“Sprechen sie Deutsch?” responded the smoker, opening his eye a little wider, and taking the pipe from his mouth.  “Speak English, you fool,” bawled Mr. Jorrocks.  “Sie sind sehr unverschaemt” (you are very impudent), replied the Dutchman with a thump on the table.  “I’ll run you through the gizzard!” rejoined Mr. Jorrocks, half drawing his sword,—­“skin you alive, in fact!” when in rushed the Countess and threw herself between them.

Now, Mynheer Van Rosembom, a burgomaster of Flushing, was an old friend of the Countess’s, and an exceedingly good paying one, and having cast up that morning quite unexpectedly by the early diligence from Dunkirk, and the Countess being enraged at Mr. Jorrocks for not sharing the honours of his procession in the cab on the previous day, and believing, moreover, that his treasury was pretty well exhausted, thought she could not do better than instal Rosembom in his place, and retain the stakes she held for the Colonel’s board and lodging.

This arrangement she kept to herself, simply giving Rosembom, who was not a much better Frenchman than Col.  Jorrocks, to understand that the room would be ready for him shortly, and Agamemnon was ordered to bundle Mr. Jorrocks’s clothes into his portmanteau and bag, and place them in readiness in the ante-room.  Rosembom, fatigued with his journey, then retired to enjoy his pipe at his ease, while the Countess went to the Marche St. Honore to buy some sour crout, roast beef, and prunes for his dinner.

“Turn this great slush-bucket out of my room!” cried Mr. Jorrocks, as the Countess rushed into his apartment.  “Vot’s he doing here?”

“Doucement, mon cher Colonel,” said she, clapping him on the back, “he sall be my brodder.”  “Never such a thing!” roared Mr. Jorrocks, eyeing him as he spoke.  “Never such a thing! no more than myself—­out with him, I say, or I’ll cut my stick—­toute suite—­directly!”

“Avec tout mon coeur!” replied the Countess, her choler rising as she spoke.  “You’re another,” rejoined Mr. Jorrocks, judging by her manner that she called him something offensive—­“Vous ete one mauvaise woman!” “Monsieur,” said the Countess, her eyes flashing as she spoke, “vous etes un polisson!—­von rascal!—­von dem villain!—­un charlatan!—­von nasty—­bastely—­ross bif!—­dem dog!” and thereupon she curled her fingers and set her teeth on edge as though she would tear his very eyes out.  Rosembom, though he didn’t exactly see the merits of the matter, exchanged his pipe for the poker, so what with this, the sword, and the nails, things wore a very belligerent aspect.