The Dies Irae came!  The music at first imitates the angel trumpets which, according to Christian belief, are to be heard when time shall end.  The summons sounded four times.

This mournful chant of reawakening generations instantly silenced every voice and every step; all were motionless; and the solemn melody alone soared to the vaulted roof.

A touching story is told of this work.  At a large and miscellaneous gathering, M. Donoso-Cortes, a well-known Spanish publicist, then ambassador to Paris, begged Delsarte to sing his Dies Irae.  A space was cleared in the music-room.

The score of the symphony for voice and piano, made by Delsarte himself, retains all his intentions and effects, to which his striking voice added greatly.

Delsarte began: 

    “Dies irae, dies illa,
    Solvet saeclum in favilla,
    Teste David cum sybilla.”

The whole assembly were taken captive.  M. Donoso-Cortes was particularly moved.  His eyes filled with tears.  He was not quite well that night.

A week later the newspapers invited the friends of the illustrious stranger to meet at St. Philippe-du-Roule, to witness his funeral rites.  Delsarte was present; the church was so hung with black that the choristers were alarmed for the effect of their motets.

The artist recalled the request made him the previous week by the Spanish ambassador.  He felt as if that same voice came from the bier and begged him for one more hymn to the dead.  In spite of his emotion, he offered to sing the Dies Irae.

To obviate the lack of resonance, Delsarte sang—­according to his theory in regard to the laws of acoustics,—­without expenditure of sound, almost mezza voce.

No one was prepared.  The listeners were all the more overcome by those tones in which the friend’s regrets pervaded, with their sweet unction, the masterly diction of the singer.

When his oldest daughter grew up, Delsarte seemed to take a fancy to a different style of composition.  He would not give that young soul the regular repertory of his pupils, all passion and profane love.  He wrote for Marie words and music—­couplets which were neither romance nor song; nor were they quite canticles, although religion always lay at the base of them.

I know none but Madame Sand who can be compared to Delsarte in variety of feeling and simplicity even unto grandeur.  I have often observed a likeness and, as it were, a kinship between these great minds.  And yet these two great souls, these two great spirits, never exchanged ideas.  The artist never received the plaudits of the distinguished writer.  Both regretted it.

Delsarte said:  “I lack that sanction,” and Madame Sand wrote, when he had ceased to live:  “I knew Delsarte’s worth; I often intended to go and hear him, and some circumstance, beyond my control, always prevented.”