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.”