I remember that during the night preceding the duel I did not sleep a single moment. I was not able to write for long: a secret uneasiness took possession of me. For about an hour I paced the room, then I sat down and opened a novel by Walter Scott which was lying on my table. It was “The Scottish Puritans.” 301 At first I read with an effort; then, carried away by the magical fiction, I became oblivious of everything else.
At last day broke. My nerves became composed. I looked in the glass: a dull pallor covered my face, which preserved the traces of harassing sleeplessness; but my eyes, although encircled by a brownish shadow, glittered proudly and inexorably. I was satisfied with myself.
I ordered the horses to be saddled, dressed myself, and ran down to the baths. Plunging into the c
