While awaiting the realization of his golden dreams, poor C. spent his time in perpetual adoration of the Talma of Music—­for so Theophile Gautier styled Delsarte; he never missed a lecture; he took part in the talks which lengthened out the evening when the parlor was at last cleared of superfluous guests.

Among his many manias—­how many people have this one in common with him!—­the Italian cherished the idea that he was of exceptional ability, and that in more than one direction.  He proclaimed that Delsarte went far beyond everything that he knew—­equal to all that could be imagined or desired in regard to art—­but as for himself, C., was he not from a land where art is hereditary, where it is breathed in at every pore, from birth?  And more than the mass of his countrymen, did he not feel the volcanic heat of the sacred fire burning within him?

One evening, he made a bold venture.  He had prepared a tirade written by some Italian poet.  All that I remember of it is that it began with the words:  “Trema—­Trema!” [Tremble—­Tremble!]

The impromptu tragedian recited several lines in a declamatory tone accompanied by gestures to match.  Delsarte listened without a sign of praise or blame.  Then he rose, struck an attitude appropriate to the text, but perfectly natural, and, in his quiet way, said: 

“Might not you as well give it in this key?” Then, in a voice of repressed harshness, his gestures subdued but expressive of hatred, he repeated the two words:  “Trema—­Trema!”

The listeners shuddered.  Delsarte had produced one of those effects which can never be forgotten.  The smouldering ashes did not burn long; four syllables were enough to extinguish the flame.

Following, not the chronological order, but that of circumstances and incidents calculated to throw light on my subject, I must once more retrace the course of years.

C.’s persistency went on before and after 1848.  During the second period, all minds were greatly agitated by the state of politics.  C., in spite of his undoubted liberalism—­he spent a great part of his leisure in making democratic constitutions—­thought, like every other claimant, that he had duties to perform; and that he might as well, to facilitate his task, make an ally of the Emperor, without scruple; but access to royalty was no less impossible than landing on the American shore where his panacea grew.  He hit upon the following plan: 

A number of ladies were to go in a body and implore Napoleon III to pardon certain exiles:  for the same calamities always follow civil war, and there are always women ready to beg for justice or mercy.

C., who knew their purpose, said to one of the petitioners:  “How are you going to make the Emperor understand that I am the only man capable of saving the situation?”

The petition was not presented; and the world remains to be saved!