As the grey morning mist gradually dispersed, and daylight began to
penetrate the cloud that dimmed the four squares of glass composing the
windows of the diligence, the Yorkshireman, half-asleep and half-awake,
took a mental survey of his fellow-travellers.--Before him sat his
worthy friend, snoring away with his mouth open, and his head, which
kept bobbing over on to the shoulder of the Countess, enveloped in the
ample folds of a white cotton nightcap.--She, too, was asleep and,
disarmed of all her daylight arts, dozed away in tranquil security. Her
mouth also was open, exhibiting rather a moderate set of teeth, and
her Madonna front having got a-twist, exposed a mixture of brown and
iron-grey hairs at the parting place. Her bonnet swung from the roof
of the diligence, and its place was supplied by a handsome lace cap,
fastened under her chin by a broad-hemmed cambric handkerchief.
Presently the sun rose, and a bright ray shooting into the Countess's
corner, awoke her with a start, and after a hurried glance at the
passengers, who appeared to be all asleep, she drew a small ivory-cased
looking-glass from her bag, and proceeded to examine her features. Mr.
Jorrocks awoke shortly after, and with an awful groan exclaimed that
his backbone was fairly worn out with sitting. "Oh dear!" said he, "my
behind aches as if I had been kicked all the way from Hockleyhole to
Marylebone. Are we near Paris? for I'm sure I can't find seat any
longer, indeed I can't. I'd rather ride two hundred miles in nine hours,
like H'osbaldeston, than be shut up in this woiture another hour. It
really is past bearing, and that's the long and short of the matter."
This exclamation roused all the party, who began yawning and rubbing
their eyes and looking at their watches. The windows also were lowered
to take in fresh air, and on looking out they found themselves rolling
along a sandy road, lined on each side with apple-trees, whose branches
were "groaning" with fruit. They breakfasted at Beaumont, and had a
regular spread of fish, beef-steak, mutton-chops, a large joint of
hot roast veal, roast chickens, several yards of sour bread, grapes,
peaches, pears, and plums, with vin ordinaire, and coffee au lait;
but Mr. Jorrocks was off his feed, and stood all the time to ease his
haunches.
Towards three in the afternoon they caught the first glimpse of the
gilded dome of the Hospital of Invalids, which was a signal for all
the party to brush up and make themselves agreeable. Even the
three-hundred-thousand miler opened out, and began telling some
wonderful anecdotes, while the Countess and Mr. Jorrocks carried on a
fierce flirtation, or whatever else they pleased to call it. At last,
after a deal of jargon, he broke off by appealing to the Yorkshireman
to know what "inn" they should "put up at" in Paris. "I don't know, I'm
sure," said he; "it depends a good deal upon how you mean to live. As
you pay my shot it does not do for beggars to be choosers; but suppose
we try Meurice's" "Oh no," replied Mr. Jorrocks, "her ladyship tells me
it is werry expensive, for the English always pay through the nose if
they go to English houses in Paris; and, as we talk French, we can put
up at a French one, you know." "Well, then, we can try one of the French
ones in the Rue de la Paix." "Rue de la Pay! no, by Jove, that won't do
for me--the werry name is enough--no Rue de la Pay for me, at least if
I have to pay the shot." "Well, then, you must get your friend there to
tell you of some place, for I don't care twopence, as long as I have a
bed, where it is." The Countess and he then laid their heads together
again, and when the diligence stopped to change horses at St. Denis,
Mr. Jorrocks asked the Yorkshireman to alight, and taking him aside,
announced with great glee that her ladyship, finding they were strangers
in the land, had most kindly invited them to stay with her, and that she
had a most splendid house in the Rue des Mauvais-Garçons, ornamented
with mirrors, musical clocks, and he didn't know what, and kept the best
company in all France, marquesses, barons, viscounts, authors, etc.
Before the Yorkshireman had time to reply, the conducteur came and
hurried them back into the diligence, and closed the door with a bang,
to be sure of having his passengers there while he and the postilion
shuffled the cards and cut for a glass of _eau-de-vie_ apiece.
