So instead of ringing he lit a fire, his hands trembling every time they touched anything. His head spun and his thoughts became fleeting, sudden and painful. A kind of intoxication overwhelmed him and he felt as if he had been drinking.

‘What shall I do? What is to become of me?’ he kept wondering. His entire body was convulsed with shakes. He rose, went to the window and opened the curtains.

Dawn was breaking on a summer’s day. The pink sky cast a rosy tinge over the roofs and walls of the city. A great sweep of warm light, like a caress from the rising sun, enveloped the waking world. With it a sudden, bright, cheerful ray of hope lit up the Vicomte’s heart. Was he mad to let himself be paralysed with terror before a single thing had been decided, before his seconds had even paid a call on this Georges Lamil, and before he knew that a duel was even going to take place?

He washed, dressed and strode purposefully out. As he walked he said to himself: ‘I must keep active, very active. Have to show I’m not frightened.’

His seconds, the Marquis and the colonel, put themselves at his disposal and, after shaking hands vigorously with him, discussed conditions. The colonel asked: ‘Do you want this to be a proper, serious duel?’

‘Very serious,’ the Vicomte replied.

‘You insist on pistols?’ the Marquis went on.

‘Yes.’

‘Do we have your permission to see to everything else?’

The Vicomte in a terse, clipped tone replied: ‘Twenty paces. At the command. The weapon to be raised not lowered. Exchange of fire to the point of serious injury.’

‘Excellent conditions,’ replied the colonel, sounding satisfied. ‘You’re a good shot. Everything looks good, I’d say.’

They duly left. The Vicomte returned to his place to wait for them there. His agitation, momentarily calmed, now returned with a vengeance as the minutes ticked by. In all his limbs, in his arms and his legs, in his chest and all over his body, he felt a constant shaking and trembling. He could not remain in one position for long, either sitting or standing. There was not a trace of saliva in his mouth and he kept making a dry sound with his tongue, which stuck constantly to his palate.

He would have liked some lunch but could not manage to eat. It occurred to him that a drink might give him some courage. He ordered a small carafe of rum to be brought in to him and drank six small glasses of it in swift succession. A warm, burning glow spread through him and soon afterwards his thoughts became slightly muddled.

‘That’s the answer. Now I shall be all right,’ he said to himself.