fine carriage, well proportioned, with beautiful black eyes and a
head like Tiberius. He was wearied with fasting, pale and worn, and
continually battling with temptation, like all recluses. The old nobleman
still hoped perhaps to be able to kill a monk before finishing his first
lease of life. But, whether the Abbot was as clever as Don Juan, or
whether Dona Elvira had more prudence or virtue than Spain usually accords
to women, Don Juan was obliged to pass his last days like a country
parson, without scandal. Sometimes he took pleasure in finding his wife
and son remiss in their religious duties, and insisted imperiously that
they should fulfil all the obligations imposed upon the faithful by the
court of Rome. He was never so happy as when listening to the gallant
Abbot of San Lucas, Dona Elvira and Philippe engaged in arguing a case of
conscience.

Nevertheless, despite the great care which the lord of Belvidero bestowed
upon his person, the days of decrepitude arrived. With this age of pain
came cries of helplessness, cries made the more piteous by the remembrance
of his impetuous youth and his ripe maturity. This man, for whom the last
jest in the farce was to make others believe in the laws and principles at
which he scoffed, was compelled to close his eyes at night upon an
uncertainty. This model of good breeding, this duke spirited in an orgy,
this brilliant courtier, gracious toward women, whose hearts he had wrung
as a peasant bends a willow wand, this man of genius, had an obstinate
cough, a troublesome sciatica and a cruel gout. He saw his teeth leave
him, as, at the end of an evening, the fairest, best dressed women depart
one by one, leaving the ballroom deserted and empty. His bold hands
trembled, his graceful limbs tottered, and then one night apoplexy turned
its hooked and icy fingers around his throat. From this fateful day he
became morose and harsh. He accused his wife and son of being insincere in
their devotion, charging that their touching and gentle care was showered
upon him so tenderly only because his money was all invested. Elvira and
Philippe shed bitter tears, and redoubled their caresses to this malicious
old man, whose broken voice would become affectionate to say:

"My friends, my dear wife, you will forgive me, will you not? I torment
you sometimes. Ah, great God, how canst Thou make use of me thus to prove
these two angelic creatures! I, who should be their joy, am their bane!"

It w