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 greater part of his life to business.  Having traveled much in Oriental countries he had acquired there great wealth and learning more precious, he said, than gold or diamonds, to which he no longer gave more than a passing thought.  “I value a tooth more than a ruby,” he used to say, smiling, “and power more than knowledge.”  This good father loved to hear Don Juan relate his youthful adventures, and would say, banteringly, as he lavished money upon him:  “Only amuse yourself, my dear child!” Never did an old man find such pleasure in watching a young man.  Paternal love robbed age of its terrors in the delight of contemplating so brilliant a life.

At the age of sixty, Belvidero had become enamored of an angel of peace and beauty.  Don Juan was the sole fruit of this late love.  For fifteen years the good man had mourned the loss of his dear Juana.  His many servants and his son attributed the strange habits he had contracted to this grief.  Bartholomeo lodged himself in the most uncomfortable wing of his palace and rarely went out, and even Don Juan could not intrude into his father’s apartment without first obtaining permission.  If this voluntary