"It is not a question of that sort of life," said the old nobleman,
gathering all his strength to raise himself to a sitting posture, for he
was stirred by one of those suspicions which are only born at the bedside
of the dying. "Listen, my son," he continued in a voice weakened by this
last effort. "I have no more desire to die than you have to give up your
lady loves, wine, horses, falcons, hounds and money----"

"I can well believe it," thought his son, kneeling beside the pillow and
kissing one of Bartholomeo's cadaverous hands. "But, father," he said
aloud, "my dear father, we must submit to the will of God!"

"God! I am also God!" growled the old man.

"Do not blaspheme!" cried the young man, seeing the menacing expression
which was overspreading his father's features. "Be careful what you say,
for you have received extreme unction and I should never be consoled if
you were to die in a state of sin."

"Are you going to listen to me?" cried the dying man, gnashing his
toothless jaws.

Don Juan held his peace. A horrible silence reigned. Through the dull wail
of the snowstorm came again the melody of the viol and the heavenly voice,
faint as the dawning day.

The dying man smiled.

"I thank you for having brought singers and music! A banquet, young and
beautiful women, with dark locks, all the pleasures of life. Let them