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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
That house looks as though it might be a hundred years old, but it was put up last year. Well, here's our house." The carriage drew up under the porte-cocher of a mansion built of cobble-stones. It was as strong as a battlement, but its outlines curved in obedience to gracefulness and yielded to the demand of striking effect.
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