By Guy De Maupassant
In society he was called “Handsome Signoles.” His namewas Vicomte Gontran-Joseph de Signoles.
An orphan， and possessed of an ample fortune， he cut quitea dash， as it is called. He had an attractive appearance andmanner， could talk well， had a certain inborn elegance， an airof pride and nobility， a good mustache， and a tender eye， thatalways finds favor with women.
He was in great request at receptions， waltzed to perfection，and was regarded by his own sex with that smiling hostilityaccorded to the popular society man. He had been suspectedof more than one love affair， calculated to enhance thereputation of a bachelor. He lived a happy， peaceful life—a lifeof physical and mental well-being. He had won considerablefame as a swordsman， and still more as a marksman.
“When the time comes for me to fight a duel，” he said， “Ishall choose pistols. With such a weapon I am sure to kill myman.”
One evening， having accompanied two women friends ofhis with their husbands to the theatre， he invited them to takesome ice cream at TortonI’s after the performance. They hadbeen seated a few minutes in the restaurant when Signolesnoticed that a man was staring persistently at one of the ladies.
She seemed annoyed， and lowered her eyes. At last she said toher 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 theoffender， 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 tobother our heads about all the ill-mannered people we shouldhave no time for anything else.”
But the vicomte abruptly left his seat. He could not allowthis insolent fellow to spoil an ice for a guest of his. It was forhim to take cognizance of the offence， since it was throughhim that his friends had come to the restaurant. He went acrossto the man and said：
“Sir， you are staring at those ladies in a manner I cannotpermit. 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 youwill force me to extreme measures.”
The man replied with a single word—a foul word， whichcould be heard from one end of the restaurant to the other， andwhich startled every one there. All those whose backs weretoward the two disputants turned round； all the others raisedtheir heads； three waiters spun round on their heels like tops；the two lady cashiers jumped， as if shot， then turned theirbodies simultaneously， like two automata worked by the samespring.
There was dead silence. Then suddenly a sharp， crisp sound.
The vicomte had slapped his adversary’s face. Every one roseto interfere. Cards were exchanged.
When the vicomte reached home he walked rapidly up anddown his room for some minutes. He was in a state of too greatagitation to think connectedly. One idea alone possessed him：
a duel. But this idea aroused in him as yet no emotion of anykind. He had done what he was bound to do； he had provedhimself to be what he ought to be. He would be talked about，approved， congratulated. He repeated aloud， speaking as onedoes when under the stress of great mental disturbance：
“What a brute of a man！” Then he sat down， and began toreflect. He would have to find seconds as soon as morningcame. Whom should he choose？ He bethought himself of themost influential and best-known men of his acquaintance.
His choice fell at last on the Marquis de la Tour-Noire andColonel Bourdin-a nobleman and a soldier. That would be justthe thing. Their names would carry weight in the newspapers.
He was thirsty， and drank three glasses of water， one afteranother； then he walked up and down again. If he showedhimself brave， determined， prepared to face a duel in deadlyearnest， his adversary would probably draw back and profferexcuses. He picked up the card he had taken from his pocketand thrown on a table. He read it again， as he had already readit， first at a glance in the restaurant， and afterward on the wayhome in the light of each gas lamp： “Georges Lamil， 51 RueMoncey.” That was all.
He examined closely this collection of letters， which seemedto him mysterious， fraught with many meanings. GeorgesLamil！ Who was the man？ What was his profession？ Whyhad he stared so at the woman？ Was it not monstrous thata stranger， an unknown， should thus all at once upset one’swhole life， simply because it had pleased him to stare rudely ata woman？ And the vicomte once more repeated aloud：
“What a brute！”
Then he stood motionless， thinking， his eyes still fixed onthe card. Anger rose in his heart against this scrap of paper—aresentful anger， mingled with a strange sense of uneasiness. Itwas a stupid business altogether！ He took up a penknife whichlay open within reach， and deliberately stuck it into the middleof the printed name， as if he were stabbing some one.
So he would have to fight！ Should he choose swords orpistols？—for he considered himself as the insulted party. Withthe sword he would risk less， but with the pistol there wassome chance of his adversary backing out. A duel with swordsis rarely fatal， since mutual prudence prevents the combatantsfrom fighting close enough to each other for a point to entervery deep. With pistols he would seriously risk his life； but，on the other hand， he might come out of the affair with flyingcolors， 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 lookednervously round the room. He felt unstrung. He drank anotherglass of water， and then began undressing， preparatory to goingto bed.
As soon as he was in bed he blew out the light and shut hiseyes.
“I have all day tomorrow，” he reflected， “for setting myaffairs in order. I must sleep now， in order to be calm when thetime comes.”