A Coward
In society he was called "Handsome Signoles." His name was Vicomte
Gontran-Joseph de Signoles.
An orphan, and possessed of an ample fortune, he cut quite a dash, as it
is called. He had an attractive appearance and manner, could talk well,
had a certain inborn elegance, an air of pride and nobility, a good
mustache, and a tender eye, that always finds favor with women.
He was in great request at receptions, waltzed to perfection, and was
regarded by his own sex with that smiling hostility accorded to the
popular society man. He had been suspected of more than one love affair,
calculated to enhance the reputation of a bachelor. He lived a happy,
peaceful life--a life of physical and mental well-being. He had won
considerable fame as a swordsman, and still more as a marksman.
"When the time comes for me to fight a duel," he said, "I shall choose
pistols. With such a weapon I am sure to kill my man."
One evening, having accompanied two women friends of his with their
husbands to the theatre, he invited them to take some ice cream at
Tortoni's after the performance. They had been seated a few minutes in
the restaurant when Signoles noticed that a man was staring persistently
at one of the ladies. She seemed annoyed, and lowered her eyes. At last
she said to her husband:
"There's a man over there looking at me. I don't know him; do you?"
The husband, who had noticed nothing, glanced across at the offender, and
said:
"No; not in the least."
His wife continued, half smiling, half angry:
"It's very tiresome! He quite spoils my ice cream."
The husband shrugged his shoulders.
"Nonsense! Don't take any notice of him. If we were to bother our heads
about all the ill-mannered people we should have no time for anything
else."
But the vicomte abruptly left his seat. He could not allow this insolent
fellow to spoil an ice for a guest of his. It was for him to take
cognizance of the offence, since it was through him that his friends had
come to the restaurant. He went across to the man and said:
"Sir, you are staring at those ladies in a manner I cannot permit. I
must ask you to desist from your rudeness."
The other replied:
"Let me alone, will you!"
"Take care, sir," said the vicomte between his teeth, "or you will force
me to extreme measures."
The man replied with a single word--a foul word, which could be heard
from one end of the restaurant to the other, and which startled every one
there. All those whose backs were toward the two disputants turned
round; all the others raised their heads; three waiters spun round on
their heels like tops; the two lady cashiers jumped, as if shot, then
turned their bodies simultaneously, like two automata worked by the same
spring.
There was dead silence. Then suddenly a sharp, crisp sound. The vicomte
had slapped his adversary's face. Every one rose to interfere. Cards
were exchanged.
When the vicomte reached home he walked rapidly up and down his room for
some minutes. He was in a state of too great agitation to think
connectedly. One idea alone possessed him: a duel. But this idea
aroused in him as yet no emotion of any kind. He had done what he was
bound to do; he had proved himself to be what he ought to be. He would
be talked about, approved, congratulated. He repeated aloud, speaking as
one does when under the stress of great mental disturbance:
"What a brute of a man!" Then he sat down, and began to reflect. He
would have to find seconds as soon as morning came. Whom should he
choose? He bethought himself of the most influential and best-known men
of his acquaintance. His choice fell at last on the Marquis de la Tour-
Noire and Colonel Bourdin-a nobleman and a soldier. That would be just
the thing. Their names would carry weight in the newspapers. He was
thirsty, and drank three glasses of water, one after another; then he
walked up and down again. If he showed himself brave, deter mined,
prepared to face a duel in deadly earnest, his adversary would probably
draw back and proffer excuses. He picked up the card he had taken from
his pocket and thrown on a table. He read it again, as he had already
read it, first at a glance in the restaurant, and afterward on the way
home in the light of each gas lamp: "Georges Lamil, 51 Rue Moncey." That
was all.
He examined closely this collection of letters, which seemed to him
mysterious, fraught with many meanings. Georges Lamil! Who was the man?
What was his profession? Why had he stared so at the woman? Was it not
monstrous that a stranger, an unknown, should thus all at once upset
one's whole life, simply because it had pleased him to stare rudely at a
woman? And the vicomte once more repeated aloud:
"What a brute!"
Then he stood motionless, thinking, his eyes still fixed on the card.
Anger rose in his heart against this scrap of paper--a resentful anger,
mingled with a strange sense of uneasiness. It was a stupid business
altogether! He took up a penknife which lay open within reach, and
deliberately stuck it into the middle of the printed name, as if he were
stabbing some one.
