Guy de Maupassant
“A Duel”
Translated by Matthew Yost
The war was over; the Germans had occupied France; the country still twitched like a beaten wrestler, pinned beneath his victorious opponent’s knee.
The first trains began leaving a panic-stricken, starved and desperate Paris. They plied along slowly, across the landscape and through villages, on their way to the country’s newly contrived borders. The first passengers to leave the city watched wasted fields and razed hamlets roll past the windows of their train. Prussian soldiers—decked out in their black, copper-spiked headgear, smoking their pipes and sitting astride chairs, were in front of any house that remained standing. Others worked or chatted as though they belonged to the families that quartered them. In the larger towns, the passengers saw entire regiments drilling in the squares, and despite the grinding of the wheels beneath them, harsh commands still sometimes reached their ears.
M.
Dubuis, who had been in the Paris militia all throughout the siege, was on his
way to Switzerland, where he would meet his wife and daughter, whom he had
carefully sent abroad before the invasion.
Famine
and fatigue had done nothing to reduce the size of that rich and peaceful
merchant’s fat belly. He’d survived those appalling times with desolate resignation
and bitter quips about mankind’s savagery. Now that he was headed for the
border, and that the war was over, he was seeing Prussians for the first
time—even though he’d done his duty on the ramparts, and mounted the guard on
cold nights.
He
gazed with an irritated terror upon those armed and bearded men, who had
installed themselves as if they were at home on French soil; and he felt within
his soul a sort of impotent patriotic zeal, while alongside that impulse, was
the instinct of caution, which seemed newly acquired, but really has only been
dormant all this time.
In
his compartment, were two Englishmen who had come to have a look. They peeped
about with calm and curious eyes. Each one was fat as the other, and they
talked in their language, sometimes glancing through their travel guide—which
they read aloud—while seeking to identify the locales it described.
The
train had stopped at the siding of a small town when suddenly a Prussian
officer entered with a great rattling of his sabre on the carriage’s double
foot-step. He was tall, squeezed into his uniform, and bearded to the eyes. His
red hair seemed to be on fire, and a paler mustache stuck out beyond the edges
of his face, which it divided in half.
The
Englishmen examined him, wearing curious, satisfied smiles, while M. Dubuis
made busy pretending to read a newspaper. He huddled in the corner, like a
thief in the presence of a gendarme.
The
train began to move again. The Englishmen continued to talk, continued to
search for the precise locations of battlefields; and suddenly, as one of them
stretched his arm out towards the horizon, the Prussian officer extended his
long legs, leaned back, and said,
“I
killed twelf Frenchmen in sat fillage. I took more san one hundret brisoners.”
The
Englishmen, completely fascinated, asked him right away,
“Aoh!
what was the village’s name?”
“Pharsbourg,”
the Prussian answered. Then he continued, “I took sose naughty Frenchmen py
seir ears.”
He
regarded M. Dubuis, while laughing
smugly into his beard.
The
train rolled on, constantly passing through occupied villages. One saw German
soldiers along the roads, at the edges of fields, standing at the gates of
railway crossings, or talking in front of cafes. They covered the earth like
locusts.
The
officer made a sweeping gesture and said, “If I’d peen in commant, I’d haff
taken Paris and purned it to the ground and killed efryone. No more France!”
Out
of politeness, the Englishmen answered, “Aoh! yes.”
He
continued, “In twenty years, all Europe vill pelong to us. Brussia is stronger
san efryone.”
The
English, now uncomfortable, did not answer. Their faces had become impassive
and waxen between their lavish sideburns. The Prussian officer began to laugh.
Leaning back, he began cracking jokes. He made fun of subjugated France, and
insulted all his worldly enemies. He joked about the recently defeated
Austrians; he laughed about the dogged and impotent departmental mitlitae; he
joked about their infantry and useless artillery. He proclaimed that Bismarck was
going to build himself an iron city out of all the cannons they’d captured. And
suddenly he rested his boots against M. Dubuis, who was red to the ears and who
averted his eyes.
The
Englishmen seemed to have adopted an indifferent pose, as if they were suddenly
safely shut away on their island again, far away from all the world’s
commotion.
The
officer got out his pipe and—staring fixedly at the Frenchman—said,
“You
vouldn’t haff any tobacco?”
