Then--"it's glorious, isn't it?" he asks quietly. I say
"Glorious indeed." He resumes his walk with a sigh, and I accompany him.
"_Ce n'est pas difficile a peindre, un coucher du soleil_, it's not
hard," he remarks gently. "No?" I say with deference. "Not hard a bit,"
the Count says, beginning to use his hands. "You only need three colours,
you know. Very simple." "Which colours are they?" I inquire ignorantly.
"Why, you know of course," he says surprised. "Burnt sienna, cadmium
yellow, and--er--there! I can't think of it. I know it as well as I know
my own face. So do you. Well, that's stupid of me."
Or, his worn eyes dwelling benignantly upon my duffle-bag, he warns me
(in a low voice) of Prussian Blue.
"Did you notice the portrait hanging in the bureau of the Surveillant?"
Count Bragard inquired one day. "That's a pretty piece of work, Mr.
Cummings. Notice it when you get a chance. The green moustache,
particularly fine. School of Cezanne."--"Really?" I said in
surprise.--"Yes, indeed," Count Bragard said, extracting his
tired-looking hands from his tired-looking trousers with a cultured
gesture. "Fine young fellow painted that. I knew him. Disciple of the
master. Very creditable piece of work.
Pages:
238
239
240
241
242
243
244
245
246
247
248
249
250
251
252
253
254
255
256
257
258
259
260
261
262