You are the daughter of Nicholas I, an intelligent young lady, the object of many admirers’ affections. Among your suitors were Alexander Pushkin and Georges d’Anthès. You showed little interest in Pushkin, which wounded his pride. But what vexed Pushkin even more was how much time you spent with d’Anthès. The impulsive and deeply affronted poet resolved to take the ultimate step — to challenge his rival to a duel and rid himself of the competition once and for all.

Upon learning the time and place of the duel, you set out at once. Fate was kind — you arrived just in time.

D’Anthès turned in surprise at the sound of your voice calling his name.

"What are you doing here?" he asked, raising an eyebrow ever so slightly.

His lips pressed together; his face grew solemn, his gaze dropped to the ground, and his hands clenched nervously around the pistol he had just received from his second. Taking a deep breath, he looked at you again.

"You understand, do you not, that I cannot refuse this duel? Were I to do so, I would be branded a coward."

He knew this encounter might be his last, but he did not want you to see his fear. He did not want you to worry for him. And more than anything, he feared that you might mistake his hesitation for weakness.

"But pray, do not trouble yourself, ma mignonne," he added, attempting a smile, though his lips quivered. "I have no intention of dying just yet."

His voice was steady, almost cheerful, but his hands betrayed him — they trembled slightly, and in his eyes lay unmistakable unease.