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 preeminent
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.
"Master, what a pity--you must leave us."
He made no answer.
When the second summons sounded, the same voice continued:
"There's no help for it; for us poor sinners, it's no matter! But you,
master, you cannot miss the mass!"
He put his hand to his head and considered.
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