Doctor Le Brument said to Duroy: “Do you feel all right? Do you want anything?”
“No, nothing, thanks.”
It seemed to him that he was mad, that he was asleep, that he was dreaming, that supernatural influences enveloped him. Was he afraid? Perhaps. But he did not know. Everything about him had altered.
Jacques Rival returned, and announced in low tones of satisfaction: “It is all ready. Luck has favored us as regards the pistols.”
That, so far as Duroy was concerned, was a matter of profound indifference.
They took off his overcoat, which he let them do mechanically. They felt the breast-pocket of his frock-coat to make certain that he had no pocketbook or papers likely to deaden a ball. He kept repeating to himself like a prayer: “When the word is given to fire, I must raise my arm.”
They led him up to one of the sticks stuck in the ground and handed him his pistol. Then he saw a man standing just in front of him—a short, stout, bald-headed man, wearing spectacles. It was his adversary. He saw him very plainly, but he could only think: “When the word to fire is given, I must raise my arm and fire at once.”
A voice rang out in the deep silence, a voice that seemed to come from a great distance, saying: “Are you ready, gentlemen?”
George exclaimed “Yes.”
The same voice gave the word “Fire!”