Another very religious friend was no less fragile in the observance of his firm vow. Becoming a widower, he swore eternal fidelity to the "departed angel." Soon after, he was seen with another wife on his arm!
"And your angel?" whispered a sceptic in his ear.
"Oh, my friend!" was the reply, "this one is an archangel."
Another figure haunted Delsarte and afforded yet another proof of his tolerance. The Italian, C----, shared neither his political ideas nor his religious beliefs; he was one of those refugees whom the defeats of the Carbonari have cast upon our soil, and whose necessities France--does our neighbor remember this?--for years supplied, as if they were her own children. However, she could offer them but a precarious living.
Signer C., to give some charm to his wretched existence, desired to add to his scanty budget a strong dose of hope and intellectual enjoyment: hope in--what came later--the independence and unity of Italy. By way of diversion, this stranger gratified himself by indulging in a whim; he had dreams of a panacea, a plant whose complex virtues should combat all the evils which fall to the lot of poor humanity; but this marvel must be sought in America. And how was he to get there, when he could barely scrape together the necessary five cents to ride in an omnibus! The Isabellas of our day do not build ships for every new Columbus who desires to endow the world with some wonderful treasure trove! And yet this man was not mad; he was one of those who prove how many insane ideas a brain may cherish, without being entitled to a cell in Bedlam or Charenton.
While awaiting the realization of his golden dreams, poor C. spent his time in perpetual adoration of the Talma of Music--for so Théophile Gautier styled Delsarte; he never missed a lecture; he took part in the talks which lengthened out the evening when the parlor was at last cleared of superfluous guests.
Among his many manias--how many people have this one in common with him!--the Italian cherished the idea that he was of exceptional ability, and that in more than one direction. He proclaimed that Delsarte went far beyond everything that he knew--equal to all that could be imagined or desired in regard to art--but as for himself, C., was he not from a land where art is hereditary, where it is breathed in at every pore, from birth? And more than the mass of his countrymen, did he not feel the volcanic heat of the sacred fire burning within him?
One evening, he made a bold venture. He had prepared a tirade written by some Italian poet. All that I remember of it is that it began with the words: "Trema--Trema!" [Tremble--Tremble!]
The impromptu tragedian recited several lines in a declamatory tone accompanied by gestures to match. Delsarte listened without a sign of praise or blame. Then he rose, struck an attitude appropriate to the text, but perfectly natural, and, in his quiet way, said:
"Might not you as well give it in this key?" Then, in a voice of repressed harshness, his gestures subdued but expressive of hatred, he repeated the two words: "Trema--Trema!"