The Countess, suspecting what they had been after, resumed the
conversation as soon as Mr. Jorrocks was seated.--"You shall manger
cinque fois every day," said she; "cinque fois," she repeated.--"Humph!"
said Mr. Jorrocks to himself, "what can that mean?--cank four--four
times five's twenty--eat twenty times a day--not possible!" "Oui,
Monsieur, cinque fois," repeated the Countess, telling the number off
on her fingers--"Café at nine of the matin, déjeuner à la fourchette at
onze o'clock, diner at cinque heure, café at six hour, and souper at
neuf hour." "Upon my word," replied Mr. Jorrocks, his eyes sparkling
with pleasure, "your offer is werry inwiting. My lady," said he, bowing
before her, "Je suis--I am much flattered." "And, Monsieur?" said she,
looking at the Yorkshireman. He, too, assured her that he was very
much flattered, and was beginning to excuse himself, when the Countess
interrupted him somewhat abruptly by turning to Mr. Jorrocks and saying,
"He sall be your son--n'est ce pas?" "No, my lady, I've no children,"
replied he, and the Countess's eyes in their turn underwent a momentary
illumination.
The Parisian barrier was soon reached, and the man taken up to kick
about the jaded travellers' luggage at the journey's end. While this
operation was going on in the diligence yard, the Countess stuck close
to Mr. Jorrocks, and having dispatched Agamemnon for a fiacre, bundled
him in, luggage and all, and desiring her worthy domestic to mount the
box, and direct the driver, she kissed her hand to the Yorkshireman,
assuring him she would be most happy to see him, in proof of which,
she drove away without telling him her number, or where the Rue des
Mauvais-Garçons was.
Paris is a charming place after the heat of the summer has passed away,
and the fine, clear, autumnal days arrive. Then is the time to see the
Tuileries gardens to perfection, when the Parisians have returned from
their châteaus, and emigrating English and those homeward bound halt to
renovate on the road; then is the time that the gayest plants put forth
their brightest hues, and drooping orange flowers scent the air which
silvery fountains lend their aid to cool.
On a Sunday afternoon, such as we have described, our friend Mr. Stubbs
(who since his arrival had been living very comfortably at the Hôtel
d'Hollande, in expectation of Mr. Jorrocks paying his bill) indulged in
six sous' worth of chairs--one to sit upon and one for each leg--and,
John Bull-like, stretched himself out in the shade beneath the lofty
trees, to view the gay groups who promenaded the alleys before him.
First, there came a helmeted cuirassier, with his wife in blue satin,
and a little boy in his hand in uniform, with a wooden sword, a perfect
miniature of the father; then a group of short-petticoated, shuffling
French women, each with an Italian greyhound in slips, followed by an
awkward Englishman with a sister on each arm, all stepping out like
grenadiers; then came a ribbon'd chevalier of the Legion of Honour,
whose hat was oftener in his hand than on his head, followed by a
nondescript looking militaire with fierce mustachios, in shining
jack-boots, white leathers, and a sort of Italian military cloak, with
one side thrown over the shoulder, to exhibit the wearer's leg, and the
bright scabbard of a large sword, while on the hero's left arm hung a
splendidly dressed woman. "What a figure!" said the Yorkshireman to
himself, as they came before him, and he took another good stare.--"Yet
stay--no, impossible!--Gracious Heaven! it can't be--and yet it is--by
Jove, it's Jorrocks!"
"Why now, you old imbecile," cried he, jumping off his chairs and
running up to him, "What are you after?" bursting into a loud laugh as
he looked at Mr. Jorrocks's mustachios (a pair of great false ones). "Is
there no piece of tomfoolery too great for you? What's come across you
now? Where the deuce did you get these things?" taking hold of the curls
at one side of his mustachios.
"How now?" roared Mr. Jorrocks with rage and astonishment. "How now! ye
young scaramouch, vot do you mean by insulting a gentleman sportsman in
broad daylight, in the presence of a lady of quality? By Jingo," added
he, his eyes sparkling with rage, "if you are not off before I can say
'dumpling' I'll run you through the gizzard and give your miserable
carcass to the dogs," suiting the action to the word, and groping
under his cloak for the hilt of his sword.--A crowd collected, and the
Yorkshireman perceiving symptoms of a scene, slunk out of the mêlée, and
Mr. Jorrocks, after an indignant shake or two of his feathers and curl
of his mustachios, pursued his course up the gardens.
