ord 'agent,' and he is right. But the
conscience of certain journalists is on a level with their
talent. And I sign,

"LOUIS LANGREMONT."

George's heart began to beat violently, and he went home to dress
without being too well aware of what he was doing. So he had been
insulted, and in such a way that no hesitation was possible. And why?
For nothing at all. On account of an old woman who had quarreled with
her butcher.

He dressed quickly and went to see Monsieur Walter, although it was
barely eight o'clock. Monsieur Walter, already up, was reading the
_Plume_. "Well," said he, with a grave face, on seeing Duroy, "you
cannot draw back now." The young fellow did not answer, and the other
went on: "Go at once and see Rival, who will act for you."

Duroy stammered a few vague words, and went out in quest of the
descriptive writer, who was still asleep. He jumped out of bed, and,
having read the paragraph, said: "By Jove, you must go out. Whom do you
think of for the other second?"

"I really don't know."

"Boisrenard? What do you think?"

"Yes. Boisrenard."

"Are you a good swordsman?"

"Not at all."

"The devil! And with the pistol?"

"I can shoot a little."

"Good. You shall practice while I look after everything else. Wait for
me a moment."

He went into his dressing-room, and soon reappeared washed, shaved,
correct-looking.

"Come with me," said he.

He lived on the ground floor of a small house, and he led Duroy to the
cellar, an enormous cellar, converted into a fencing-room and shooting
gallery, all the openings on the street being closed. After having lit a
row of gas jets running the whole length of a second cellar, at the
end of which was an iron man painted red and blue; he placed on a
table two pairs of breech-loading pistols, and began to give the word
of command in a sharp tone, as though on the ground: "Ready?
Fire--one--two--three."

Duroy, dumbfounded, obeyed, raising his arm, aiming and firing, and as
he often hit the mark fair on the body, having frequently made use of an
old horse pistol of his father's when a boy, against the birds, Jacques
Rival, well satisfied, exclaimed: "Good--very good--very good--you will
do--you will do."

Then he left George, saying: "Go on shooting till noon; here is plenty
of ammunition, don't be afraid to use it. I will come back to take you
to lunch and tell you how things are going."

Left to himself, Duroy fired a few more shots,