Complete Works of R S Surtees

by R S Surtees

  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 re
ported 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. 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.

  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 Eugene 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 nor any one for him having come to the scratch, I, John Jorrocks, do hereby proclaim the said Charles Adolphe Eugene 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 sombre-coated 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.” “Quelle 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, a 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 boeuf au naturel — boeuf à la sauce piquante — boeuf aux cornichons — boeuf à la mode — boeuf aux choux — boeuf à la sauce tomate — bifteck aux pommes de terre.” “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 pommes de terre 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 huîtres, 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. “Ay, 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 b
efore 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 bouleward for me thank ye.” “Well, then, we will have the ‘entrée de boeuf — beef with sauce tomate — and there is a côtelette de veau en papillotte; — 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 de terre, as we say in France?” “Oh yes, fried, and à la maître d’hotel; 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 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 with his hand 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 — 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 hale.” “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 wot 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 á 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 Binjamin 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, ay, that’s what you always say; but your once comes so werry often.” “Say no more. — Garçon! un 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 sweet-meat 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 calculations, this will more than suffice. Ay, I thought so — you are regularly at a stand-still. 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.” “Rum beggars these French,” said Mr. Jorrocks to himself, laying down the newspaper, and taking a sip of Churchman’s chocolate, as on the Sunday morning he sat with the Countess Benvolio, discussing rolls and butter, with Galignani’s Messenger, for breakfast.