This was the first time they had met since their arrival, which was
above a week before; indeed, it was nine days, for the landlord of the
house where the Yorkshireman lived had sent his "little bill" two days
before this, it being an established rule of his house, and one which
was conspicuously posted in all the rooms, that the bills were to be
settled weekly; and Mr. Stubbs had that very morning observed that the
hat of Monsieur l'Hote was not raised half so high from his head, nor
his body inclined so much towards the ground as it was wont to be--a
pretty significant hint that he wanted his cash.--Now the Yorkshireman,
among his other accomplishments, had a turn for play, and unfortunately
had been at the Salon the night before, when, after continuous run
of ill-luck, he came away twelve francs below the amount of the
hotel-keeper's bill, consequently a rumpus with Mr. Jorrocks could not
have taken place at a more unfortunate moment. Thinking, however, a good
night's rest or two might settle him down, and put all matters right,
he let things alone until the Tuesday following, when again finding
Monsieur's little "memoire" on one side of his coffeecup, and a framed
copy of the "rules and regulations" of the house on the other, he
felt constrained to take some decisive step towards its liquidation.
Accordingly, having breakfasted, he combed his hair straight over his
face, and putting on a very penitential look, called a cab, and desired
the man to drive him to the Rue des Mauvais-Garçons.--After zigzagging,
twisting, and turning about in various directions, they at last jingled
to the end of a very narrow dirty-looking street, whose unswept pavement
had not been cheered by a ray of sunshine since the houses were built.
It was excessively narrow, and there were no flags on either side; but
through the centre ran a dribbling stream, here and there obstructed
by oyster-shells, or vegetable refuse, as the water had served as
a plaything for children, or been stopped by servants for domestic
purposes. The street being extremely old, of course the houses were very
large, forming, as all houses do in Paris, little squares entered by
folding doors, at one side of which, in a sort of lodge, lives the
Porter--"Parlez au Portier"--who receives letters, parcels, and
communications for the several occupiers, consisting sometimes of twenty
or thirty different establishments in one house. From this functionary
may be learned the names of the different tenants. Having dismissed his
cab, the Yorkshireman entered the first gateway on his left, to take
the chance of gaining some intelligence of the Countess. The Porter--a
cobbler by trade--was hammering away, last on knee, at the sole of a
shoe, and with a grin on his countenance, informed the Yorkshireman that
the Countess lived next door but one. A thrill of fear came over him on
finding himself so near the residence of his indignant friend, but it
was of momentary duration, and he soon entered the courtyard of No.
3--where he was directed by an unshaved grisly-looking porter, to
proceed "un troisième," and ring the bell at the door on the right-hand
side. Obedient to his directions, the Yorkshireman proceeded to climb a
wide but dirty stone staircase, with carved and gilded balusters, whose
wall and steps had known no water for many years, and at length found
himself on the landing opposite the very apartment which contained the
redoubtable Jorrocks. Here he stood for a few seconds, breathing and
cooling himself after his exertions, during which time he pictured to
himself the worthy citizen immersed in papers deeply engaged in the
preparation of his France in three volumes, and wished that the first
five minutes of their interview were over. At length he mustered courage
to grasp a greasy-looking red tassel, and give a gentle tinkle to the
bell. The door was quickly opened by Agamemnon in dirty loose trousers
and slippers, and without a coat. He recognised his fellow-traveller,
and in answer to his inquiry if Monsieur Jorrocks was at home, grinned,
and answered, "Oh oui, certainement, Monsieur le Colonel Jorrockes est
ici," and motioned him to come in. The Yorkshireman entered the little
ante-room--a sort of scullery, full of mops, pans, dirty shoes, dusters,
candlesticks--and the first thing that caught his eye was Jorrocks's
sword, which Agamemnon had been burnishing up with sandpaper and
leather, lying on a table before the window. This was not very
encouraging, but Agamemnon gave no time for reflection, and opening half
a light salmon-coloured folding door directly opposite the one by which
he entered, the Yorkshireman passed through, unannounced and unperceived
by Mr. Jorrocks or the Countess, who were completely absorbed in a game
of dominoes, sitting on opposite sides of a common deal table, whose
