mirth, horses pawed the ground in the courtyards, pages
quarreled and flung dice upon the stairs, but Bartolommeo ate his seven
ounces of bread daily and drank water. A fowl was occasionally dressed
for him, simply that the black poodle, his faithful companion, might
have the bones. Bartolommeo never complained of the noise. If the
huntsmen's horns and baying dogs disturbed his sleep during his illness,
he only said, "Ah! Don Juan has come back again." Never on earth
has there been a father so little exacting and so indulgent; and,
in consequence, young Belvidero, accustomed to treat his father
unceremoniously, had all the faults of a spoiled child. He treated
old Bartolommeo as a wilful courtesan treats an elderly adorer; buying
indemnity for insolence with a smile, selling good-humor, submitting to
be loved.

Don Juan, beholding scene after scene of his younger years, saw that it
would be a difficult task to find his father's indulgence at fault. Some
new-born remorse stirred the depths of his heart; he felt almost ready
to forgive this father now about to die for having lived so long. He
had an accession of filial piety, like a thief's return in thought to
honesty at the prospect of a million adroitly stolen.

Before long Don Juan had crossed the lofty, chilly suite of rooms in
which his father lived; the penetrating influences of the damp close
air, the mustiness diffused by old tapestries and presses thickly
covered with dust had passed into him, and now he stood in the old man's
antiquated room, in the repulsive presence of the deathbed, beside a
dying fire. A flickering lamp on a Gothic table sent broad uncertain
shafts of light, fainter or brighter, across the bed, so that the dying
man's face seemed to wear a different look at every moment. The bitter
wind whistled through the crannies of the ill-fitting casements; there
was a smothered sound of snow lashing the windows. The harsh contrast of
these sights and sounds with the scenes which Don Juan had just quitted
was so sudden that he could not help shuddering. He turned cold as he
came towards the bed; the lamp flared in a sudden vehement gust of
wind and lighted up his father's face; the features were wasted and
distorted; the skin that cleaved to their bony outlines had taken wan
livid hues, all the more ghastly by force of contrast with the white
pillows on which he lay. The muscles about the toothless mouth had
contracted with pain and drawn apart the lip