So he would have to fight! Should he choose swords or pistols?--for he
considered himself as the insulted party. With the sword he would risk
less, but with the pistol there was some chance of his adversary backing
out. A duel with swords is rarely fatal, since mutual prudence prevents
the combatants from fighting close enough to each other for a point to
enter very deep. With pistols he would seriously risk his life; but, on
the other hand, he might come out of the affair with flying colors, and
without a duel, after all.
"I must be firm," he said. "The fellow will be afraid."
The sound of his own voice startled him, and he looked nervously round
the room. He felt unstrung. He drank another glass of water, and then
began undressing, preparatory to going to bed.
As soon as he was in bed he blew out the light and shut his eyes.
"I have all day to-morrow," he reflected, "for setting my affairs in
order. I must sleep now, in order to be calm when the time comes."
He was very warm in bed, but he could not succeed in losing
consciousness. He tossed and turned, remained for five minutes lying on
his back, then changed to his left side, then rolled over to his right.
He was thirsty again, and rose to drink. Then a qualm seized him:
"Can it be possible that I am afraid?"
Why did his heart beat so uncontrollably at every well-known sound in his
room? When the clock was about to strike, the prefatory grating of its
spring made him start, and for several seconds he panted for breath, so
unnerved was he.
He began to reason with himself on the possibility of such a thing:
"Could I by any chance be afraid?"
No, indeed; he could not be afraid, since he was resolved to proceed to
the last extremity, since he was irrevocably determined to fight without
flinching. And yet he was so perturbed in mind and body that he asked
himself:
"Is it possible to be afraid in spite of one's self?"
And this doubt, this fearful question, took possession of him. If an
irresistible power, stronger than his own will, were to quell his
courage, what would happen? He would certainly go to the place
appointed; his will would force him that far. But supposing, when there,
he were to tremble or faint? And he thought of his social standing, his
reputation, his name.
And he suddenly determined to get up and look at himself in the glass.
He lighted his candle. When he saw his face reflected in the mirror he
scarcely recognized it. He seemed to see before him a man whom he did
not know. His eyes looked disproportionately large, and he was very
pale.
He remained standing before the mirror. He put out his tongue, as if to
examine the state of his health, and all at once the thought flashed into
his mind:
"At this time the day after to-morrow I may be dead."
And his heart throbbed painfully.
"At this time the day after to-morrow I may be dead. This person in
front of me, this 'I' whom I see in the glass, will perhaps be no more.
What! Here I am, I look at myself, I feel myself to be alive--and yet in
twenty-four hours I may be lying on that bed, with closed eyes, dead,
cold, inanimate."
He turned round, and could see himself distinctly lying on his back on
the couch he had just quitted. He had the hollow face and the limp hands
of death.
Then he became afraid of his bed, and to avoid seeing it went to his
smoking-room. He mechanically took a cigar, lighted it, and began
walking back and forth. He was cold; he took a step toward the bell, to
wake his valet, but stopped with hand raised toward the bell rope.
"He would see that I am afraid!"
And, instead of ringing, he made a fire himself. His hands quivered
nervously as they touched various objects. His head grew dizzy, his
thoughts confused, disjointed, painful; a numbness seized his spirit, as
if he had been drinking.
And all the time he kept on saying:
"What shall I do? What will become of me?"
His whole body trembled spasmodically; he rose, and, going to the window,
drew back the curtains.
The day--a summer day-was breaking. The pink sky cast a glow on the
city, its roofs, and its walls. A flush of light enveloped the awakened
world, like a caress from the rising sun, and the glimmer of dawn kindled
new hope in the breast of the vicomte. What a fool he was to let himself
succumb to fear before anything was decided--before his seconds had
interviewed those of Georges Lamil, before he even knew whether he would
have to fight or not!
He bathed, dressed, and left the house with a firm step.
He repeated as he went:
"I must be firm--very firm. I must show that I am not afraid."
His seconds, the marquis and the colonel, placed themselves at his
disposal, and, having shaken him warmly by the hand, began to discuss
details.
"You want a serious duel?" asked the colonel.
"Yes--quite serious," replied the vicomte.
"You insist on pistols?" put in the marquis.
"Yes."
"Do you leave all the other arrangements in our hands?"
With a dry, jerky voice the vicomte answered:
"Twenty paces--at a given signal--the arm to be raised, not lowered--
shots to be exchanged until one or other is seriously wounded."
