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-Garcons.—­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 troisieme,” 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