ays of formal receptions or family gatherings. He kept her closely
confined to the house: not until she was forty did he consider that she
was old enough to be allowed to go out alone. Thus, the girl had no
friendship, no connection of any sort to lean upon; indeed, she no
longer had her younger brother with her, as he had gone to the United
States and enlisted in the American navy.

She was forbidden by her father to marry, he did not admit that she
would allow herself even to think of marrying and deserting him; all the
suitors who might have come forward he fought and rejected in advance,
in order not to leave his daughter the courage to speak to him on the
subject, if the occasion should ever arise.

Meanwhile our victories were stripping Italy of her treasures. The
masterpieces of Rome, Florence and Venice were hurrying to Paris.
Italian art was at a premium. Collectors no longer took pride in any
paintings but those of the Italian school. Monsieur de Varandeuil saw an
opening for a fortune in this change of taste. He, also, had fallen a
victim to the artistic dilettantism which was one of the refined
passions of the nobility before the Revolution. He had lived in the
society of artists and collectors; he admired pictures. It occurred to
him to collect a gallery of Italian works and then to sell them. Paris
was still overrun with the objects of art sold and scattered under the
Terror. Monsieur de Varandeuil began to walk back and forth through the
streets--they were the markets for large canvases in those days,--and at
every step he made a discovery; every day he purchased something. Soon
the small apartment was crowded with old, black paintings, so large for
the most part that the walls would not hold them with their frames, with
the result that there was no room for the furniture. These were
christened Raphael, Vinci, or Andrea del Sarto; there were none but
_chefs d'oeuvre_, and the father would keep his daughter standing in
front of them hours at a time, forcing his admiration upon her, wearying
her with his ecstatic flights. He would ascend from epithet to epithet,
would work himself into a state of intoxication, of delirium, and would
end by thinking that he was negotiating with an imaginary purchaser,
would dispute with him over the price of a masterpiece, and would cry
out: "A hundred thousand francs for my Rosso! yes, monsieur, a hundred
thousand francs!" His daughter, dismayed by the large amount of money