“I myself prefer to sleep here,” he added condescendingly.  “This other habitation accords better with my tastes.”

While saying this, he was entering Dona Luisa’s rooms, admiring its Louis Quinze furniture of genuine value, with its dull golds and tapestries mellowed by time.  It was one of the most successful purchases that Don Marcelo had made.  The Count smiled with an artist’s scorn as he recalled the man who had superintended the official sacking.

“What an ass! . . .  To think that he left this behind, supposing that it was old and ugly!”

Then he looked the owner of the castle squarely in the face.

“Monsieur Desnoyers, I do not believe that I am committing any indiscretion, and even imagine that I am interpreting your desires when I inform you that I intend taking this set of furniture with me.  It will serve as a souvenir of our acquaintance, a testimony to the friendship springing up between us. . . .  If it remains here, it will run the risk of being destroyed.  Warriors, of course, are not obliged to be artists.  I will guard these excellent treasures in Germany where you may see them whenever you wish.  We are all going to be one nation, you know. . . .  My friend, the Emperor, is soon to be proclaimed sovereign of the French.”

Desnoyers remained silent.  How could he reply to that look of cruel irony, to the grimace with which the noble lord was underscoring his words? . . .

“When the war is ended, I will send you a gift from Berlin,” he added in a patronizing tone.

The old collector could say nothing to that, either.  He was looking at the vacant spots which many small pictures had left on the walls, paintings by famous masters of the XVIII century.  The banded brigand must also have passed these by as too insignificant to carry off, but the smirk illuminating the Count’s face revealed their ultimate destination.

He had carefully scrutinized the entire apartment—­the adjoining bedroom, Chichi’s, the bathroom, even the feminine robe-room of the family, which still contained some of the daughter’s gowns.  The warrior fondled with delight the fine silky folds of the materials, gloating over their cool softness.

This contact made him think of Paris, of the fashions, of the establishments of the great modistes.  The rue de la Paix was the spot which he most admired in his visits to the enemy’s city.

Don Marcelo noticed the strong mixture of perfumes which came from his hair, his moustache, his entire body.  Various little jars from the dressing table were on the mantel.

“What a filthy thing war is!” exclaimed the German.  “This morning I was at last able to take a bath after a week’s abstinence; at noon I shall take another.  By the way, my dear sir, these perfumes are good, but they are not elegant.  When I have the pleasure of being presented to the ladies, I shall give them the addresses of my source of supply. . . .  I use in my home essences from Turkey.  I have many friends there. . . .  At the close of the war, I will send a consignment to the family.”