He had left his wife installed among his art treasures—his “children,” as he called them—in the mansion he had built on avenue d’Iena in Paris. He himself alternated between suites at the Ritz in Paris or, in London, at the Ritz or the Carlton Hotel, attended by a succession of mistresses, at least one of whom at all times, on the basis of “medical advice,” had to be eighteen years or younger in order to rejuvenate his sexual vigor. He could be seen once or twice a day, taking his constitutional in the Bois de Boulogne or in Hyde Park, his limousine trailing behind him. The rest of the time he
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He was a pedofile, no wife, constantly bussy by the standarts of his time. He probably had a low self esteem too for he got so angry when he was called an oil merchant
