wn or might fly away. Then they measured off
a certain number of paces, and with great difficulty stuck two walking
sticks into the frozen ground. They then reassembled in a group and went
through the action of tossing, like children playing heads or tails.

Doctor Le Brument said to Duroy: "Do you feel all right? Do you want
anything?"

"No, nothing, thanks."

It seemed to him that he was mad, that he was asleep, that he was
dreaming, that supernatural influences enveloped him. Was he afraid?
Perhaps. But he did not know. Everything about him had altered.

Jacques Rival returned, and announced in low tones of satisfaction: "It
is all ready. Luck has favored us as regards the pistols."

That, so far as Duroy was concerned, was a matter of profound
indifference.

They took off his overcoat, which he let them do mechanically. They felt
the breast-pocket of his frock-coat to make certain that he had no
pocketbook or papers likely to deaden a ball. He kept repeating to
himself like a prayer: "When the word is given to fire, I must raise my
arm."

They led him up to one of the sticks stuck in the ground and handed him
his pistol. Then he saw a man standing just in front of him--a short,
stout, bald-headed man, wearing spectacles. It was his adversary. He saw
him very plainly, but he could only think: "When the word to fire is
given, I must raise my arm and fire at once."

A voice rang out in the deep silence, a voice that seemed to come from a
great distance, saying: "Are you ready, gentlemen?"

George exclaimed "Yes."

The same voice gave the word "Fire!"

He heard nothing more, he saw nothing more, he took note of nothing
more, he only knew that he raised his arm, pressing strongly on the
trigger. And he heard nothing. But he saw all at once a little smoke at
the end of his pistol barrel, and as the man in front of him still stood
in the same position, he perceived, too, a little cloud of smoke
drifting off over his head.

They had both fired. It was over.

His seconds and the doctor touched him, felt him and unbuttoned his
clothes, asking, anxiously: "Are you hit?"

He replied at haphazard: "No, I do not think so."

Langremont, too, was as unhurt as his enemy, and Jacques Rival murmured
in a discontented tone: "It is always so with those damned pistols; you
either miss or kill. What a filthy weapon."

Duroy did not move, paralyzed by surprise and joy. It was over. They had
to take away his weapon, whi