“He might very likely have lived another hundred years!” he cried involuntarily.  Some diabolical influence had drawn him to his father, and again he gazed at that luminous spark.  The eyelid closed and opened again abruptly; it was like a woman’s sign of assent.  It was an intelligent movement.  If a voice had cried “Yes!” Don Juan could not have been more startled.

“What is to be done?” he thought.

He nerved himself to try to close the white eyelid.  In vain.

“Kill it?  That would perhaps be parricide,” he debated with himself.

“Yes,” the eye said, with a strange sardonic quiver of the lid.

“Aha!” said Don Juan to himself, “here is witchcraft at work!” And he went closer to crush the thing.  A great tear trickled over the hollow cheeks, and fell on Don Juan’s hand.

“It is scalding!” he cried.  He sat down.  The struggle exhausted him; it was as if, like Jacob of old, he was wrestling with an angel.

At last he rose.  “So long as there is no blood——­” he muttered.

Then, summoning all the courage needed for a coward’s crime, he extinguished the eye, pressing it with the linen cloth, turning his head away.  A terrible groan startled him.  It was the poor poodle, who died with a long-drawn howl.

“Could the brute have been in the secret?” thought Don Juan, looking down at the faithful creature.

Don Juan Belvidero was looked upon as a dutiful son.  He reared a white marble monument on his father’s tomb, and employed the greatest sculptors of the time upon it.  He did not recover perfect ease of mind till the day when his father knelt in marble before Religion, and the heavy weight of the stone had sealed the mouth of the grave in which he had laid the one feeling of remorse that sometimes flitted through his soul in moments of physical weariness.

He had drawn up a list of the wealth heaped up by the old merchant in the East, and he became a miser:  had he not to provide for a second lifetime?  His views of life were the more profound and penetrating; he grasped its significance, as a whole, the better, because he saw it across a grave.  All men, all things, he analyzed once and for all; he summed up the Past, represented by its records; the Present in the law, its crystallized form; the Future, revealed by religion.  He took spirit and matter, and flung them into his crucible, and found —­Nothing.  Thenceforward he became Don Juan.

At the outset of his life, in the prime of youth and the beauty of youth, he knew the illusions of life for what they were; he despised the world, and made the utmost of the world.  His felicity could not have been of the bourgeois kind, rejoicing in periodically recurrent bouilli, in the comforts of a warming-pan, a lamp of a night, and a new pair of slippers once a quarter.  Nay, rather he seized upon existence as a monkey snatches a nut, and after no long toying with it, proceeds deftly to strip off the mere husks to reach the savory kernel within.