exchanged.

When the vicomte reached home he walked rapidly up and down his room for
some minutes. He was in a state of too great agitation to think
connectedly. One idea alone possessed him: a duel. But this idea aroused
in him as yet no emotion of any kind. He had done what he was bound to
do; he had proved himself to be what he ought to be. He would be talked
about, approved, congratulated. He repeated aloud, speaking as one does
when under the stress of great mental disturbance:

"What a brute of a man!" Then he sat down, and began to reflect. He would
have to find seconds as soon as morning came. Whom should he choose? He
bethought himself of the most influential and best-known men of his
acquaintance. His choice fell at last on the Marquis de la Tour-Noire and
Colonel Bourdin-a nobleman and a soldier. That would be just the thing.
Their names would carry weight in the newspapers. He was thirsty, and
drank three glasses of water, one after another; then he walked up and
down again. If he showed himself brave, determined, prepared to face a
duel in deadly earnest, his adversary would probably draw back and
proffer excuses. He picked up the card he had taken from his pocket and
thrown on a table. He read it again, as he had already read it, first at
a glance in the restaurant, and afterward on the way home in the light of
each gas lamp: "Georges Lamil, 51 Rue Moncey." That was all.

He examined closely this collection of letters, which seemed to him
mysterious, fraught with many meanings. Georges Lamil! Who was the man?
What was his profession? Why had he stared so at the woman? Was it not
monstrous that a stranger, an unknown, should thus all at once upset
one's whole life, simply because it had pleased him to stare rudely at a
woman? And the vicomte once more repeated aloud: