That remark and the tone in which it was made angered Desiree and strengthened her determination. She continued, without pity for the actor’s illusions:
“What will become of you two when I am no longer here? Oh! I know that you have great hopes, but it takes them a long while to come to anything. The results you have waited for so long may not arrive for a long time to come; and until then what will you do? Listen! my dear father, I would not willingly hurt you; but it seems to me that at your age, as intelligent as you are, it would be easy for you—I am sure Monsieur Risler Aine would ask nothing better.”
She spoke slowly, with an effort, carefully choosing her words, leaving long pauses between every two sentences, hoping always that they might be filled by a movement, an exclamation from her father. But the actor did not understand.
“I think that you would do well,” pursued Desiree, timidly, “I think that you would do well to give up—”
“Eh?—what?—what’s that?”
She paused when she saw the effect of her words. The old actor’s mobile features were suddenly contracted under the lash of violent despair; and tears, genuine tears which he did not even think of concealing behind his hand as they do on the stage, filled his eyes but did not flow, so tightly did his agony clutch him by the throat. The poor devil began to understand.
She murmured twice or thrice:
“To give up—to give up—”
Then her little head fell back upon the pillow, and she died without having dared to tell him what he would do well to give up.