MR. JORROCKS IN PARIS
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 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 was also 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 Holkley Hole 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’osbaldiston, 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 were also 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’ at 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 some 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 Pays 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, déjeûner à la fourchette at onze o’clock, dîner 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 despatched 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 de 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 prefection, 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 non-descript-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 chair and running up to him, ‘what are you after?’ bursting into a loud laugh, as he looked at Mr. Jorrock’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’Hôte 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 a 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 ‘mémoire’ on one side of his coffee-cup, 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 ‘au 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 was over. Al 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 recognized 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 anteroom—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 sand-paper 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 rosecoloured 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 déshabille, 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 play-bills, 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 pipeclay 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, but 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 sall 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 Bon-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 and 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 spic and span new blue military frock-coat, hooking and eyeing up to the chin, 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 arm 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 those 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. ‘Oui, 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 proceeded 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 patentleather 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 perigord pie that the Countess had got him to buy. He was extremely smart: thin black gauzesilk 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 Liliputian 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, preceded 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 ball. The Countess de Jackson (the wife of an English horse-dealer) lived in an entre-sol 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 a ‘salle à manger,’ radiated.
Agamemnon having opened the door of the fiacre, the Countess Benvolio took the Yorkshireman’s arm, and at once proceeded 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 Comtesse 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 knick-knacks, 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 card-room, 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 tray full of eau sucré glasses, ‘avez-vous kickshaws 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 up 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. 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 Eugène, 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 flabber-gaster!’ 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 retire into the card-room, 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 Eugène 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 are not the weapons of his country.’ Jorrocks then proposed to fight him with broadswords, 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-burdened with flesh, and had moreover taken lessons of Harry Hammer 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. ‘O 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—O 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 Eugène, 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 Ikey Pigg. I’ll damage his mug as Turner did Scroggins’. 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 night-capped 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 femme 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 mitigated by its proceeding from a stranger who appeared to have arrived through the undignified medium of a co-cou.1 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 ‘alley!’ to the driver, and off they jolted at a miserable 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 for 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:—
‘Proclamation!
‘I, John Jorrocks, of Great Coram Street, in the County of Middlesex, Member of the Surrey Hunt, in England, and Colonel of the army when I’m in France, having been grossly insulted by Charles Adolphe Eugène of No. 15 bis, Rue Poupée, Confectioner, this day repaired to Passy, with the intention of sarving him out with my fists; but, neither he not anyone for him having come to the scratch, I, John Jorrocks, do hereby proclaim the said Charles Adolphe Eugène to be a shabby fellow and no soldier, and totally unworthy the notice of a fox-hunter and a gentleman sportsman.
| ‘(Signed) | | John Jorrocks. |
| ‘(Countersigned) | | Stubbs.’ |
|
This being completed, and the bill paid, they returned leisurely on foot to Paris, looking first at one object, then at another, so that the Countess Benvolio’s dinner-hour was passed ere they reached the Tuileries gardens, where after resting themselves until it began to get dusk, and their appetites returned, they repaired to the Café de Paris to destroy them again. The lofty well-gilded salon was just lighted up, and the numberless lamps reflected in costly mirrors in almost every partition of the wall, aided by the graceful figures and elegant dresses of the ladies, interspersed among the sombrecoated gentry with here and there the gay uniforms of the military, imparted a fairy air to the scene, which was not a little heightened by the contrast produced by Mr. Jorrocks’s substantial figure stumping through the centre with his hat on his head, his hands behind his back, and the dust of the day hanging about his Hessians.
