of maturity that had invested her formerly too serene face. And she did not sing the bounding waltz from Romeo tonight, but an ample and passionate melody of Schubert, the Adieu.
Sitting alone in a corner, Dobouziez was hanging upon the sound of his daughter's voice, when he felt a hand upon his shoulder. He jumped. And Béjard whispered:
"Let's go into my study for a moment, father-in-law. I have something to say to you …"
The manufacturer, a little disappointed at being thus torn away from one of the few distractions that remained to him, followed his son-in-law, filled with dismay at the strange intonation in his voice.
When they were seated opposite each other in front of his desk, Béjard opened a drawer, rummaged through a set of pigeonholes, and handed a file of papers to Dobouziez.
"Will you kindly take note of these letters?"
He leaned back in his arm-chair, his fingers drumming upon the leather pads, while with his eyes he followed the impression made by the letters reflected in Dobouziez's face.
The manufacturer's face fell; he paled and his lips moved convulsively. Suddenly, he broke off reading.
"Will you please tell me what all this means?" he said, looking at his son-in-law with more distress than anger.
"Simply that I am ruined, that in a month, or perhaps two weeks, I shall be proclaimed a bankrupt … If you do not come to my assistance …"
"To your assistance!" And Dobouziez flew into a passion. "You wretch! Have I not already plunged myself in difficulties from which I cannot re-
