International Short Stories: French | Page 6

antique room of the old man,
in front of a sick bed and near a dying fire. A lamp standing on a table
of Gothic shape shed its streams of uneven light sometimes more,
sometimes less strongly upon the bed and showed the form of the old
man in ever-varying aspects. The cold air whistled through the insecure
windows, and the snow beat with a dull sound against the panes.
This scene formed so striking a contrast to the one which Don Juan had
just left that he could not help shuddering. He felt cold when, on
approaching the bed, a sudden flare of light, caused by a gust of wind,
illumined his father's face. The features were distorted; the skin,
clinging tightly to the bones, had a greenish tint, which was made the
more horrible by the whiteness of the pillows on which the old man
rested; drawn with pain, the mouth, gaping and toothless, gave breath
to sighs which the howling of the tempest took Tip and drew out into a
dismal wail. In spite of these signs of dissolution an incredible
expression of power shone in the face. The eyes, hallowed by disease,
retained a singular steadiness. A superior spirit was fighting there with
death. It seemed as if Bartholomeo sought to kill with his dying look
some enemy seated at the foot of his bed. This gaze, fixed and cold,
was made the more appalling by the immobility of the head, which was
like a skull standing on a doctor's table. The body, clearly outlined by
the coverlet, showed that the dying man's limbs preserved the same
rigidity. All was dead, except the eyes. There was something
mechanical in the sounds which came from the mouth. Don Juan felt a
certain shame at having come to the deathbed of his father with a

courtesan's bouquet on his breast, bringing with him the odors of a
banquet and the fumes of wine.
"You were enjoying yourself!" cried the old man, on seeing his son.
At the same moment the pure, high voice of a singer who entertained
the guests, strengthened by the chords of the viol by which she was
accompanied, rose above the roar of the storm and penetrated the
chamber of death. Don Juan would gladly have shut out this barbarous
confirmation of his father's words.
Bartholomeo said: "I do not grudge you your pleasure, my child."
These words, full of tenderness, pained Don Juan, who could not
forgive his father for such goodness.
"What, sorrow for me, father!" he cried.
"Poor Juanino," answered the dying man, "I have always been so gentle
toward you that you could not wish for my death?"
"Oh!" cried Don Juan, "if it were possible to preserve your life by
giving you a part of mine!" ("One can always say such things," thought
the spendthrift; "it is as if I offered the world to my mistress.")
The thought had scarcely passed through his mind when the old spaniel
whined. This intelligent voice made Don Juan tremble. He believed that
the dog understood him.
"I knew that I could count on you, my son," said the dying man. "There,
you shall be satisfied. I shall live, but without depriving you of a single
day of your life."
"He raves," said Don Juan to himself.
Then he said, aloud: "Yes, my dearest father, you will indeed live as
long as I do, for your image will be always in my heart."
"It is not a question of that sort of life," said the old nobleman,
gathering all his strength to raise himself to a sitting posture, for he was
stirred by one of those suspicions which are only born at the bedside of
the dying. "Listen, my son," he continued in a voice weakened by this
last effort. "I have no more desire to die than you have to give up your
lady loves, wine, horses, falcons, hounds and money----"
"I can well believe it," thought his son, kneeling beside the pillow and
kissing one of Bartholomeo's cadaverous hands. "But, father," he said
aloud, "my dear father, we must submit to the will of God!"
"God! I am also God!" growled the old man.
"Do not blaspheme!" cried the young man, seeing the menacing

expression which was overspreading his father's features. "Be careful
what you say, for you have received extreme unction and I should
never be consoled if you were to die in a state of sin."
"Are you going to listen to me?" cried the dying man, gnashing his
toothless jaws.
Don Juan held his peace. A horrible silence reigned. Through the dull
wail of the snowstorm came again the melody of the viol and the
heavenly voice, faint as the dawning day.
The dying man smiled.
"I thank you for