Page:The Enormous Room.pdf/175

164 Bragard conceived an immediate fondness for this rolypoly individual, whose belly—as he lay upon his back of a morning in bed—rose up with the sheets, blankets and quilts as much as two feet above the level of his small, stupid head studded with chins. I have said that this admiration on the part of the admirable Count and R. A. for a personage of the Spanish Whoremaster's profession somewhat interested me. The fact is, a change had recently come in our own relations with Vanderbilt's friend. His cordiality toward B. and myself had considerably withered. From the time of our arrivals the good nobleman had showered us with favours and advice. To me, I may say, he was even extraordinarily kind. We talked painting, for example: Count Bragard folded a piece of paper, tore it in the centre of the folded edge, unfolded it carefully, exhibiting a good round hole, and remarking: "Do you know this trick? It's an English trick, Mr. Cummings," held the paper before him and gazed profoundly through the circular aperture at an exceptionally disappointing section of the altogether gloomy landscape, visible thanks to one of the ecclesiastical windows of The Enormous Room. "Just look at that, Mr. Cummings," he said with quiet dignity. I looked. I tried my best to find something to the left. "No, no, straight through," Count Bragard corrected me. "There's a lovely bit of landscape," he said sadly. "If I only had my paints here. I thought, you know, of asking my housekeeper to send them on from Paris—but how can you paint in a bloody place like this with all these bloody pigs around you? It's ridiculous to think of it. And it's tragic, too," he added grimly, with something like tears in his grey, tired eyes.

Or we were promenading The Enormous Room after supper—the evening promenade in the cour having been officially eliminated owing to the darkness and the cold of the autumn twilight—and through the windows the dull bloating colours of sunset pouring faintly; and the Count stops dead in his tracks and regards the sunset without speaking for a number of seconds. Then—"it's glorious, isn't it?" he asks quietly. I say "Glorious indeed." He resumes his walk with a sigh, and I