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 garcon!” 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 ecarte well, I’ll back your play, and, perhaps, we may do something between us.”