Our Italian had another specialty:  he was perpetually in search of some notorious somnambulist.  It is a well-known fact that the mental agitation caused by governmental crises is very favorable to these pythonesses of modern times.  Each wishes to outrun the future and to afford himself at least an illusion of the triumph of his party.  The oracles varied according to the opinion of the person who magnetized these ladies, and, often, according to the presumed desire of the audience.

Delsarte allowed himself to be drawn into these mysteries.  He had time for everything.  It afforded him relaxation, and a means of observation.  On one occasion, he followed the refugee to a garden where a person of “perfect lucidity” prophesied.  The sibyl was a believer as well as a seer and pretended to communicate with God in person.  I do not know exactly what supernal secrets the woman revealed, while she slept, but the result was ridiculous.

They had forgotten to fix the hour for the next sitting:  so, to repair the omission—­by means of a few passes—­the somnambulist was restored to sleep and lucidity.  Then in a corner of the garden, in a familiar tone and—­to use the popular expression—­in which, as may well be imagined, the voice of Jehovah was not heard: 

“My God, what day shall we return?”

“He says Wednesday,” announced the lady.

“Thank you, God!”

If the Italian went into ecstasies over this irreverent trifling, Delsarte did not disdain to caricature it, and gave us a most comical little performance.  Here again we see how he could transform everything, and make something out of nothing!

Among the frequenters of his lectures was an artist whom I would gladly mention for his talent if I did not fear to annoy him by connecting his name with an incident concerning him.  I relate it in the hope of somewhat diverting my readers, to whom I must so often discourse of serious things.

Mr. P. painted a portrait of Delsarte as a young man.  The features are exact, the pose firm and dignified, the eye proud.  The painter and the model were on very good terms and sympathized in religious matters.  It must have been the master who brought him over.  He still burned with the zeal peculiar to recent converts; to such a point that even on a short excursion into the country, he could not await his return to Paris to approach the stool of repentance.  This desire seemed easily satisfied; what village is without a father confessor!

So, one fine day, the artist rang at the first parsonage he could find.  The priest’s sister opened the door—­offered him a seat—­and told him that her brother was away.  But, after these preliminaries, the lady seemed uneasy.  She inquired what the stranger wanted.

“To speak with the priest.”

What could this stranger have to say to him?  Such was the question which floated in her eyes, amidst the confused phrases in which she strove to gain an explanation.  Mr. P. finally told her that he had come to confess.