nchmen; I
asked him with the greatest civility, to move: he made no reply. I could
not, for the life of me, refrain from giving him a slight, very slight
push; the next moment he moved in good earnest; the whole party sprung
up as he set the example. The offended leg gave three terrific stamps
upon the ground, and I was immediately assailed by a whole volley of
unintelligible abuse. At that time I was very little accustomed to
French vehemence, and perfectly unable to reply to the vituperations I
received.

Instead of answering them, I therefore deliberated what was best to
be done. If, thought I, I walk away, they will think me a coward, and
insult me in the streets; if I challenge them, I shall have to fight
with men probably no better than shopkeepers; if I strike this most
noisy amongst them, he may be silenced, or he may demand satisfaction:
if the former, well and good; if the latter, why I shall have a better
excuse for fighting him than I should have now.

My resolution was therefore taken. I was never more free from passion in
my life, and it was, therefore, with the utmost calmness and composure
that, in the midst of my antagonist's harangue, I raised my hand
and--quietly knocked him down.

He rose in a moment. "Sortons," said he, in a low tone, "a Frenchman
never forgives a blow!"

At that moment, an Englishman, who had been sitting unnoticed in an
obscure corner of the cafe, came up and took me aside.

"Sir," said he, "don't think of fighting the man; he is a tradesman in
the Rue St. Honore. I myself have seen him behind the counter; remember
that 'a ram may kill a butcher.'"

"Sir," I replied, "I thank you a thousand times for your information.
Fight, however, I must, and I'll give you, like the Irishman, my reasons
afterwards: perhaps you will be my second."

"With pleasure," said the Englishman, (a Frenchman would have said,
"with pain!")

We left the cafe together. My countryman asked them if he should go the
gunsmith's for the pistols.

"Pistols!" said the Frenchman's second: "we will only fight with
swords."

"No, no," said my new friend. "'On ne prend le lievre au tabourin.' We
are the challenged, and therefore have the choice of weapons."

Luckily I overheard this dispute, and called to my second--"Swords or
pistols," said I; "it is quite the same to me. I am not bad at either,
only do make haste."

Swords, then, were chosen and soon procured. Frenchmen never grow cool
upon their qua