From her bed she could see her father and mother, one by her side, the other in the workroom, the door of which had been left open.  Mamma Delobelle was lying back in her chair in the careless attitude of long-continued fatigue, heeded at last; and all the scars, the ugly sabre cuts with which age and suffering brand the faces of the old, manifested themselves, ineffaceable and pitiful to see, in the relaxation of slumber.  Desiree would have liked to be strong enough to rise and kiss that lovely, placid brow, furrowed by wrinkles which did not mar its beauty.

In striking contrast to that picture, the illustrious Delobelle appeared to his daughter through the open door in one of his favorite attitudes.  Seated before the little white cloth that bore his supper, with his body at an angle of sixty-seven and a half degrees, he was eating and at the same time running through a pamphlet which rested against the carafe in front of him.

For the first time in her life Desiree noticed the striking lack of harmony between her emaciated mother, scantily clad in little black dresses which made her look even thinner and more haggard than she really was, and her happy, well-fed, idle, placid, thoughtless father.  At a glance she realized the difference between the two lives.  What would become of them when she was no longer there?  Either her mother would work too hard and would kill herself; or else the poor woman would be obliged to cease working altogether, and that selfish husband, forever engrossed by his theatrical ambition, would allow them both to drift gradually into abject poverty, that black hole which widens and deepens as one goes down into it.

Suppose that, before going away—­something told her that she would go very soon—­before going away, she should tear away the thick bandage that the poor man kept over his eyes wilfully and by force?

Only a hand as light and loving as hers could attempt that operation.  Only she had the right to say to her father: 

“Earn your living.  Give up the stage.”

Thereupon, as time was flying, Desire Delobelle summoned all her courage and called softly: 

“Papa-papa”

At his daughter’s first summons the great man hurried to her side.  He entered Desiree’s bedroom, radiant and superb, very erect, his lamp in his hand and a camellia in his buttonhole.

“Good evening, Zizi.  Aren’t you asleep?”

His voice had a joyous intonation that produced a strange effect amid the prevailing gloom.  Desiree motioned to him not to speak, pointing to her sleeping mother.

“Put down your lamp—­I have something to say to you.”

Her voice, broken by emotion, impressed him; and so did her eyes, for they seemed larger than usual, and were lighted by a piercing glance that he had never seen in them.

He approached with something like awe.

“Why, what’s the matter, Bichette?  Do you feel any worse?”