rose-coloured silk cover was laid over the back of a chair. Jorrocks was
sitting on a stool with his back to the door, and the Countess being
very intent on the game, Mr. Stubbs had time for a hasty survey of the
company and apartment before she looked up. It was about one o'clock,
and of course she was still _en déshabillé_, with her nightcap on,
a loose _robe de chambre_ of flannel, and a flaming broad-striped
red-and-black Scotch shawl thrown over her shoulders, and
swan's-down-lined slippers on her feet. Mr. Jorrocks had his leather
pantaloons on, with a rich blue and yellow brocade dressing-gown, and
blue morocco slippers to match. His jack-boots, to which he had added
a pair of regimental heel-spurs, were airing before a stove, which
contained the dying embers of a small log. The room was low, and
contained the usual allowance of red figured velvet-cushioned chairs,
with brass nails; the window curtains were red-and-white on rings and
gilded rods; a secretaire stood against one of the walls, and there was
a large mirror above the marble mantelpiece, which supported a clock
surmounted by a flying Cupid, and two vases of artificial flowers
covered with glass, on one of which was placed an elegant bonnet of the
newest and most approved fashion. The floor, of highly polished oak, was
strewed about with playbills, slippers, curl-papers, boxes, cards, dice,
ribbons, dirty handkerchiefs, etc.; and on one side of the deal table
was a plate containing five well-picked mutton-chop bones, and hard by
lay Mr. Jorrocks's mustachios and a dirty small tooth-comb.
Just as the Yorkshireman had got thus far in his survey, the Countess
gave the finishing stroke to the game, and Mr. Jorrocks, jumping up in a
rage, gave his leathers such a slap as sent a cloud of pipe-clay flying
into his face. "Vous avez the devil's own luck"; exclaimed he, repeating
the blow, when, to avoid the cloud, he turned short round, and
encountered the Yorkshireman.
"How now?" roared he at the top of his voice, "who sent for you? Have
you come here to insult me in my own house? I'll lay my soul to an
'oss-shoe, I'll be too many for ye! Where's my sword?"
"Now, my good Mr. Jorrocks," replied the Yorkshireman very mildly,
"pray, don't put yourself into a passion--consider the lady, and don't
let us have any unpleasantness in Madame la Duchesse Benvolio's house,"
making her a very low bow as he spoke, and laying his hand on his heart.
"D--n your displeasancies!" roared Jorrocks, "and that's swearing--a
thing I've never done since my brother Joe fobbed me of my bottom piece
of muffin. Out with you, I say! Out with ye! you're a nasty dirty
blackguard; I'm done with you for ever. I detest the sight of you and
hate ye afresh every time I see you!"
"Doucement, mon cher Colonel," interposed the Countess, "ve sall play
anoder game, and you sall had von better chance," clapping him on the
back as she spoke. "I von't!" bellowed Jorrocks. "Turn this chap out
first. I'll do it myself. H'Agamemnon! H'Agamemnon! happortez my sword!
bring my sword! tout suite, directly!"
"Police! Police! Police!" screamed the Countess out of the window;
"Police! Police! Police!" bellowed Agamemnon from the next one; "Police!
Police! Police!" re-echoed the grisly porter down below; and before
they had time to reflect on what had passed, a sergeant's file of the
National Guard had entered the hotel, mounted the stairs, and taken
possession of the apartment. The sight of the soldiers with their bright
bayonets, all fixed and gleaming as they were, cooled Mr. Jorrocks's
courage in an instant, and, after standing a few seconds in petrified
astonishment, he made a dart at his jack-boots and bolted out of the
room. The Countess Benvolio then unlocked her secretaire, in which was a
plated liqueur-stand with bottles and glasses, out of which she
poured the sergeant three, and the privates two glasses each of pure
_eau-de-vie,_ after which Agamemnon showed them the top of the stairs.
In less than ten minutes all was quiet again, and the Yorkshireman was
occupying Mr. Jorrocks's stool. The Countess then began putting things
a little in order, adorned the deal table with the rose-coloured
cover--before doing which she swept off Mr. Jorrocks's mustachios, and
thrust a dirty white handkerchief and the small tooth-comb under the
cushion of a chair--while Agamemnon carried away the plate with the
bones. "Ah, le pauvre Colonel," said the Countess, eyeing the bones as
they passed, "he sall be von grand homme to eat--him eat toujours--all
day long--Oh, him mange beaucoup--beaucoup--beaucoup. He is von varé
amiable man, bot he sall not be moch patience. I guess he sall be varé
rich--n'est ce pas? have many guinea?--He say he keep beaucoup des
chiens--many dogs for the hont--he sail be vot dey call rom customer
(rum customer) in Angleterre, I think."
