Saint-Potin happened to come in just then. Duroy rushed over to him: ‘You’ve read the bit in La Plume?’
‘Yes, and I’ve just come from seeing the Aubert woman. She does indeed exist, but she wasn’t arrested. That rumour has no foundation.’
Duroy then hurried to the boss, who was rather chilly, and eyed him suspiciously. After listening to Duroy’s story, M. Walter replied: ‘Go and see this woman yourself, and word your denial in such a way that they won’t write about you like that again. I’m talking about the end part. It’s extremely annoying for the paper, for me, and for you. Like Caesar’s wife, a journalist must be above suspicion.’
Duroy, with Saint-Potin as guide, got into a cab and shouted to the driver: ‘18 rue de l’Écureuil, in Montmartre.’
It was an enormous house with six floors, which they had to climb up. An old woman wearing a loose wool jacket opened the door to them: ‘What do you want now?’ she asked, on seeing Saint-Potin.
He replied: ‘I’ve brought this gentleman to see you, he’s a police inspector and would like to hear your story.’
So she invited them in, saying: ‘Two more come after you, for some paper–I don’t know which.’ Then, turning to Duroy: ‘So, you was wanting to know about it?’
‘Yes. Were you arrested by an officer of the vice squad?’
She raised up her arms: ‘Never in me born days, Monsieur, never in me born days. Here’s what happened. I’ve a butcher that serves good stuff but weighs short. I’ve often noticed without saying nothing, but t’other day when I was asking for two pounds of cutlets, ’cos me daughter and son-in-law’s coming, I see that he’s weighing in scrap bones with them, they was cutlet bones it’s true, but not from my cutlets. I could have made ’em into a stew, that’s true as well, but when I ask for cutlets it’s not to be given other people’s scraps. So I refused to take ’em, an’ he called me a stingy old thing, an’ I call him an old rogue; in a word, one thing leads to another, we had such an argy-bargy that there was more’n a hundred people round the shop laughing fit to bust! In the end a policeman noticed and asked us to go round an’ explain to the superintendent. We went, an’ they sent us home without saying nothing ‘bout who was right. Now I’m getting me meat from another butcher, an’ I don’t even pass his door, so as not to make a scene.’
She stopped talking. Duroy asked: ‘That’s all?’ ‘It’s the whole truth, Monsieur’–and, having offered him a glass of cassis which he refused, the old woman insisted that he mention in his report that the butcher gave short weight.
Back at the newspaper, Duroy composed his reply:
‘An anonymous scribbler for La Plume, who bears me a grudge, is picking a quarrel with me over an old woman who, he claims, was arrested by the vice squad, which I deny. I have myself seen Mme Aubert, who is at least sixty years of age, and she has described to me in great detail her quarrel with a butcher over the weighing of some cutlets, which necessitated sorting out the matter with the police-superintendent.
‘That is the whole truth.
‘As for the other insinuations of the writer for La Plume, I consider them beneath contempt. Besides, one does not answer such things when they are anonymous.
‘Georges Duroy.’
M. Walter and Jacques Rival, who had just come in, thought this note sufficient, and it was decided that it would be printed that very day, at the foot of the gossip column.
Duroy went home early, rather worried and uneasy. How would the other man reply? Who was he? What was behind this brutal attack? In view of the blunt ways of journalists, this idiotic affair could go far, very far. He slept badly.
On rereading his note in the paper the next day, he found it looked more aggressive in print than in handwriting. He felt he could have toned down some of the expressions.
He passed the day in restless agitation, and that night slept badly again. He rose with the dawn, to buy the issue of La Plume which should respond to his reply.
The weather had grown cold again; there was a hard frost. The gutters, frozen while water still flowed in them, edged the pavements with two ribbons of ice.
The papers had not arrived at the news-stands and Duroy remembered the day of his first article: ‘Recollections of an African Cavalryman’. His hands and his feet were growing numb and painful, especially his fingertips; and he began running round the glass kiosk, where, through the little window, all you could see of the newspaper-vendor huddled over her foot-warmer was a red nose and cheeks beneath a woollen hood.
