International Short Stories: French | Page 5

servant with
unsteady gait and drawn brows; he entered with gloomy mien and his
look seemed to blight the garlands, the ruby cups, the pyramids of fruits,
the brightness of the feast, the glow of the astonished faces and the
colors of the cushions dented by the white arms of the women; then he
cast a pall over this folly by saying, in a hollow voice, the solemn
words: "Sir, your father is dying!"
Don Juan rose, making a gesture to his guests, which might be
translated: "Excuse me, this does not happen every day."
Does not the death of a parent often overtake young people thus in the
fulness of life, in the wild enjoyment of an orgy? Death is as
unexpected in her caprices as a woman in her fancies, but more
faithful--Death has never duped any one.
When Don Juan had closed the door of the banquet hall and walked
down the long corridor, which was both cold and dark, he compelled
himself to assume a mask, for, in thinking of his rôle of son, he had cast
off his merriment as he threw down his napkin. The night was black.
The silent servant who conducted the young man to the death chamber,

lighted the way so insufficiently that Death, aided by the cold, the
silence, the gloom, perhaps by a reaction of intoxication, was able to
force some reflections into the soul of the spendthrift; he examined his
life, and became thoughtful, like a man involved in a lawsuit when he
sets out for the court of justice.
Bartholomeo Belvidéro, the father of Don Juan, was an old man of
ninety, who had devoted the greater part of his life to business. Having
traveled much in Oriental countries he had acquired there great wealth
and learning more precious, he said, than gold or diamonds, to which
he no longer gave more than a passing thought. "I value a tooth more
than a ruby," he used to say, smiling, "and power more than
knowledge." This good father loved to hear Don Juan relate his
youthful adventures, and would say, banteringly, as he lavished money
upon him: "Only amuse yourself, my dear child!" Never did an old man
find such pleasure in watching a young man. Paternal love robbed age
of its terrors in the delight of contemplating so brilliant a life.
At the age of sixty, Belvidéro had become enamored of an angel of
peace and beauty. Don Juan was the sole fruit of this late love. For
fifteen years the good man had mourned the loss of his dear Juana. His
many servants and his son attributed the strange habits he had
contracted to this grief. Bartholomeo lodged himself in the most
uncomfortable wing of his palace and rarely went out, and even Don
Juan could not intrude into his father's apartment without first obtaining
permission. If this voluntary recluse came or went in the palace or in
the streets of Ferrara he seemed to be searching for something which he
could not find. He walked dreamily, undecidedly, preoccupied like a
man battling with an idea or with a memory. While the young man
gave magnificent entertainments and the palace re-echoed his mirth,
while the horses pawed the ground in the courtyard and the pages
quarreled at their game of dice on the stairs, Bartholomeo ate seven
ounces of bread a day and drank water. If he asked for a little poultry it
was merely that he might give the bones to a black spaniel, his faithful
companion. He never complained of the noise. During his illness if the
blast of horns or the barking of dogs interrupted his sleep, he only said:
"Ah, Don Juan has come home." Never before was so untroublesome
and indulgent a father to be found on this earth; consequently young
Belvidéro, accustomed to treat him without ceremony, had all the faults

of a spoiled child. His attitude toward Bartholomeo was like that of a
capricious woman toward an elderly lover, passing off an impertinence
with a smile, selling his good humor and submitting to be loved. In
calling up the picture of his youth, Don Juan recognized that it would
be difficult to find an instance in which his father's goodness had failed
him. He felt a newborn remorse while he traversed the corridor, and he
very nearly forgave his father for having lived so long. He reverted to
feelings of filial piety, as a thief returns to honesty in the prospect of
enjoying a well-stolen million.
Soon the young man passed into the high, chill rooms of his father's
apartment. After feeling a moist atmosphere and breathing the heavy air
and the musty odor which is given forth by old tapestries and furniture
covered with dust, he found himself in the