I would fight with broad swords, and sink point on the first blood drawn
like a gentleman’s.--The Chronicles of the Canongate.
I strolled idly along the Palais Royal (which English people, in some
silly proverb, call the capital of Paris, whereas no French man of
any rank, nor French woman of any respectability, are ever seen in its
promenades) till, being somewhat curious to enter some of the smaller
cafes, I went into one of the meanest of them; took up a Journal des
Spectacles, and called for some lemonade. At the next table to me sat
two or three Frenchmen, evidently of inferior rank, and talking very
loudly over L’Angleterre et les Anglois. Their attention was soon fixed
upon me.
Have you ever observed that if people are disposed to think ill of you,
nothing so soon determines them to do so as any act of yours, which,
however innocent and inoffensive, differs from their ordinary habits and
customs? No sooner had my lemonade made its appearance, than I perceived
an increased sensation among my neighbours of the next table. In the
first place, lemonade is not much drank, as you may suppose, among the
French in winter; and, in the second, my beverage had an appearance of
ostentation, from being one of the dearest articles I could have called
for. Unhappily, I dropped my newspaper--it fell under the Frenchmen’s
table; instead of calling the garcon, I was foolish enough to stoop
for it myself. It was exactly under the feet of one of the Frenchmen; 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 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.
“Sir,” said he, “you have twice conquered.”
We left the spot with the greatest amity and affection, and re-entered,
with a profusion of bows, our several fiacres.
“Let me,” I said, when I found myself alone with my second, “let me
thank you most cordially for your assistance; and allow me to cultivate
an acquaintance so singularly begun. I lodge at the Hotel de--, Rue de
Rivoli; my name is Pelham. Your’s is--”
“Thornton,” replied my countryman. “I will lose no time in profiting by
an offer of acquaintance which does me so much honour.”
With these and various other fine speeches, we employed the time till I
was set down at my hotel; and my companion, drawing his cloak round him,
departed on foot, to fulfil (he said, with a mysterious air) a certain
assignation in the Faubourg St. Germain.
I said to Mr. Thornton, that I would give him many reasons for fighting
after I had fought. As I do not remember that I ever did, and as I am
very unwilling that they should be lost, I am now going to bestow them
on the reader. It is true that I fought a tradesman. His rank in life
made such an action perfectly gratuitous on my part, and to many people
perhaps perfectly unpardonable. The following was, however, my view of
the question: In striking him I had placed myself on his level; if I did
so in order to insult him, I had a right also to do it in order to give
him the only atonement in my power: had the insult come solely from
him, I might then, with some justice, have intrenched myself in my
superiority of rank--contempt would have been as optional as revenge:
but I had left myself no alternative in being the aggressor, for if
my birth was to preserve me from redressing an injury, it was also to
preserve me from committing one. I confess, that the thing would have
been wholly different had it been an English, instead of a French, man;
and this, because of the different view of the nature and importance of
the affront, which the Englishman would take. No English tradesman has
an idea of les lois d’armes--a blow can be returned, or it can be paid
for.
But in France, neither a set-to, nor an action for assault, would repay
the generality of any class removed from the poverty of the bas peuple,
for so great and inexcusable an affront. In all countries it is the
feelings of the generality of people, that courtesy, which is the
essence of honour, obliges one to consult. As in England I should,
therefore, have paid, so in France I fought.
If it be said that a French gentleman would not have been equally
condescending to a French tradesman, I answer that the former would
never have perpetrated the only insult for which the latter might think
there could be only one atonement. Besides, even if this objection
held good, there is a difference between the duties of a native and a
stranger. In receiving the advantages of a foreign country, one ought
to be doubly careful not to give offence, and it is therefore doubly
incumbent upon us to redress it when given. To the feelings of the
person I had offended, there was but one redress. Who can blame me if I
granted it?