There was about him, moreover, something
irretrievably English, nay even pathetically Victorian--it was as if a
page of Dickens was shaking my friend's hand. "Count Bragard, I want you
to meet my friend Cummings"--he saluted me in modulated and courteous
accents of indisputable culture, gracefully extending his pale hand. "I
have heard a great deal about you from B., and wanted very much to meet
you. It is a pleasure to find a friend of my friend B., someone congenial
and intelligent in contrast to these swine"--he indicated the room with a
gesture of complete contempt. "I see you were strolling. Let us take a
turn." Monsieur Auguste said tactfully, "I'll see you soon, friends," and
left us with an affectionate shake of the hand and a sidelong glance of
jealousy and mistrust at B.'s respectable friend.
"You're looking pretty well today, Count Bragard," B. said amiably.
"I do well enough," the Count answered. "It is a frightful strain--you of
course realise that--for anyone who has been accustomed to the decencies,
let alone the luxuries, of life. This filth"--he pronounced the word with
indescribable bitterness--"this herding of men like cattle--they treat us
no better than pigs here. The fellows drop their dung in the very room
where they sleep.
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