Thus she went rattling on, telling the Yorkshireman all sorts of stories
about the _pauvre_ Colonel, whom she seemed ready to change for a
younger piece of goods with a more moderate appetite; and finding Mr.
Stubbs more complaisant than he had been in the diligence, she concluded
by proposing that he should accompany the Colonel and herself to a
_soirée-dansante_ that evening at a friend of hers, another Countess, in
the "Rue des Bons-Enfants."
Being disengaged as usual, he at once assented, on condition that the
Countess would effect a reconciliation between Mr. Jorrocks and himself,
for which purpose she at once repaired to his room, and presently
reappeared arm-in-arm with our late outrageously indignant hero. The
Colonel had been occupying his time at the toilette, and was _en grand
costume_--finely cleaned leathers, jack-boots and brass spurs, with a
spick and span new blue military frock-coat, hooking and eyeing up to
the chin, and all covered with braid, frogs, tags, and buttons.
"Dere be von beau garçon!" exclaimed the Countess, turning him round
after having led him into the middle of the room--"dat habit does fit
you like vax." "Yes," replied Mr. Jorrocks, raising his arms as though
he were going to take flight, "but it is rather tight--partiklarly round
the waist--shouldn't like to dine in it. What do you think of it?"
turning round and addressing the Yorkshireman as if nothing had
happened--"suppose you get one like it?" "Do," rejoined the Countess,
"and some of the other things--vot you call them, Colonel?"
"What--breeches?" "Yes, breeches--but the oder name--vot you call dem?"
"Oh, leathers?" replied Mr. Jorrocks. "No, no, another name still." "I
know no other. Pantaloons, perhaps, you mean?" "No, no, not pantaloons."
"Not pantaloons?--then I know of nothing else. You don't mean these
sacks of things, called trousers?" taking hold of the Yorkshireman's.
"No, no, not trousers." "Then really, my lady, I don't know any other
name." "Oh, yes, Colonel, you know the things I intend. Vot is it you
call Davil in Angleterre?" "Oh, we have lots of names for him--Old Nick,
for instance."--"Old Nick breeches," said the Countess thoughtfully;
"no, dat sall not be it--vot else?" "Old Harry?" replied Mr.
Jorrocks.--"Old Harry breeches," repeated the Countess in the hopes of
catching the name by the ear--"no, nor dat either, encore anoder name,
Colonel." "Old Scratch, then?" "Old Scratch breeches," re-echoed the
Countess--"no, dat shall not do."--"Beelzebub?" rejoined Mr. Jorrocks.
"Beelzebub breeches," repeated the Countess--"nor dat." "Satan, then?"
said Mr. Jorrocks. "Oh oui!" responded the Countess with delight,
"satan! black satan breeches--you shall von pair of black satan
breeches, like the Colonel."
"And the Colonel will pay for them, I presume?" said the Yorkshireman,
looking at Mr. Jorrocks.
"I carn't," said Mr. Jorrocks in an undertone; "I'm nearly cleaned out,
and shall be in Short's Gardens before I know where I am, unless I hold
better cards this evening than I've done yet. Somehow or other, these
French are rather too sharp for me, and I've been down upon my luck ever
since I came.--Lose every night, in fact, and then they are so werry
anxious for me to have my rewenge, as they call it, that they make
parties expressly for me every evening; but, instead of getting my
rewenge, I only lose more and more money.--They seem to me always to
turn up the king whenever they want him.--To-night we are going to a
Countess's of werry great consequence, and, as you know écarté well,
I'll back your play, and, perhaps, we may do something between us."
This being all arranged, Mr. Stubbs took his departure, and Mr. Jorrocks
having girded on his sword, and the Countess having made her morning
toilette, they proceed to their daily promenade in the Tuileries
Gardens.