M.
Dubuis answered, “No, sir!”
“Then
I peg you to go buy some, venn se gonfoy stops again.” Then he laughed and
said, “I’ll even kiff you a gratuity.”
The
train whistled and slowed its pace. They passed before the burned remnants of a
train station, then stopped completely.
The
German opened the door and, taking M. Dubuis by the arm, said, “Go! do my
pidding, quickly, quickly!”
A
detachment of Prussian soldiers held the town. More soldiers stood watching
from behind a wooden-lattice fence. The train was already whistling to signal
its departure. And so M. Dubuis jumped to the platform, and despite the
stationmaster’s gesturing, threw himself into the neighboring compartment.
#
He was alone! Breathing hard, his heart pounding, he opened his vest and mopped his brow. The train stopped at another station, and all of a sudden the officer appeared at the door, came in, and soon enough the two Englishmen followed, driven by their curiosity. The German sat down facing the Frenchman and, still laughing, said, “You vouldn’t do my pidding.”
“
No, sir!” M. Dubuis answered.
The
train was about to get underway.
The officer said, “I vill clip your
mustache to fill my pipe.”
He
reached for his neighbor’s face.
The
Englishmen, still impassive, watched fixedly.
Already
the German had taken a pinch of hair and was pulling on it, when M. Dubuis,
using the back of his hand, slapped the other’s arm away. Seizing the Prussian
by the collar, he threw him against the bench. Then, insane with rage, his
temples inflated, his eyes full of blood, and still strangling the German with
one hand, his other closed to a fist, and he began to furiously pound the
Prussian’s face. The other tried to defend himself, tried to draw his sabre,
tried to grasp the adversary, who was lying on top of him. But M. Dubuis
crushed him with his enormous weight, and beat him—beat him without pause,
without stopping to catch his breath, without caring where his blows landed.
Blood flowed. The choking German moaned, spat out his teeth, tried vainly to
push away the fat, exasperated man who was crushing him.
The
Englishmen had risen and came closer to get a better view. They remained
standing, full of joy and curiosity, ready to bet on either of the combatants.
Then
suddenly M. Dubuis, worn out by the effort, got up and sat back in his seat
without saying a word.
In
his pain and shock, the punch-drunk Prussian did not launch himself at Dubuis.
Once he’d caught his breath, he said,
“If
you do not vont to giff me satisfaction with bistols, I’ll kill you!”
M.
Dubuis answered, “When you will. I’ll do it gladly.”
“Look
here se city of Strasbourg,” the officer said. “I’ll take two officers as my
vitnesses. I’ve time pefore se train debarts.”
M.
Dubuis, who was panting as hard as the train, said to the Englishmen,
“Would
you be my witnesses?”
The
two answered together, “Aoh! yes!”
And
the train stopped.
Within
the minute, the Prussian had found two comrades who brought him pistols and
they made for the ramparts.
The Englishmen were constantly pulling their watches from their pockets, hastening their steps, hurrying the preparations, worrying about the time, so they wouldn’t miss their departure.
M.
Dubuis had never handled a pistol before. They placed him twenty paces from his
enemy, and then asked,
“Are
you ready?”
In
answering, “yes, sir!” he noticed one of the Englishmen had opened his umbrella
to shade himself from the sun.
A
voice commanded, “Fire!”
M.
Dubuis fired blindly, without waiting; and, to his astonishment, he saw the
Prussian stagger, lift his arms to heaven, and fall sharply onto his face. He
had killed him.
One
of the Englishmen cried “Aoh!” while quivering with joy, satisfied curiosity
and happy impatience. The other, who was still holding his watch, seized M.
Dubuis by the arm and led him towards the station, taking long athletic
strides. The first Englishman set the pace, running flat-out, fists closed,
elbows tucked in.
“One,
two! one, two!”
Despite
their bellies they reached the station, trotting three abreast, like three
grotesques in a comical pamphlet.
The
train was pulling away. They jumped into their compartment. The Englishmen
doffed their travelling caps and waved them. Then three times in a row, they
cheered,
Hip, hip, hip, hurrah!
One
after the other, they gravely extended their hands to M. Dubuis, then turned
and sat down again, side by side, in their own corner.