The women who in Paris might be counted by the dozens appeared here
in hundreds. The scandalous drunkenness here never came by chance,
but always by design as an indispensable part of the gaiety. All was
grandiose, glittering, colossal. The libertines diverted themselves
in platoons, the public got drunk in companies, the harlots presented
themselves in regiments. He felt a sensation of disgust before these
timid and servile females, accustomed to blows, who were so eagerly
trying to reimburse themselves for the losses and exposures of their
business. For him, it was impossible to celebrate with hoarse ha-has,
like his cousins, the discomfiture of these women when they realized
that they had wasted so many hours without accomplishing more than
abundant drinking. The gross obscenity, so public and noisy, like a
parade of riches, was loathsome to Julio. "There is nothing like this
in Paris," his cousins repeatedly exulted as they admired the stupendous
salons, the hundreds of men and women in pairs, the thousands of
tipplers. "No, there certainly was nothing like that in Paris." He was
sick of such boundless pretension. He seemed to be attending a fiesta
of hungry mariners anxious at one swoop to make amends for all former
privations. Like his father, he longed to get away. It offended his
aesthetic sense.
Don Marcelo returned from this visit with melancholy resignation.
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