A little before nine that evening, the Yorkshireman again found himself
toiling up the dirty staircase, and on reaching the third landing was
received by Agamemnon in a roomy uniform of a chasseur--dark green and
tarnished gold, with a cocked-hat and black feather, and a couteau de
chasse, slung by a shining patent-leather belt over his shoulder. The
opening of the inner door displayed the worthy Colonel sitting at his
ease, with his toes on each side of the stove (for the evenings had
begun to get cool), munching the last bit of crust of the fifth Périgord
pie that the Countess had got him to buy.--He was extremely smart;
thin black gauze-silk stockings, black satin breeches; well-washed,
well-starched white waistcoat with a rolling collar, showing an
amplitude of frill, a blue coat with yellow buttons and a velvet collar,
while his pumps shone as bright as polished steel.
The Countess presently sidled into the room, all smirks and smiles as
dressy ladies generally are when well "got up." Rouge and the milliner
had effectually reduced her age from five and forty down to five and
twenty. She wore a dress of the palest pink satin, with lilies of the
valley in her hair, and an exquisitely wrought gold armlet, with a most
Lilliputian watch in the centre.
Mr. Jorrocks having finished his pie-crust, and stuck on his mustachios,
the Countess blew out her bougies, and the trio, preceeded by Agamemnon
with a lanthorn in his hand, descended the stairs, whose greasy, muddy
steps contrasted strangely with the rich delicacy of the Countess's
beautifully slippered feet. Having handed them into the voiture,
Agamemnon mounted up behind, and in less than ten minutes they rumbled
into the spacious courtyard of the Countess de Jackson, in the Rue des
Bons-Enfants, and drew up beneath a lofty arch at the foot of a long
flight of dirty black-and-white marble stairs, about the centre of which
was stationed a _lacquey de place_ to show the company up to the hall.
The Countess de Jackson (the wife of an English horse-dealer) lived
in an _entresol au troisième_, but the hotel being of considerable
dimensions, her apartment was much more spacious than the Countess
Benvolio's. Indeed, the Countess de Jackson, being a _marchande des
modes_, had occasion for greater accommodation, and she had five low
rooms, whereof the centre one was circular, from which four others,
consisting of an ante-room, a kitchen, a bedroom, and _salle à manger_,
radiated.
Agamemnon having opened the door of the _fiacre_, the Countess Benvolio
took the Yorkshireman's arm, and at once preceded to make the ascent,
leaving the Colonel to settle the fare, observing as they mounted the
stairs, that he was "von exceeding excellent man, but varé slow."
"Madame la Contesse Benvolio and Monsieur Stoops!" cried the _lacquey de
place_ as they reached the door of the low ante-room, where the Countess
Benvolio deposited her shawl, and took a final look at herself in the
glass. She again took the Yorkshireman's arm and entered the round
ballroom, which, though low and out of all proportion, had an
exceedingly gay appearance, from the judicious arrangement of the
numerous lights, reflected in costly mirrors, and the simple elegance of
the crimson drapery, festooned with flowers and evergreens against the
gilded walls. Indeed, the hotel had been the residence of an ambassador
before the first revolution, and this _entresol_ had formed the private
apartment of his Excellency. The door immediately opposite the one by
which they entered, led into the Countess de Jackson's bedroom,
which was also lighted up, with the best furniture exposed and her
toilette-table set out with numberless scent bottles, vases, trinkets,
and nick-nacks, while the _salle à manger_ was converted into a
card-room. Having been presented in due form to the hostess, the
Yorkshireman and his new friend stood surveying the gay crowd of
beautiful and well-dressed women, large frilled and well-whiskered men,
all chatting, and bowing, and dancing, when a half-suppressed titter
that ran through the room attracted their attention, and turning round,
Mr. Jorrocks was seen poking his way through the crowd with a number of
straws sticking to his feet, giving him the appearance of a feathered
Mercury. The fact was, that Agamemnon had cleaned his shoes with the
liquid varnish (french polish), and forgetting to dry it properly, the
carrying away half the straw from the bottom of the _fiacre_ was the
consequence, and Mr. Jorrocks having paid the Jehu rather short, the
latter had not cared to tell him about it.
