And the letter, once again—­was it not art and poetry that made worship so dear to him?  The shadowy light of the churches, the stern majesty of the vaulted roof, contrasting with the radiant circle of light within which reposed the sacred wafer,—­all this pomp, of heathen origin, warmed for him the severe simplicity and cold austerity of Christian sentiment; the chants and prayers uttered in common also stimulated the fervid impulses of his heart.

The spirit of proselytism took possession of him later in life.  It was controversy under a new form, more attractive and more distracting.  There was always some soul within reach to be won to the faith; some rebellious spirit to bend to the yoke of the official church,—­proceeding, under due observance of ostensible forms, from the letter!  Neophytes were very ready to listen.  After all, it pledged them to nothing, and they talked of other things often enough to prevent the conversation from becoming too much of a sermon.  Then, certain favors—­all of a spiritual nature—­were attached to this situation:  a place nearer the master during lectures, a more affectionate greeting, a sweeter smile.

These attempts more than once resulted in disappointment to Delsarte.  I will not enumerate them all.  Often he was heard with increasing interest, it seemed as if resistance must yield, and that he might speedily plant his flag “in the salutary waters of grace,” but at that very moment his opponent would become more refractory and more stubborn than ever.

Once, he had great hopes.  Several young people seemed decided to enter into the paths of virtue.  The master was radiant.  “Take heed,” said skeptic prudence, “perhaps it is only a means of stimulating your zeal, of profiting better by your disinterestedness.”

He soon acknowledged the truth of these predictions; he confessed it in his moments of candor.

One of these feigned converts, especially, scandalized him.  The story deserves repetition: 

The church of the Petits-Peres had ordered the wax figure of a freshly canonized saint, from Rome.  Delsarte mentioned it to the school, and several pupils went to see it.

“Ah, sir!” cried young D. on his return, “now, indeed, I am a Catholic!  How lovely she is, how fresh and fair after lying underground so long!”

“Unhappy fellow!” said the disappointed artist, “he takes the image for the reality, and the beauty of a waxen St. 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!”