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.”