One evening one of these priests was in a neighboring room, the doors of
which were open into the drawing-room. If the songs seemed too profane,
he kept out of sight; but so soon as the word _God_ was pronounced or a
religious thought was mingled with a romance, or operatic aria, the
servant of the altar appeared boldly, rejoiced at these brief harvests
which allowed him to enjoy the whole picture.
To give a correct idea of one of these evenings, I will copy an account
which I have just written under the heading of "Recent Memories."
By half-past eight, almost all the guests have assembled. A stir is
heard in the next room. "He is coming ... it is he!" is whispered on
every hand. The master enters, followed by his pupils. Almost at the
same instant a young woman glides up to the piano. She is to accompany
the singers; she enters furtively, timidly, as if she were not the
mistress of the house. She is beautiful, but she does not wish this to
be noticed; she has much talent, but she disguises it by her calm and
severe style of playing, which does not prevent critical ears from
noting her exactitude and precision, combined with that rare spirit of
abnegation which is the accompanist's supreme virtue.
Delsarte takes his place by the piano; his attentive gaze traverses the
assembly; he exchanges a smile, a friendly gesture with certain of the
audience who are always much envied. At this moment he is grave,
serious, and as it were, penetrated by his responsibility to an audience
who hang devoutly on his lips.
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