Finally the boy with the newspapers handed the expected bundle through the opening in the window, and the woman passed La Plume, already spread open, to Duroy. He glanced over it rapidly, searching for his name, and at first saw nothing. He was already breathing again when he noticed it, set off by two dashes.
‘Monsieur Duroy, of La Vie française, flatly contradicts us and, in so doing, is himself lying. He does, however, admit that a woman named Aubert exists, and that an officer took her to the police station. All that is missing is the addition of the four words: “of the vice squad” after the word “officer” and the matter is settled.
‘But the conscience of certain journalists is of the same calibre as their talent.
‘And I sign my name:
‘Louis Langremont.’
Georges’s heart began to beat violently, and he returned home to dress without really knowing what he was doing. So he had been insulted, and in such a fashion that there could be no doubt about it. Why? Over nothing. Over an old woman who had quarrelled with her butcher.
He dressed very fast and went to see M. Walter, although it was barely eight in the morning. M. Walter, already up, was reading La Plume. ‘Well,’ he said, on seeing Duroy, ‘you can’t back out now, can you?’
The young man made no reply. The Director went on: ‘Go straight away and find Rival; he’ll see to things for you.’
Duroy stammered a few vague words and left for the home of the journalist, who was still asleep. He jumped out of bed at the sound of the bell, and, after reading the item: ‘Lord, you’ll have to do it. Who might be the other second?’
‘Really, I’ve no idea.’
‘Boisrenard? What d’you think?’
‘Yes, Boisrenard.’
‘Are you good at fencing?’
‘No, not at all.’
‘Hell! And with a pistol?’
‘I shoot a bit.’
‘Good. You must go and practise while I take care of everything. Wait for me for a few minutes.’
He went into his dressing-room and soon reappeared, washed, shaved, and meticulously dressed.
‘Come with me,’ he said.
He lived on the ground floor of a small town house, and he took Duroy down into the cellar, an enormous cellar which, by walling up all the openings onto the street, had been converted into an area for fencing and shooting.
After lighting a row of gas lights that stretched to the far end of a second cellar, where there stood an iron figure of a man, painted in red and blue, he put on a table two pairs of pistols–of a modern, breech-loading style–and began barking out orders as if the duel were actually taking place.
‘Ready?’
‘Fire! One, two, three.’
Quite overwhelmed, Duroy obeyed, raising his arm, aiming, firing, and as he frequently hit the figure right in the belly–for in his early youth he had often used an old horse pistol of his father’s to kill birds in their courtyard–Jacques Rival declared in a satisfied voice: ‘Good, very good… very good… you’ll do, you’ll do.’
Then he left him. ‘Go on shooting like this until noon. Here’s some ammunition, don’t worry about using it all. I’ll come and fetch you for lunch, and tell you what’s happening.’ Then he went away.
Left alone, Duroy tried a few more shots, then sat down and began to think. Really, how stupid these things were! What did they prove? Was a rogue any less of a rogue after fighting a duel? What had an honest man who’d been insulted to gain
by risking his life against a scoundrel? And, his thoughts wandering gloomily on, he remembered what Norbert de Varenne had said about the barrenness of men’s minds, the banality of their ideas and their concerns, the inanity of their moral principles!
And he declared out loud: ‘My God, how right he is!’
He was feeling thirsty, and, hearing the sound of water dripping behind him, he saw there was a shower. He went and drank directly from the shower-head. Then he continued to think. It was depressing in this cellar, as depressing as the tomb. The far-off, muted rumbling of carriages was like the rumbling of a distant storm. What might be the time?
In that place the hours were passing the way they must pass deep inside a prison, without anything to indicate or mark them, except for the arrival of the gaoler bringing plates of food. He waited, for a long, long time.
Then, suddenly, he heard steps, and voices, and Jacques Rival reappeared, accompanied by Boisrenard. As soon as he caught sight of Duroy he cried: ‘It’s all arranged!’
