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.

“Bah!” he cried boldly, “I’ll send my children.”

Let me give another trait in illustration of the nature which from time to time pierced through and rent the flimsy fabric of his opinions.  This anecdote is a political one.

Despite the precedent of an ultra democratic grandfather, and all his plebeian tendencies as a philanthropist and a Christian, his Catholic friends had inclined him toward monarchical ideas—­although he never actually sided with the militant portion of the party.

On one occasion, it happened that the two wings of this politico-religious fusion disagreed.  As at Nanterre, Delsarte acted independently, and on this occasion politics were the victim.  It fell out as follows: 

A claimant of the throne of France, still young, finding himself in the Eternal City, had not, to all appearance, fulfilled his duties to the Vatican promptly.

The first time that Delsarte encountered certain of those zealous legitimists, who are said to be “more royalist than the king,” he launched this apostrophe at their heads: 

“I hear that your young man was in no haste to pay his respects to His Holiness.”

Thus, always free—­even when he seemed to have forged chains for himself—­he obeyed his impulse without counting the cost.  Never mind!  This childish outburst must have gladdened the manes of the ancestor who connected the syllables in the patronymic name of Delsarte!

I hope I shall not forget, as my pen moves along, any of these memories, insignificant to many minds, no doubt, but serving to distinguish this figure from the vast mass of creation.  If, among my readers, some may say “pass on,” others will enjoy these trifles, and will thank me for writing them.

Thus, Delsarte was always pleased to think he bore the name of Francois in memory of Francis of Assisi—­not the Spaniard whom we know, but the great saint of the twelfth century; he who “appeased quarrels, settled differences, taught slaves and common men,—­the poor man who was good to the poor.”