"How is dear mamma?" was his first question.
"Dead, and carried away by ugly men."
The winter of 1821 was unusually severe for Paris. One night Delsarte
and his brother fell asleep in each other's arms in the wretched loft
they occupied; but when the former opened his eyes to the morning's
light he was holding a corpse to his heart. The little boy had perished
of cold and starvation. Almost mad with terror and grief, the survivor
rushed into the streets to summon the neighbors.
The next day a little hatless boy, in rags and nearly barefooted,
followed two men bearing a small pine coffin which they deposited in the
_fosse commune_ of _Pere la Chaise_.
After seeing the grave covered, Delsarte left the cemetery and wandered
wearily through the snow, now utterly alone in the world, across the
plain of St. Denis. Overcome by cold, hunger, and grief, he sank to the
ground, and then, before he lost consciousness, a strain of music, real
or imaginary, met his ear and charmed him to a forgetfulness of misery,
bereavement, all the evils that environed him. It was the first
awakening of his artist soul, and to this day Delsarte believes that it
was no earthly music that he heard.
Rousing himself from a sort of stupor into which he had fallen, he saw a
_chiffonnier_ bending over him. The man had for a moment mistaken the
prostrate form for a bundle of rags; but taking pity on the half-frozen
lad, he placed him in his basket and carried him to his miserable home.
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