, since he was
resolved to see the matter through, and had duly made
up his mind to fight and not to tremble. But he felt so
profoundly distressed that he wondered:
"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 not happen? Assuredly he
would go to the place of the meeting, since he was quite
ready to go. But supposing he trembled? Supposing he
fainted? He thought of the scene, of his reputation, his
good name.
There came upon him a strange need to get up and look
at himself in the mirror. He relit his candle. When he saw
his face reflected in the polished glass, he scarcely
recognised it, it seemed to him as though he had never
yet seen himself. His eyes looked to him enormous; and
he was pale; yes, without doubt he was pale, very pale.
He remained standing in front of the mirror. He put out
his tongue, as though to ascertain the state of his
health, and abruptly the thought 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. This person 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 in twenty-four hours I shall be lying in
that bed, dead, my eyes closed, cold, inanimate,
vanished."
He turned back towards the bed, and distinctly saw
himself lying on his back in the very sheets he had just
left. He had the hollow face of a corpse, his hands had
the slackness of hands that will never make another
movement.
At that he was afraid of his bed, and, to get rid of the
sight of it, 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 went to the bell to wake his valet;
but he stopped, even as he raised his 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 a nervous tremor, whenever they touched anything.
His brain whirled, his troubled thoughts became elusive,
transitory, and gloomy; his mind suffered all the effects
of intoxication, as though he were actually 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 up and, going to the window, drew back the
curtains.
Dawn was at hand, a summer dawn. The rosy sky
touched the town, its roofs and walls, with its own hue.
A broad descending ray, like the caress of the rising sun,
enveloped the awakened world; and with the light, hope--
a gay, swift, fierce hope--filled the Viscount's heart! Was
he mad, that he had allowed himself to be struck down
by fear, before anything was settled even, before his
seconds had seen those of this Georges Lamil, before he
knew whether he was going to fight?
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 not afraid."
His seconds, the Marquis and the Colonel, placed
themselves at his disposal, 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 of satisfaction. "You shoot well, you have every
chance."
They departed. The Viscount went home to wait for
them. His agitation, 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 of
saliva in his mouth, and at every instant he made a
violent movement of his tongue, as though to prevent it
sticking to his palate.
He was eager to have breakfast, but could not eat. Then
the idea came to him to drink in order to give himself
courage, and he sent for a decanter of rum, of which he
swallowed six liqueur glasses full one after the other.
A burning warmth flooded through his body, followed
immediately by a 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 his state of agitation had once more become
intolerable. He was conscious 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
not strength to rise and welcome his seconds.
He did not even dare to speak to them, to say "Good
evening" to them, to utter a single word, for fear they
guessed the whole thing by the alteration in his voice.
"Everything is arranged in accordance with the
conditions you fixed," observed the Colonel. "At first
your adversary claimed the privileges 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 and leave 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 a serious wound is inflicted,
and you know that pistol bullets are no laughing-matter.
We must appoint the ground, near a house to which we
may carry the wounded man if necessary, etc. In fact,
we shall be occupied for two or three hours arranging all
that there is to arrange."
"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 he was going mad. His servant had lit the
lamps, and he sat down at the table to write letters.
After tracing, at the head of a sheet: "This is my will," he
rose shivering and walked away, feeling incapable of
connecting two ideas, of taking a resolution, of making
any decision whatever.
So he was going to fight! He could no longer avoid it.
Then what was the matter with him? He wished to fight,
he had absolutely decided upon this plan of action and
taken his resolve, and he now felt clearly, in spite of
every effort of mind and forcing of will, that he could not
retain even the strength necessary to get him to the
place of meeting. He tried to picture the duel, his own
attitude and the bearing of his adversary.
From time to time his teeth chattered in his mouth with a
slight clicking noise. He tried to read, and took down
Chateauvillard's code of duelling. Then he wondered:
"Does my adversary go to shooting-galleries? Is he well
known? Is he classified anywhere? How can I find out?"
He bethought himself of Baron Vaux's book on
marksmen with the pistol, and ran through it from end
to end. Georges Lamil was not mentioned in it. Yet if the
man were not a good shot, he would surely not have
promptly agreed to that dangerous weapon and those
fatal conditions?
He opened, in passing, a case by Gastinne Renette
standing on a small table, and took out one of the
pistols, then placed himself as though to shoot and
raised his arm. But he was trembling from head 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 hole that spits death; he thought of the disgrace,
of the whispers at the club, of the laughter in drawing-
rooms, of the contempt of women, of the allusions in
the papers, of the insults which cowards would fling at
him.
He was still looking at the weapon, and, raising the
hammer, caught a glimpse of a cap gleaming beneath it
like a tiny red flame. By good fortune or forgetfulness,
the pistol had been left loaded. At the knowledge, he
was filled with a confused inexplicable sense of joy.
If, when face to face with the other man, he did not
show a proper gallantry and calm, he would be lost for
ever. He would be sullied, branded with a mark of
infamy, hounded out of society. And he would not be
able to achieve that calm, that swaggering poise; he
knew it, he felt it. Yet he was brave, since he wanted to
fight I ... He was brave, since....
The thought which hovered in him did not even fulfil
itself in his mind; but, opening his mouth wide, he thrust
in the barrel of his pistol with savage gesture until it
reached his throat, and pressed on the trigger.
When his valet ran in, at the sound of the report, he
found him lying dead upon his back. A shower of blood
had splashed the white paper on the table, and made a
great red mark beneath these four words:
"This is my will."