‘Garsoon,’ said he, hanging up his hat, and taking his place at a vacant table laid for two, ‘ge wouderai some wittles,’ and, accordingly, the spruce-jacketed, white-aproned garçon brought him the usual red-backed book with gilt edges, cut and lettered at the side, like the index to a ledger, and, as Mr. Jorrocks said, ‘containing reading enough for a month.’ ‘Quel potage voulez-vous, monsieur?’ inquired the garçon at last, tired of waiting while he studied the carte and looked the words out in the dictionary. ‘Avez-vous any potted lobster?’ ‘Non,’ said the garçon, ‘potage au vermicelle, au riz, à la Julienne, consommé, et potage aux choux.’ ‘Old shoe! who the devil do you think eats old shoes here? Have you any mock-turtle or gravy soup?’ ‘Non, monsieur,’ said the garçon, with a shrug of the shoulders. ‘Then avez-vous any roast beef?’ ‘Non, monsieur; nous avons bœuf au naturel—bœuf à la sauce piquante—bœuf aux cornichons—bœuf à la mode—bœuf aux choux—bœuf à la sauce tomate— bifteck aux pommes des terres.’ ‘Hold hard,’ said Jorrocks; ‘I’ve often heard that you can dress an egg a thousand ways, and I want to hear no more about it; bring me a beef-steak and pomme de terres for three.’ ‘Stop!’ cried Mr. Stubbs, with dismay—‘I see you don’t understand ordering a dinner in France—let me teach you. Where’s the carte?’ ‘Here,’ said Mr. Jorrocks, ‘is the “bill of lading,” ’ handing over the book. ‘Garçon, apportez une douzaine des huitres, un citron, et du beurre frais,’ said the Yorkshireman, and, while they were discussing the propriety of eating them before or after the soup, a beautiful dish of little green oysters made their appearance, which were encored before the first supply was finished. ‘Now, Colonel,’ said the Yorkshireman, ‘take a bumper of Chablis,’ lifting a pint bottle out of the cooler. ‘It has had one plunge in the ice-pail and no more—see what a delicate rind it leaves on the glass!’—eyeing it as he spoke. ‘Aye, but I’d rayther it should leave something in the mouth than on the side of the glass,’ replied Mr. Jorrocks; ‘I loves a good strong, generous wine—military port, in fact—but here comes fish and soup—wot are they?’ ‘Filet de sole au gratin, et potage au macaroni avec fromage de Parmesan. I’ll take fish first, because the soup will keep hot longest.’ ‘So will I,’ said Mr. Jorrocks, ‘for I think you understand the thing—but they seem to give werry small penn’orths—it really looks like trifling with one’s appetite—I likes the old joint—the cut-and-come-again system, such as we used to have at Sugden’s, in Cornhill —joint, wegitables, and cheese, all for two shillings.’ ‘Don’t talk of your joints here,’ rejoined the Yorkshireman—‘I told you before, you don’t understand the art of eating—the dexterity of the thing consists in titivating the appetite with delicate morsels so as to prolong the pleasure. A well-regulated French dinner lasts two hours, whereas you go off at score, and take the shine out of yourself before you turn the Tattenham Corner of your appetite. But come, take another glass of Chablis, for your voice is husky as though your throat was full of dust. Will you eat some of this boulli-vert?’ ‘No, not no boulevard for me, thank ye.’ ‘Well, then, we will have the “entré de bœuf”—beef with sauce tomate—and there is a cotelette de veau en papilotte; which will you take? ‘I’ll trouble the beef, I think; I don’t like that ere pantaloon cutlet much, the skin is so tough.’ ‘Oh, but you don’t eat the paper, man; that is only put on to keep this nice layer of fat ham from melting; take some, if it is only that you may enjoy a glass of champagne after it. There is no meat like veal for paving the way for a glass of champagne.’ ‘Well, I don’t care if I do, now you have explained how to eat it, for I’ve really been troubled with indigestion all day from eating one wholesale yesterday; but don’t you stand potatoes—pommes des terres, as we say in France!’ ‘Oh, yes, fried, and à la maître d’hôtel; here they come, smoking hot. Now, J., for a glass of champagne—take it out of the pail—nay, man! not with both hands round the middle, unless you like it warm—by the neck, so,’ showing him how to do it, and pouring him out a glass of still champagne. ‘This won’t do,’ said Jorrocks, holding it up to the candle; ‘garsoon! garsoon!—no good—no bon—no fizzay, no fizzay,’ giving the bottom of the bottle a slap to rouse it. ‘Oh, but this is still champagne,’ explained the Yorkshireman, ‘and far the best.’ ‘I don’t think so,’ retorted Mr. Jorrocks, emptying the glass into his water-stand. ‘Well, then, have a bottle of the other,’ rejoined the Yorkshireman, ordering one. ‘And who’s to pay for it?’ inquired Mr. Jorrocks. ‘Oh, never mind that— care killed the cat—give a loose to pleasure for once, for it’s a poor heart that never rejoices. Here it comes, and “may you never know what it is to want,” as the beggar boys say. Now, let’s see you treat it like a philosopher—the wire is off, so you’ve nothing to do but cut the string, and press the cork on one side with your thumb—Nay! you’ve cut both sides!’ fizz—pop— bang, and away went the cork close past the ear of an old deaf general, and bounded against the wall. ‘Come, there’s no mischief done, so pour out the wine. Your good health, old boy, may you live for a thousand years, and I be there to count them! Now, that’s what I call good,’ observed the Yorkshireman, holding up his glass, ‘see how it dulls the glass, even to the rim— champagne isn’t worth a copper unless it’s iced—is it, Colonel?’ ‘Vy, I don’t know—I carn’t say I like it so werry cold; it makes my teeth chatter, and cools my courage as it gets below—champagne certainly gives one werry gentlemanly ideas, but for a continuance, I don’t know but I should prefer mild h’ale.’ ‘You’re right, old boy, it does give one very gentlemanly ideas, so take another glass, and you’ll fancy yourself an emperor. Your good health again.’ ‘The same to you, sir. And now what do you call this chap?’ ‘That is a quail the other a snipe—which will you take?’ ‘Vy, a bit of both, I think; and do you eat these chaps with them?’ ‘Yes, nothing nicer—artichokes à la sauce blanche; you get the real eating part, you see, by having them sent up this way, instead of like haystacks, as they come in England, diving and burning your fingers amid an infinity of leaves.’ ‘They are werry pretty eating, I must confess; and this upper Binjimin of ham the birds are cooked in is delicious. I’ll trouble you for another plateful.’ ‘That’s right, Colonel, you are yourself again; I always thought you would come back into the right course. And now you are good for a glass of claret of light Hermitage. Come, buck up, and give a loose to pleasure for once.’ ‘For once, aye, that’s what you always say; but your once comes so werry often.’ ‘Say no more. Garçon! Une demi-bouteille de St. Julien; and here, J., is a dish upon which I will stake my credit as an experienced caterer—a Charlotte de pommes—upon my reputation it is a fine one, the crust is browned to a turn, and the rich apricot sweetmeat lies ensconced in the middle, like a sleeping babe in its cradle. If ever man deserved a peerage and a pension, it is this cook.’ ‘It’s werry delicious—order another.’ ‘Oh, your eyes are bigger than your stomach, Mr. J. According to all mathematical calculation this will more than suffice. Aye, I thought so—you are regularly at a standstill. Take a glass of whatever you like. Good—I’ll drink Chablis to your champagne. And now, that there may be no mistake as to our country, we will have some cheese—fromage de Roquefort, Gruyère, Neufchatel, or whatever you like, and a beaker of Burgundy after, and then remove the cloth, for I hate dabbling in dowlas after dinner is done.’
