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Updated: August 6, 2024
B., Fritz, Harree, Pompom, Monsieur Auguste, The Bear, and the last but not least Count de Bragard immediately informed the trembling planton that I was a Nouveau who had just returned from the douches to which I had been escorted by Monsieur Reeshar, and that I should be admitted to the cour by all means.
With the exception of these enthusiastic watchers, the other captives evidenced vague amusement excepting Count Bragard who said with lofty disgust that it was "no better than a bloody knocking 'ouse, Mr. Cummings" and Monsieur Pet-airs whose annoyance amounted to agony. Of course these twain were, comparatively speaking, old men....
"Dat fat feller" bought enough at the canteen twice every day to stock a transatlantic liner for seven voyages, and never ace with the prisoners. I will mention him again apropos the Mecca of respectability, the Great White Throne of purity, Three rings Three alias Count Bragard, to whom I have long since introduced my reader. So we come, willy-nilly, to The Fighting Sheeney.
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 shall tell him it's a dirty bloody shame that you two young Americans, gentlemen born, should be in this foul place. He's a man who's quick to act. He'll not tolerate a thing like this an outrage, a bloody outrage, upon two of his own countrymen. We shall see what happens then." It was during this period that Count Bragard lent us for our personal use his greatest treasure, a water glass.
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." "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.
Ce n'est pas une existence" his French was glib and faultless. "I was telling my friend that you knew Cezanne," said B. "Being an artist he was naturally much interested." Count Bragard stopped in astonishment, and withdrew his hands slowly from the tails of his coat. "Is it possible!" he exclaimed, in great agitation. "What an astonishing coincidence! I am myself a painter.
"Bless you, yes, scores of times," he answered almost pityingly. "What did he look like?" I asked, with great curiosity. "Look like? His appearance, you mean?" Count Bragard seemed at a loss. "Why he was not extraordinary looking. I don't know how you could describe him. Very difficult in English.
Even such staid characters as Count Bragard set up a little bawling. Monsieur Pet-airs uttered a tiny aged crowing to my immense astonishment and delight. The dying, the sick, the ancient, the mutilated, made their contributions to the common pandemonium.
Moreover, as I have said, Count Bragard had been playing up to the poor Spanish Whoremaster to beat the band.
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