Darcier, it seems, always retained a strong feeling of devotion for his master.  He has been heard to say:  “I fear but two things—­Delsarte and thunder.”

Alfred Giraudet joined the grand opera as primo basso cantante.  He was warmly received by the press, and had already won a name at the Opera Comique and at concerts.  In this singer may be noted the firmness of accent and scholarly mode of phrasing, always in harmony with the prosody of the language, which are part of the tradition of the great school.  He always bears himself well on the stage, and the sobriety of his gesture is a salutary example which some of his present colleagues would do well to imitate.

He, too, was a loyal soul; he always regarded it as an honor to bear the title of pupil of Delsarte, the latter always writing to him as my dear and last disciple.  I owe many of the memories and documents used in this volume to his kindness.

Alfred Giraudet always took his audience captive when he sang Malherbe’s verses—­music by Reber—­of which each strophe ends with the following lines: 

    “Leave these vanities, put them far behind us,
    ’Tis God who gives us life,
    ’Tis God whom we should love.”

The broad, sustained style, so appropriate to the words of the melody, finds a sympathetic interpreter in the young artist.

Delsarte gave this with great maestria.  The finale, particularly, always transports the listeners.

If any one can revive the tradition of the master’s teachings, it is certainly Giraudet, who understands the method and appreciates its high import.

Madame Pasca was one of the latest comers; her advent was an event.  There were pupils in the school who were destined for the theatre, and there were women of society; the future artist of the Gymnase partook of both phases.  She had the advantages of a vocation and of a careful education; her fortune allowed her to dress elegantly, with the picturesqueness imparted by artistic taste.

Chance, or a presentiment of speedy success, led her to take her place, on the first day, very near the master, in a peculiar seat—­a sort of small, low easy chair which inspired one with a sense of nonchalance.  She was in full sight.  Her gaze, profound and sombre at times, roamed over the room with the natural air of a meditative queen.  She inspired all beholders with curiosity and interest.  The feeling which she aroused in her fellow-pupils was less distinct.  Her rare advantages caused a vague fear in those who hitherto had securely held the foremost rank; her beauty created a sense of rivalry, unconscious for the most part, and yet betrayed by countless signs.

There was a flutter of excitement throughout the school.  This increased when the young woman confirmed, by her first efforts, all that her agreeable appearance and fascinating voice had promised.  She declaimed a fragment from Gluck’s “Armida” which other pupils sang; a word sufficed to change interest to sympathy.