Michel Raymond published several novels in the first half of this century.  Later on, he took his place in the ranks of that militia of Neo-Catholics, the fruit of the Restoration. (I do not know whether I am justified in giving the name of Neo-Catholic to Brucker; perhaps, on the contrary, his dreams were all of the primitive church.  But, in spite of his Jewish crudities, I suppose he would never have joined the followers of Father Loyson.) His keen, sharp and caustic spirit did not forsake him when he changed his principles; and never did the Christ—­whose symbol is a lamb without a stain—­have a sterner or more warlike zealot.

In appearance, Brucker had somewhat the look of a Mephistopheles—­a demon then very much in vogue,—­especially when he laughed, his laughter being full of sardonic reserves.  If Delsarte’s mode of proselyting was almost always gentle, affectionate, adapted to the spirit he aspired to conquer, that of Raymond Brucker had an aggressive fashion; he became brutal and cynical when discussion waxed warm.

Once, in reply to one of his vehement attacks against the age, in which he used very unparliamentary expressions, he drew upon himself the following answer from a woman:  “But, sir, I should think that in the ardor of your recent convictions, your first act of faith should have been to make an auto-da-fe of all the books signed Michel Raymond.”

I repeat, this writer, although of undoubted intellectual merit, could not annul Delsarte’s native tendencies; he could never have led Delsarte into any camp which the latter had not already decided to join; but when they met on common ground, he influenced, excited and sometimes threw a shadow over him.

When they had fought together against the nearest rebel, long and lively discussions would often arise between them, but they always agreed in the end:  the artist’s good-nature so willed it.

If dissension continued, if the fiery friend had given cause for reproach, Delsarte merely said:  “Poor Brucker!” But how much that brief phrase could be made to mean in the mouth of a man who taught an actor to say, “I hate you!” by uttering the words, “I love you,” and who could ring as many changes on one sentence as the thought, the feeling, the occasion, could possibly require.

Do not suppose, however, that Delsarte abused his power.  Contrary to many actors who carry their theatrical habits into their private life, he aimed at the most perfect simplicity outside of the roles which he interpreted.  “I make myself as simple as possible,” he would say, “to avoid all suspicion of posing.”  But still he could not entirely rid himself, in conversation, of those inflections which illuminate words and are the genuine manifestation of the inner meaning.

Be this as it may, the relation between our two converts assumed the proportions of friendship, doubtless in virtue of the mysterious law which makes contrast attractive.