women of Ferrara, the friends of Don Juan, and the prince
himself gave an exclamation of horror. Two hundred years later, under
Louis XV, well-bred persons would have laughed at this sally. But perhaps
at the beginning of an orgy the mind had still an unusual degree of
lucidity. Despite the heat of the candles, the intensity of the emotions,
the gold and silver vases, the fumes of wine, despite the vision of
ravishing women, perhaps there still lurked in the depths of the heart a
little of that respect for things human and divine which struggles until
the revel has drowned it in floods of sparkling wine. Nevertheless, the
flowers were already crushed, the eyes were steeped with drink, and
intoxication, to quote Rabelais, had reached even to the sandals. In the
pause that followed a door opened, and, as at the feast of Balthazar, God
manifested himself. He seemed to command recognition now in the person of
an old, white-haired 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 role 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 Belvidero, the father of Don Juan, was an old man of ninety,
who had devoted the grea