The straws were, however, soon removed without interruption to the
gaiety of the evening. Mr. Stubbs, of course, took an early opportunity
of waltzing with the Countess Benvolio, who, as all French women are,
was an admirable dancer, and Jorrocks stood by fingering and curling his
mustachios, admiring her movements but apparently rather jealous of the
Yorkshireman. "I wish," said he after the dance was over, "that
you would sit down at _écarté_ and let us try to win some of these
mouncheers' tin, for I'm nearly cleaned out. Let us go into the
cardroom, but first let us see if we can find anything in the way of
nourishment, for I begin to be hungry. Garsoon," said he catching a
servant with a trayful of _eau sucrée_ glasses, "avez-vous kick-shaws to
eat?" putting his finger in his mouth--"ge wouderay some refreshment."
"Oh, oui," replied the garçon taking him to an open window overlooking
the courtyard, and extending his hand in the air, "voilà, monsieur, de
très bon rafraîchissement."
The ball proceeded with the utmost decorum, for though composed of
shopkeepers and such like, there was nothing in their dress or manner
to indicate anything but the best possible breeding. Jorrocks, indeed,
fancied himself in the very élite of French society, and, but for a
little incident, would have remained of that opinion. In an unlucky
moment he took it into his head he could waltz, and surprised the
Countess Benvolio by claiming her hand for the next dance. "It seems
werry easy," said he to himself as he eyed the couples gliding round the
room;--"at all ewents there's nothing like trying, 'for he who never
makes an effort never risks a failure.'" The couples were soon formed
and ranged for a fresh dance. Jorrocks took a conspicuous position in
the centre of the room, buttoned his coat, and, as the music struck up,
put his arm round the waist of his partner. The Countess, it seems, had
some misgivings as to his prowess in the dancing line, and used all her
strength to get him well off, but the majority of the dancers started
before him. At length, however, he began to move, and went rolling away
in something between a gallop and a waltz, effecting two turns, like a
great cart-wheel, which brought him bang across the room, right into the
track of another couple, who were swinging down at full speed, making a
cannon with his head against both theirs, and ending by all four coming
down upon the hard boards with a tremendous crash--the Countess Benvolio
undermost, then the partner of the other Countess, then Jorrocks, and
then the other Countess herself. Great was the commotion, and the music
stopped; Jorrocks lost his wig, and split his Beelzebub breeches across
the knees, while the other gentleman cracked his behind--and the
Countess Benvolio and the other Countess were considerably damaged;
particularly the other Countess, who lost four false teeth and broke an
ear-ring. This, however, was not the worst, for as soon as they were
all scraped together and set right again, the other Countess's partner
attacked Jorrocks most furiously, calling him a _sacré-nom de-Dieu'd
bête_ of an Englishman, a mauvais sujet, a cochon, etc., then spitting
on the floor--the greatest insult a Frenchman can offer--he vapoured
about being one of the "grand nation," "that he was brave--the world
knew it," and concluded by thrusting his card--"Monsieur Charles Adolphe
Eugene, Confiturier, No. 15 bis, Rue Poupée"--into Jorrocks's face. It
was now Jorrocks's turn to speak, so doubling his fists, and getting
close to him, he held one to his nose, exclaiming, "D--n ye, sir, je
suis--JORROCKS!--Je suis an Englishman! je vous lick within an inch of
your life! --Je vous kick!--je vous mill!--je vous flabbergaster!" and
concluded by giving him his card, "Monsieur le Colonel Jorrocks, No 3,
Rue des Mauvais-Garçons."
A friend of the confectioner's interposed and got him away, and Mr.
Stubbs persuaded Mr. Jorrocks to return into the cardroom, where they
were speedily waited upon by the friend of the former, who announced
that the Colonel must make an apology or fight, for he said, although
Jorrocks was a "Colonel Anglais," still Monsieur Eugene was of the
Legion of Honour, and, consequently, very brave and not to be insulted
with impunity. All this the Yorkshireman interpreted to Mr. Jorrocks,
who was most anxious to fight, and wished it was light that they might
go to work immediately. Mr. Stubbs therefore told the confectioner's
friend (who was also his foreman), that the Colonel would fight him with
pistols at six o'clock in the Bois de Boulogne, but no sooner was the
word "pistols" mentioned than the friend exclaimed, with a grimace and
shrug of his shoulders, "Oh horror, no! Monsieur Adolphe is brave, but
he will not touch pistols--they're not weapons of his country."
