Duroy stammered a few vague words, and went out in quest of the descriptive writer, who was still asleep. He jumped out of bed, and, having read the paragraph, said: “By Jove, you must go out. Whom do you think of for the other second?”
“I really don’t know.”
“Boisrenard? What do you think?”
“Yes. Boisrenard.”
“Are you a good swordsman?”
“Not at all.”
“The devil! And with the pistol?”
“I can shoot a little.”
“Good. You shall practice while I look after everything else. Wait for me a moment.”
He went into his dressing-room, and soon reappeared washed, shaved, correct-looking.
“Come with me,” said he.
He lived on the ground floor of a small house, and he led Duroy to the cellar, an enormous cellar, converted into a fencing-room and shooting gallery, all the openings on the street being closed. After having lit a row of gas jets running the whole length of a second cellar, at the end of which was an iron man painted red and blue; he placed on a table two pairs of breech-loading pistols, and began to give the word of command in a sharp tone, as though on the ground: “Ready? Fire—one—two—three.”