"Excellent conditions," declared the colonel in a satisfied tone. "You
are a good shot; all the chances are in your favor."
And they parted. The vicomte returned home to, wait for them. His
agitation, only temporarily allayed, now increased momentarily. He felt,
in arms, legs and chest, a sort of trembling--a continuous vibration; he
could not stay still, either sitting or standing. His mouth was parched,
and he made every now and then a clicking movement of the tongue, as if
to detach it from his palate.
He attempted, to take luncheon, but could not eat. Then it occurred to
him to seek courage in drink, and he sent for a decanter of rum, of which
he swallowed, one after another, six small glasses.
A burning warmth, followed by a deadening of the mental faculties,
ensued. He said to himself:
"I know how to manage. Now it will be all right!"
But at the end of an hour he had emptied the decanter, and his agitation
was worse than ever. A mad longing possessed him to throw himself on the
ground, to bite, to scream. Night fell.
A ring at the bell so unnerved him that he had not the strength to rise
to receive his seconds.
He dared not even to speak to them, wish them good-day, utter a single
word, lest his changed voice should betray him.
"All is arranged as you wished," said the colonel. "Your adversary
claimed at first the privilege of the offended part; but he yielded
almost at once, and accepted your conditions. His seconds are two
military men."
"Thank you," said the vicomte.
The marquis added:
"Please excuse us if we do not stay now, for we have a good deal to see
to yet. We shall want a reliable doctor, since the duel is not to end
until a serious wound has been inflicted; and you know that bullets are
not to be trifled with. We must select a spot near some house to which
the wounded party can be carried if necessary. In fact, the arrangements
will take us another two or three hours at least."
The vicomte articulated for the second time:
"Thank you."
"You're all right?" asked the colonel. "Quite calm?"
"Perfectly calm, thank you."
The two men withdrew.
When he was once more alone he felt as though he should go mad. His
servant having lighted the lamps, he sat down at his table to write some
letters. When he had traced at the top of a sheet of paper the words:
"This is my last will and testament," he started from his seat, feeling
himself incapable of connected thought, of decision in regard to
anything.
So he was going to fight! He could no longer avoid it. What, then,
possessed him? He wished to fight, he was fully determined to fight, and
yet, in spite of all his mental effort, in spite of the exertion of all
his will power, he felt that he could not even preserve the strength
necessary to carry him through the ordeal. He tried to conjure up a
picture of the duel, his own attitude, and that of his enemy.
Every now and then his teeth chattered audibly. He thought he would
read, and took down Chateauvillard's Rules of Dueling. Then he said:
"Is the other man practiced in the use of the pistol? Is he well known?
How can I find out?"
He remembered Baron de Vaux's book on marksmen, and searched it from end
to end. Georges Lamil was not mentioned. And yet, if he were not an
adept, would he have accepted without demur such a dangerous weapon and
such deadly conditions?
He opened a case of Gastinne Renettes which stood on a small table, and
took from it a pistol. Next he stood in the correct attitude for firing,
and raised his arm. But he was trembling from head to foot, and the
weapon shook in his grasp.
Then he said to himself:
"It is impossible. I cannot fight like this."
He looked at the little black, death-spitting hole at the end of the
pistol; he thought of dishonor, of the whispers at the clubs, the smiles
in his friends' drawing-rooms, the contempt of women, the veiled sneers
of the newspapers, the insults that would be hurled at him by cowards.
He still looked at the weapon, and raising the hammer, saw the glitter of
the priming below it. The pistol had been left loaded by some chance,
some oversight. And the discovery rejoiced him, he knew not why.
If he did not maintain, in presence of his opponent, the steadfast
bearing which was so necessary to his honor, he would be ruined forever.
He would be branded, stigmatized as a coward, hounded out of society!
And he felt, he knew, that he could not maintain that calm, unmoved
demeanor. And yet he was brave, since the thought that followed was not
even rounded to a finish in his mind; but, opening his mouth wide, he
suddenly plunged the barrel of the pistol as far back as his throat, and
pressed the trigger.
When the valet, alarmed at the report, rushed into the room he found his
master lying dead upon his back. A spurt of blood had splashed the white
paper on the table, and had made a great crimson stain beneath the words:
"This is my last will and testament."
-THE END-
Guy De Maupassant's short story: A Coward
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