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 rôle 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 Belvidéro, 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, Belvidéro 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