Bartholomeo said: “I do not grudge you your pleasure, my child.”
These words, full of tenderness, pained Don Juan, who could not forgive his father for such goodness.
“What, sorrow for me, father!” he cried.
“Poor Juanino,” answered the dying man, “I have always been so gentle toward you that you could not wish for my death?”
“Oh!” cried Don Juan, “if it were possible to preserve your life by giving you a part of mine!” (“One can always say such things,” thought the spendthrift; “it is as if I offered the world to my mistress.”)
The thought had scarcely passed through his mind when the old spaniel whined. This intelligent voice made Don Juan tremble. He believed that the dog understood him.
“I knew that I could count on you, my son,” said the dying man. “There, you shall be satisfied. I shall live, but without depriving you of a single day of your life.”
“He raves,” said Don Juan to himself.
Then he said, aloud: “Yes, my dearest father, you will indeed live as long as I do, for your image will be always in my heart.”
“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——”