One night, while in the theatre, an Irish gentleman and myself were quietly enjoying the performance (the house crowded with British officers and fine women; for the beauties of Bordeaux fought no duels with us, except those in which nothing but the heart is to be lost, they having nothing else to lose), when an officer of one of the French corps took up a position exactly behind my friend, and in a fierce and brutal manner opened a volley of abuse upon him, in French, interlarding his language with English extracts, such as “_Beef-stek!_” “_Ros-beef!_” and then serving up the vegetable “_pomme de terre_,” _secundum artem_; nothing of which my high-spirited but unfrenchified friend comprehended in the slightest degree. All the notice he took of the outrage was by saying to me, “This French fellow is making a great fuss; what the devil is he jabbering about?” Had I answered by stating the fact, Heaven help the Frenchman! he would have been in the pit in a second; but knowing the irascibility of my Hibernian companion, I replied evasively, determined to take a better opportunity for resentment. The play went on, and the assailant went away; but I knew that he attended the theatre every night. I informed my friend when we went home of what had happened: his rage became almost ungovernable. We of course proceeded to the theatre the next night, and met the Frenchman in the saloon. He was leaning against a table, taking an ice; and, as previously arranged, one of us took our station close upon each side of him, and began a dialogue in English, of the same cast as the insulting soliloquy in French, the previous night, introducing certain French words which were not to be misunderstood. This we were wrong in doing; but my friend insisted that “it would be useless to call him out without taking a little bit of satisfaction out of him, for his impudence.” Accordingly, we enjoyed a considerable quantity of fun, at the expense of the Frenchman, who at length blustered out and demanded what we meant, in a most cut-and-thrust manner. “What does he say?” said my friend to me. I told him. “O faith, I'll soon answer you, Sir,” said he, and seizing the Frenchman's nose, (a long one) he tweaked it in such a tortuous and effective style, as made the mouth beneath it roar, “Nothing now but _immediate_ satisfaction.” After this I explained the matter, and the Frenchman seemed astonished at the aspect which affairs had taken. He departed, assuring us that he would return in half an hour with his friend. We informed him that he would find us in the theatre. There we remained, to the last moment of its being open: but had we stayed a month, we should not have had another word about the nose affair. Thus, even in the army, both of England and France, a cowardly braggart will occasionally show himself. This, however, very seldom happens, owing to the certainty of disgrace, which attends the exposure of their false pretensions.