One day Delsarte, granting one of those favors of which he was never
lavish, consented to sing a composition of which he was particularly
fond, to a few friends. It was the air from Mehul's "Joseph:" "Vainly
doth Pharaoh ..."
Mme. Delsarte, always ready at the first call, took her seat at the
piano.
The master was in the mood--that is, in full possession of all his
powers. His pathos was heartrending.
"You won a great triumph," I said to him; "I saw tears in Mme.
Delsarte's eyes."
"My wife's eyes," he cried as if struck by surprise, "are you quite
sure?"
"Perfectly," I replied.
He seemed greatly pleased. Putting aside all other feeling, it was no
slight triumph to move to such a point one who assisted at and sat
through his daily lessons for hours at a time.
A few years sufficed to form a family around this very young couple. It
was soon a charming accessory to see children fluttering about the
house; slipping in among the scholars; showing a furtive head--dark or
light--at one of the doors of the lecture-room. Let me recall their
names: The eldest were Henri, Gustave, Adrien, Xavier, Marie; then came
after a long interval, Andre and Madeleine.
Delsarte loved them madly; for their future he dreamed all the dreams of
the Arabian Nights. Meantime, he played with them so happily that he
seemed to take a personal delight in it.
He gave them all the joys of this life that were within his reach, and
it was well that he did so! Alas! of the dreams of glory cherished for
these beloved beings, some few were realized, but many faded promptly
with the existence of those who called them forth.
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