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 quarrels: and as it was a fine, clear, starlight night, we went forthwith to the Bois de Boulogne. We fixed our ground on a spot tolerably retired, and, I should think, pretty often frequented for the same purpose. I was exceedingly confident, for I knew myself to have few equals in the art of fencing; and I had all the advantage of coolness, which my hero was a great deal too much in earnest to possess. We joined swords, and in a very few moments I discovered that my opponent’s life was at my disposal. “C’est bien,” thought I; “for once I’ll behave handsomely.” The Frenchman made a desperate lunge. I struck his sword from his hand, caught it instantly, and, presenting it to him again, said, “I think myself peculiarly fortunate that I may now apologize for the affront I have put upon you. Will you permit my sincerest apologies to suffice? A man who can so well resent an injury, can forgive one.” Was there ever a Frenchman not taken by a fine phrase? My hero received the sword with a low bow--the tears came into his eyes.