He soon acknowledged the truth of these predictions; he confessed it in his moments of candor.
One of these feigned converts, especially, scandalized him. The story deserves repetition:
The church of the Petits-Pères had ordered the wax figure of a freshly canonized saint, from Rome. Delsarte mentioned it to the school, and several pupils went to see it.
"Ah, sir!" cried young D. on his return, "now, indeed, I am a Catholic! How lovely she is, how fresh and fair after lying underground so long!"
"Unhappy fellow!" said the disappointed artist, "he takes the image for the reality, and the beauty of a waxen St. Philomena has converted him."
The young man had heard that the preservation of the flesh, after a hundred years' burial, counted for much in canonization, if it did not suffice to justify it; and as the place where they had deposited the sacred image was dark, D. had taken for life itself the pink and white complexion common to such figures before time has yellowed them.
Delsarte ended by being amused at his credulity; he laughed readily and was not fond of sulking. Nor must we forget that this preëminent tragedian was a perfect comedian, and that this fact entitled him to true enjoyment of the humorous side of life. Have I not somewhere read: "Beware of those who never laugh!"
Delsarte's piety--I speak of that of the letter--was seldom morose. It did not forbid juvenile caprices; it overlooked venial sins.
One Sunday he took his scholars to Nanterre, some to perform, others to hear, a mass of his own composition. A few friends joined the party. The mass over, they wandered into the country in groups. Some walked; some sat upon the grassy turf. The air was pleasant, the conversation animated; time passed quickly.
Suddenly the vesper bell was heard. Some one drew Delsarte's attention to it--not without a tiny grain of malice.