But within an hour he had emptied the carafe and was feeling even more nervous. He felt desperately like rolling on the floor, yelling and biting into something. The evening shadows began to gather. A ring of his bell gave him such a fright that he was unable to rise and greet his seconds. He no longer dared speak to them, say good evening or utter a single word for fear that his voice would give everything away.

The colonel announced: ‘Everything has been arranged according to your wishes. At first your opponent claimed the privileges of injured party but almost immediately he agreed to all your conditions. His seconds are two officers.’

‘Thank you,’ said the Vicomte.

The Marquis continued: ‘Don’t mind if we just come and go. We have hundreds of things to attend to. We need a good doctor since the duel will continue to the point of serious injury and as you know bullets don’t mess about. We have to decide on a place near a house where the injured man may be carried if necessary, and so on and so forth. Anyway we shall be busy for the next two to three hours.’

A second time the Vicomte said: ‘Thanks.’

‘Are you all right?’ the colonel inquired. ‘Feeling quite calm, are you?’

‘Yes, perfectly, thank you.’

The two men took their leave.

Left alone once more, the Vicomte nearly went mad. After his manservant had lit the lamps he sat down at his table to write some letters. Having written at the top of one page: ‘This is my last will and …’, he rose brusquely and walked away, incapable of putting two thoughts together. He could think about nothing, decide on nothing. So! He was going to fight a duel! There was no avoiding that now. What was happening to him then? He wanted to fight, he had that resolve, that determination. And yet he knew all too well that, despite his best efforts and all the will-power he could muster, he no longer had the strength even to go to the rendezvous. He tried to visualize the combat, to envisage how he and his opponent would behave. From time to time his teeth chattered, making a dry little clacking sound in his mouth. He tried to read, and picked up Châteauvaillard’s duelling code.3 He wondered: ‘Does my opponent practise? Is he a recognized shot? How is he rated?’

How could he find out? He remembered the Baron de Vaux’s book of marksmen4 and read it from cover to cover. Georges Lamil was not listed. But if the man was not a good shot he would never have agreed immediately to such dangerous weapons and these deadly conditions. Passing a table on which lay a case marked Gastine-Renette,5 he took out one of the pistols, assumed a firing stance and raised his arm. He was shaking so much the gun pointed all over the place.