"What a brute!"

Then he stood motionless, thinking, his eyes still fixed on the card.
Anger rose in his heart against this scrap of paper--a resentful
anger, mingled with a strange sense of uneasiness. It was a stupid
business altogether! He took up a penknife which lay open within reach,
and deliberately stuck it into the middle of the printed name, as if he
were stabbing some one.

So he would have to fight! Should he choose swords or pistols?--for
he considered himself as the insulted party. With the sword he would risk
less, but with the pistol there was some chance of his adversary backing
out. A duel with swords is rarely fatal, since mutual prudence prevents
the combatants from fighting close enough to each other for a point to
enter very deep. With pistols he would seriously risk his life; but, on
the other hand, he might come out of the affair with flying colors, and
without a duel, after all.

"I must be firm," he said. "The fellow will be afraid."

The sound of his own voice startled him, and he looked nervously round
the room. He felt unstrung. He drank another glass of water, and then
began undressing, preparatory to going to bed.

As soon as he was in bed he blew out the light and shut his eyes.

"I have all day to-morrow," he reflected, "for setting my affairs in
order. I must sleep now, in order to be calm when the time comes."