short, the noise of a merry troop trying to collect itself in some sort of
order. The door opened and the prince, the seven women, the friends of Don
Juan and the singers, appeared, in the fantastic disorder of dancers
overtaken by the morning, when the sun disputes the paling light of the
candles. They came to offer the young heir the conventional condolences.

"Oh, oh, is poor Don Juan really taking this death seriously?" said the
prince in la Brambilla's ear.

"Well, his father was a very good man," she replied.

Nevertheless, Don Juan's nocturnal meditations had printed so striking an
expression upon his face that it commanded silence. The men stopped,
motionless. The women, whose lips had been parched with wine, threw
themselves on their knees and began to pray. Don Juan could not help
shuddering as he saw this splendor, this joy, laughter, song, beauty, life
personified, doing homage thus to Death. But in this adorable Italy
religion and revelry were on such good terms that religion was a sort of
debauch and debauch religion. The prince pressed Don Juan's hand
affectionately, then all the figures having given expression to the same
look, half-sympathy, half-indifference, the phantasmagoria disappeared,
leaving the chamber empty. It was, indeed, a faithful image of life! Going
down the stairs the prince said to la Rivabarella:

"Heigho! who would have thought Don Juan a mere boaster of impiety? He
loved his father, after all!"

"Did you notice the black dog?" asked la Brambilla.

"He is immensely rich now," sighed Bianca Cavatolini.