The young musician took the coup de grace bravely; without a word he gave the comte his hand in mute acceptance of his fate, and bowed himself out.  The true bitterness of his loss he sought to hide by fleeing to the Church.  His love had been pure and ardent.  It had been found impossible.  His hopes had been put to death; therefore an end to the world.  He bent his burning head low upon the cold steps of Saint Vincent de Paul, and resolved to renounce the world.  He wrote ten years later, and still with suffering:  “A female form chaste and pure as the alabaster of holy vessels, was the sacrifice I offered with tears to the God of Christians.  Renunciation of all things earthly was the only theme, the only word of that day.”

Caroline, too, sank under the bitterness of the loss.  She fell dangerously ill, and when she recovered she thought only of the convent; but her father, who had so easily exiled her lover, knew how to persuade her to marriage.  A few months later she became Madame d’Artigou; they say she gave her husband no affection, and that her heart was still, and always, Liszt’s; while in his heart she was for ever niched as the young Madonna of his life.

For the present the shock of sacrifice threatened his whole career, and his life and mind as well.  Again the monastery beckoned him, and now it was his mother’s turn to oppose the Church in its effort to engulf this brilliant artist.  After a long struggle he yielded to her, but for a time he was a recluse, and his melancholy gradually wore out his health; until at length he was given up for a dying man, and obituary eulogies actually were published.  But as Mark Twain wrote of himself:  “The reports of his death were greatly exaggerated.”

When Liszt gave up all hope of entering the Church, he began a restless orgy of effort for mental diversion; all manner of theories and foibles allured him.

As Heine said of him, his mind was “impelled to concern itself with all the needs of mankind, impelled to poke its nose into every pot where the good God cooks the future.”  The theatre offered for a time another form of dissipation than his religious hysteria.  He hated concerts, and compared himself to a conjurer or a clever trick poodle; he took up with the Revolution of 1830; Saint-Simonianism enmeshed him; later he fell under the spell of the Abbe Lamennais.  Then Paganini came to Paris and fascinated and frightened Liszt, as he frightened the world with his unheard-of fiddling.  It was his privilege to drive Liszt back to the piano with an ambition to rival Paganini; as rival him he did.  Next Berlioz and romanticism fevered his brain, and then in 1831, the twenty-year-old Liszt and the twenty-one-year-old Chopin struck up their historic friendship, and the two men glittered and flashed in the most artistic salons of Paris.  It was about this time that the Polish Countess Plater said, speaking of the genial Ferdinand Hiller and the two cronies: