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!"
