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Updated: May 5, 2025
Duroy thought the matter had terminated with a letter of apology; his heart gave a bound and he stammered: "Ah thank you!" Rival continued: "M. Langremont has accepted every condition. Twenty-five paces, fire when the pistol is leveled and the order given." Then he added: "Now let us lunch; it is past twelve o'clock." They repaired to a neighboring restaurant. Duroy was silent.
One thought alone filled his mind and that was: a duel to-morrow! He sat down and began to meditate. He had thrown upon his table his adversary's card brought him by Rival. He read it for the twentieth time that day: "Louis LANGREMONT, 176 Rue Montmartre." Nothing more! Who was the man? How old was he? How tall? How did he look?
His second and the doctor felt him, unbuttoned his garments, and asked anxiously: "Are you wounded?" He replied: "No, I think not." Langremont was not wounded either, and Jacques Rival muttered discontentedly: "That is always the way with those cursed pistols, one either misses or kills one's opponent." Duroy was paralyzed with surprise and joy. All was over!
In doing so, he lies. He owns, however, that a woman named Aubert exists, and that she was taken before a magistrate by an agent. Two words only remain to be added to the word 'agent, which are 'of morals' and all is told. But the consciences of certain journalists are on a par with their talents." "I sign myself, Louis Langremont."
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