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He was also constantly appealed to by Monsieur d'Agreste or the count, to settle a dispute about the age of the china, or the original home of the various old chests scattered about the room. "Paul, your stained glass shows up well in this light," the count called out, wiping his mustache over his soup-plate.
The chien de race was the dominant note now in the muscular, supple body, the keen-edged nostrils, and the intent gaze of the liquid eyes. These latter were fixed with the fixity of a savage on Charm. She was giving, in a sweet sibilant murmur, the man seated next her Monsieur d'Agreste, the man who refused to bear his title her views of the girl.
No, the count had not read it but he could read the story of a beautiful nature when he encountered one, and presently he allowed Charm to see how absorbing he found its perusal. "Ah, bien et tout de meme Zola, yes, he writes terrible books; but he is a good man a model husband and father," continued Monsieur d'Agreste, addressing the table.
The murmur of their talk and their laughter reached us, along with the froufrou of their silken petticoats. "You were not bored, chere enfant, driving Monsieur d'Agreste all that long distance?" The countess was smiling tenderly into her companion's face. She had stopped her to readjust the geranium sprig that was drooping in her friend's cover-coat.
His philosophic reflections produced as much effect on her vivacious excitability as they might on a restless Skye-terrier. "Yes, yes he's entirely right, is Monsieur d'Agreste; he has got to the bottom of things. One must keep in step with modernity one must be fin de siecle. Comtesse, you should hunt; there is nothing like a fox or a boar to make life worth living.
Monsieur d'Agreste was beginning to wake up; his eyes, hitherto, alone had been alive; his hands had been busy, crunching his bread; but his tongue had been silent. "Ah h science! Science is only another anaesthetic it merely helps to kill time. It is a hobby, like any other," was the countess's rejoinder. "Perhaps," courteously returned Monsieur d'Agreste, with perfect sweetness of temper.
He explained then that the handsome brunette was a widow, a certain Baronne d'Autun, noted for her hunting and her conquests; the last on the latter list was Monsieur d'Agreste, a former admirer of the countess; he was somewhat famous as a scientist and socialist, so good a socialist as to refuse to wear his title of duke.
"Ah, comtesse, you should not have parted so early in life with all your illusions," was Monsieur d'Agreste's protest across the table. "And, Monsieur d'Agreste, it isn't given to us all to go to the ends of the earth, as you do, in search of new ones! This friction of living doesn't wear on you as it does on the rest of us."
I'll warrant that Mees Gay that is her name, is it not? has read Zola, for instance; and yet, see how simple and innocent yes innocent, she looks." "Yes, the innocence of experience which knows how to hide," said Monsieur d'Agreste, with a slight shrug.
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