Duroy imagined the affair had been settled by some letter of apology; his heart gave a leap, and he stammered: ‘Ah! Thank you.’ The journalist replied: ‘This Langremont is very straightforward, he accepted all our conditions. Twenty-five paces, one shot, bringing the pistol up at the command. That way, your arm is much steadier than if you’re lowering it. Look, Boisrenard, this is what I’ve been telling you.’
Picking up a pistol, he began to shoot, demonstrating how you could keep your aim much straighter by bringing your arm up.
Then he said: ‘Come on, let’s have lunch, it’s gone twelve.’
They went into a nearby restaurant. Duroy hardly spoke at all. He ate, so as not to seem afraid, then in the afternoon went to the newspaper with Boisrenard and did his work in an abstracted, mechanical way. People thought him brave.
Towards mid-afternoon Jacques Rival came in and shook his hand; it was agreed that his seconds would fetch him in a landau at seven the following morning, to go to the Bois du Vésinet,* where the duel was to take place. All this had happened so suddenly, without his playing any part in it, or saying a word, or giving his opinion, without his accepting or refusing, and so fast, that he was left dazed and bewildered, not really understanding what was going on.
He found himself back home about nine o’clock, after dining with Boisrenard, who, as a loyal friend, had stayed with him the entire day.
Once he was alone, he strode rapidly up and down his room for a few minutes. He was too upset to think about anything. A single idea filled his mind–tomorrow he would fight a duel–without this thought evoking in him anything other than a confused but powerful emotion. He had been a soldier, he had shot at Arabs, though without incurring much danger to himself, certainly, rather like shooting a wild boar on a hunt.
In a word, he had done what he ought to do. He had demonstrated that he was what he ought to be. People would talk about it, they would praise him, they would congratulate him. Then, speaking out loud, as people do when in the grip of an overpowering idea, he declared: ‘What a swine that man is!’
Sitting down, he began to reflect. He had tossed onto his small table a card of his adversary’s that Rival had given him, so he would have the address. He reread it, as he had done twenty times in the course of the day. Louis Langremont, 176 rue Montmartre. Nothing else.
He examined this collection of letters which to him seemed mysterious, full of menace. ‘Louis Langremont’; who was this man? How old was he? How tall? With what sort of face? Was it not disgusting that a stranger, someone you didn’t know, should disrupt your life like this, for no reason, on a pure impulse, because of an old woman who had quarrelled with her butcher?
Again he repeated, aloud, ‘What a swine!’
He sat there without moving, thinking, his gaze still fixed on the card. Anger was stirring in him, an anger full of hatred into which was blended a strange feeling of unease. This business was so stupid! He picked up a pair of nail scissors that lay there and dug them into the middle of the printed name, as if he were stabbing someone.
So he was going to fight, and fight with pistols? Why hadn’t he chosen swords? He would have got off with a jab in the arm or the hand, whereas with a pistol one never knew what might be the result.
He said: ‘Come on, be a man.’
The sound of his voice made him jump, and he looked all around. He was beginning to feel extremely nervous. He drank a glass of water, then went to bed.
As soon as he was in his bed, he blew out the light and closed his eyes.
He felt very warm under the bedding, although it was very cold in his room, but he could not fall asleep. He turned over and over, lay for five minutes on his back, then tried his left side, then rolled over onto the right.
He was thirsty again. He got out of bed for a drink, and was struck by a nasty thought: ‘Might I be afraid?’
Why did his heart begin pounding madly at every familiar sound in his room? When his cuckoo clock was about to strike, the little creak of the spring made him start, and for a few seconds he had to open his mouth in order to breathe, he felt so overcome.
He began to consider, as a philosopher might, the question: ‘Might I be afraid?’
No, certainly, he would not be afraid, since he was determined to carry the thing through to the end, since he was firmly resolved to fight, and not to vacillate. But he felt so profoundly agitated that he wondered: ‘Can you be afraid in spite of yourself?’ And he was overwhelmed by doubt, by dread, by terror. If he was overpowered by a force stronger than his will, a force which dominated him, was irresistible, what would happen? Yes, indeed, what might happen!
