It was an exquisite pleasure for the doting father to let the time slip
by seated on the divan which still seemed to guard the very hollow made
by Julio's body, gazing at the canvases covered with color by his brush,
toasting his toes by the beat of a stove which roared so cosily in the
profound, conventual silence. It certainly was an agreeable refuge, full
of memories in the midst of monotonous Paris so saddened by the war
that he could not meet a friend who was not preoccupied with his own
troubles.
His former purchasing dissipations had now lost all charm for him. The
Hotel Drouot no longer tempted him. At that time, the goods of German
residents, seized by the government, were being auctioned off;--a
felicitous retaliation for the enforced journey which the fittings of
the castle of Villeblanche had taken on the road to Berlin; but the
agents told him in vain of the few competitors which he would now meet.
He no longer felt attracted by these extraordinary bargains. Why buy
anything more? . . . Of what use was such useless stuff? Whenever he
thought of the hard life of millions of men in the open field, he felt
a longing to lead an ascetic life. He was beginning to hate the
ostentatious splendors of his home on the avenue Victor Hugo. He now
recalled without a regretful pang, the destruction of the castle. No,
he was far better off there .
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