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."