To be sure, he would appear for the duel since that was what he wanted to do. But what if he trembled with fear? What if he lost consciousness? And he thought about his position, his reputation, his future.
And suddenly he was seized by a strange compulsion to get up and look at himself in the mirror. He relit the candle. When he saw his face reflected in the polished glass, he hardly recognized himself; he felt as if he had never seen himself before. His eyes looked enormous; and he was pale, yes, certainly, he was pale, extremely pale.
An unexpected thought entered his head with the speed of a bullet: ‘Tomorrow at this time I may be dead.’ And once again his heart began pounding furiously.
He turned towards his bed, and clearly saw himself stretched out on his back, in these same sheets he had just left. He had the sunken face of a corpse, and those white hands that will never move again.
So then he felt afraid of his bed, and in order not to see it any longer he opened his window and looked out.
A blast of frigid air lacerated his flesh from head to foot, and he recoiled, gasping.
He thought of lighting a fire. Slowly, never turning round, he got it to burn. His hands shook with a slight nervous tremor whenever they touched anything. He felt he was losing his mind, and his whirling, disjointed, fleeting thoughts were making his head ache; a kind of intoxication was permeating his spirit, as if he had been drinking.
And all the time he kept wondering: ‘What am I going to do? What will become of me?’ He began again to walk about, repeating constantly and mechanically: ‘I must be strong, very strong…’ Then he said to himself: ‘I’ll write to my parents, in case something happens.’
He sat down again, took some writing-paper, and wrote: ‘My dear Papa, my dear Mama…’ Then he thought these terms too familiar to use in such tragic circumstances. He tore up the first sheet and began again: ‘My dear Father, my dear Mother; I am going to fight a duel at dawn, and since it may happen that…’ He could not bring himself to write the rest, and leapt to his feet.
The idea of fighting a duel was now like a dead weight pressing heavily upon him. He could no longer avoid going through with it. So what was happening to him? He wanted to fight; his intention, his determination were quite unshakeable; and it seemed to him, in spite of all the force of his will, that he would not even have the strength n
eeded to get to the place where they were to meet.
From time to time, in his mouth, his teeth would begin chattering, making a tiny sharp clicking sound, and he wondered: ‘Has my adversary ever fought a duel? Has he done much target shooting? Has he a reputation? Has he been ranked?’ He had never heard the name mentioned. And yet, if this man were not an exceptional shot, he would surely never have agreed, without hesitation or discussion, to this dangerous weapon.
Then Duroy began visualizing their encounter, his own demeanour, and how his enemy might behave. He racked his brains imagining the smallest details of the duel, and quite suddenly he found himself staring straight into that tiny, deep, black hole in the barrel, from which a bullet would emerge.
And without warning, he was overwhelmed by a terrible wave of despair. His entire body shook, convulsive shudders running through it. He clenched his teeth so as not to cry out, feeling a fierce urge to roll on the ground, to tear something, to bite. But then, catching sight of a glass on his mantelpiece, he recalled that he had in his cupboard almost a full litre of brandy, for he had kept up the military habit of taking ‘a hair of the dog’ each morning.
He grabbed the bottle and drank from it directly, in long greedy gulps. He did not put it down until he ran out of breath. The bottle was a third empty.
A flame-like warmth was soon burning his stomach, spreading through his limbs, bolstering his spirits and making him dizzy. He told himself: ‘That’s the answer.’ And since his skin, now, was burning hot, he reopened the window.
Day was breaking, calm and icy-cold. Up above, in the depths of the lightened sky, the stars seemed to be dying, and in the deep cutting of the railway the green, red, and white signals were growing paler. The first locomotives emerged from the sidings, whistling as they came in search of the first trains. Others, far away, gave shrill, repeated cries, their cries of awakening, like cockerels out in the countryside.
Duroy thought: ‘Perhaps I won’t ever see this again.’ But, sensing that he was starting to feel sorry for himself once more, he reacted forcefully: ‘Come on, you musn’t think of anything before the moment of the duel, it’s the only way to keep your courage up.’