Jorrocks then proposed to fight him with broad swords, but this the
confectioner's foreman declined on behalf of his principal, and at last
the Colonel suggested that they could not do better than fight it out
with fists. Now, the confectioner was ten years younger than Jorrocks,
tall, long-armed, and not over-burthened with flesh, and had, moreover,
taken lessons of Harry Harmer, when that worthy had his school in Paris,
so he thought the offer was a good one, and immediately closed with it.
Jorrocks, too, had been a patron of the prize-ring, having studied under
Bill Richmond, the man of colour, and was reported to have exhibited
in early life (incog.) with a pugilist of some pretensions at the
Fives-court, so, all things considered, fists seemed a very proper mode
of settling the matter, and that being agreed upon, each party quitted
the Countess de Jackson's--the confectioner putting forth all manner of
high-flown ejaculations and prayers for success, as he groped about the
ante-room for his hat, and descended the stairs. "Oh! God of war!" said
he, throwing up his hands, "who guided the victorious army of this grand
nation in Egypt, when, from the pyramids, forty centuries beheld our
actions--oh, brilliant sun, who shone upon our armies at Jaffa, at
Naples, Montebello, Marengo, Austerlitz, Jena, and Algiers, who blessed
our endeavours, who knowest that we are brave--brave as a hundred
lions--look down on Charles Adolphe Eugene, and enable him to massacre
and immolate on the altar of his wrath, this sacré-nom de-Dieu'd beastly
hog of an Englishman"--and thereupon he spit upon the flags with all the
venom of a viper.
Jorrocks, too, indulged in a few figures of speech, as he poked his way
home, though of a different description. "Now blister my kidneys," said
he, slapping his thigh, "but I'll sarve him out! I'll baste him as
Randall did ugly Borrock. I'll knock him about as Belcher did the Big
Ilkey Pigg. I'll damage his mug as Turner did Scroggins's. I'll fib him
till he's as black as Agamemnon--for I do feel as though I could fight a
few."
* * * * *
The massive folding doors of the Porte-Cocher at the Hôtel d'Hollande
had not received their morning opening, when a tremendous loud, long,
protracted rat-tat-tat-tat-tan, sounded like thunder throughout the
extensive square, and brought numerous nightcapped heads to the windows,
to see whether the hotel was on fire, or another revolution had broken
out. The _maître d'hotel_ screamed, the porter ran, the _chef de
cuisine_ looked out of his pigeon-hole window, and the _garçons_
and male _femmes des chambres_ rushed into the yard, with fear and
astonishment depicted on their countenances, when on peeping through the
grating of the little door, Mr. Jorrocks was descried, knocker in hand,
about to sound a second edition. Now, nothing is more offensive to the
nerves of a Frenchman than a riotous knock, and the impertinence was not
at all migitated by its proceeding from a stranger who appeared to have
arrived through the undignified medium of a co-cou.[23] Having scanned
his dimensions and satisfied himself that, notwithstanding all the
noise, Jorrocks was mere mortal man, the porter unbolted the door,
and commenced a loud and energetic tirade of abuse against "Monsieur
Anglais," for his audacious thumping, which he swore was enough to make
every man of the National Guard rush "to arms." In the midst of the
torrent, very little of which Mr. Jorrocks understood, the Yorkshireman
appeared, whom he hurried into the _co-cou_, bundled in after him, cried
"ally!" to the driver, and off they jolted at a miserably slow trot.
A little before seven they reached the village of Passy, where it
was arranged they should meet and proceed from thence to the Bois de
Boulogne, to select a convenient place for the fight; but neither the
confectioner nor his second, nor any one on his behalf, was visible and
they walked the length and breadth of the village, making every possible
inquiry without seeing or hearing anything of them. At length, having
waited a couple of hours, Mr. Jorrocks's appetite overpowered his desire
of revenge, and caused him to retire to the "Chapeau-Rouge" to indulge
in a "fork breakfast." Nature being satisfied, he called for pen and
ink, and with the aid of Mr. Stubbs drew up the following proclamation
which to this day remains posted in the _salle à manger_ a copy whereof
was transmitted by post to the confectioner at Paris.
[Footnote 23: _Co-cous_ are nondescript vehicles that ply in the environs
of Paris. They are a sort of cross between a cab and a young Diligence.]