ho died for me," replied the duke in a
voice which trembled slightly, "do not laugh, my friend, it offends me."

THE ELIXIR OF LIFE

BY HONORE DE BALZAC

In a sumptuous palace of Ferrara, one winter evening, Don Juan Belvidero
was entertaining a prince of the house of Este. In those days a banquet
was a marvelous affair, which demanded princely riches or the power of a
nobleman. Seven pleasure-loving women chatted gaily around a table lighted
by perfumed candles, surrounded by admirable works of art whose white
marble stood out against the walls of red stucco and contrasted with the
rich Turkey carpets. Clad in satin, glittering with gold and laden with
gems which sparkled only less brilliantly than their eyes, they all told
of passions, intense, but of various styles, like their beauty. They
differed neither in their words nor their ideas; but an expression, a
look, a motion or an emphasis served as a commentary, unrestrained,
licentious, melancholy or bantering, to their words.

One seemed to say: "My beauty has power to rekindle the frozen heart of
age." Another: "I love to repose on soft cushions and think with rapture
of my adorers." A third, a novice at these fetes, was inclined to blush.
"At the bottom of my heart I feel compunction," she seemed to say. "I am a
Catholic and I fear hell; but I love you so--ah, so dearly--that I would
sacrifice eternity to you!" The fourth, emptying a cup of Chian wine,
cried: "Hurrah, for pleasure! I begin a new existence with each dawn.
Forgetful of the past, still intoxicated with the violence of yesterday's
pleasures, I embrace a new life of happiness, a life filled with love."

The woman sitting next to Belvidero looked at him with flashing eyes. She
was silent. "I should have no need to call on a bravo to kill my lover if
he abandoned me." Then she had laughed; but a comfit dish of marvelous
workmanship was shattered between her nervous fingers.

"When are you to be grand duke?" asked the sixth of the prince, with an
expression of murderous glee on her lips and a look of Bacchanalian frenzy
in her eyes.

"And when is your father going to die?" said the seventh, laughing and
throwing her bouquet to Don Juan with maddening coquetry. She was an
innocent young girl who was accustomed to play with sacred things.

"Oh, don't speak of it!" cried the young and handsome Don Juan. "There is
only one immortal father in the world, and unfortunately he is mine!"

The seven