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 elite 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 sacre-nom de-Dieu’d bete 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 Poupee”—­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-Garcons.”