He said to himself: ‘It’s impossible. I can’t fight a duel like this.’

He looked down the barrel of the gun into the little black hole which spits out death. He thought of the disgrace. He thought of what people would whisper about him. He thought of the sniggers in the salons and of the women’s contempt. He thought about what the papers would say and all the insults cowards would be able to cast at him. He was still looking into the weapon and raising the safety catch when he noticed a little primer inside glowing like a small red flame. By chance, someone had forgotten to unload the pistol. This gave him a vague, inexplicable pleasure. If he failed to behave with calm dignity in confronting his opponent he was finished forever. He would be tainted, shamed and rejected. And he knew now that he would be unable to muster what was necessary. He felt it in his bones. Yet he was brave since he did want to fight! He was brave, since … The thought which began at that moment to enter his mind remained incomplete. Instead, opening his mouth wide and ramming the barrel of the gun into the back of his throat, he pulled the trigger.

When his manservant, hearing the shot, reached him, he was lying on his back, dead. Blood had spurted on to the white paper on the table, making a large red stain under the words: ‘This is my last will and …’

ROSE

The two young women are practically buried beneath a layer of blossom. They have all to themselves a huge landau1 filled to the brim with bouquets and looking like a gigantic flower basket. On the front seat are two wickerwork panniers lined with white satin and full of Nice violets. On the bearskin rug covering their knees, a huge pile of roses, mimosa, stocks, marguerites, tuberoses and orange-blossom all tied with silken favours appears to crush the two delicate figures, so that from this dazzling, perfumed bed, only the shoulders and a glimpse of two bodices, one blue and one lilac, are seen to emerge.

The handle of the coachman’s whip is trimmed with anemones, the horses’ harnesses festooned with gillyflowers and the wheel-spokes with mignonette. Instead of lanterns, two enormous round bouquets stare out like a strange pair of eyes on this lumbering beast created entirely of blooms.

At a brisk trot, the landau skims along the procession route, the rue d’Antibes, preceded and followed by an accompanying flotilla of similarly garlanded floats carrying women submerged beneath seas of violets. It is the festival of flowers at Cannes.2