From time to time certain persons in clerical robes appeared in the audience; the austerity of their habit contrasting somewhat strangely with the attire of the elegant women, men of fashion and young actors in their apprenticeship around them; but matters always settled themselves.  One evening one of these priests was in a neighboring room, the doors of which were open into the drawing-room.  If the songs seemed too profane, he kept out of sight; but so soon as the word God was pronounced or a religious thought was mingled with a romance, or operatic aria, the servant of the altar appeared boldly, rejoiced at these brief harvests which allowed him to enjoy the whole picture.

To give a correct idea of one of these evenings, I will copy an account which I have just written under the heading of “Recent Memories.”

By half-past eight, almost all the guests have assembled.  A stir is heard in the next room.  “He is coming ... it is he!” is whispered on every hand.  The master enters, followed by his pupils.  Almost at the same instant a young woman glides up to the piano.  She is to accompany the singers; she enters furtively, timidly, as if she were not the mistress of the house.  She is beautiful, but she does not wish this to be noticed; she has much talent, but she disguises it by her calm and severe style of playing, which does not prevent critical ears from noting her exactitude and precision, combined with that rare spirit of abnegation which is the accompanist’s supreme virtue.

Delsarte takes his place by the piano; his attentive gaze traverses the assembly; he exchanges a smile, a friendly gesture with certain of the audience who are always much envied.  At this moment he is grave, serious, and as it were, penetrated by his responsibility to an audience who hang devoutly on his lips.

The professor begins by developing some point in his system; he gives the law of pose or of gesture; the reasons for accent, rhythm or some other detail connected with the synthesis which he has evolved.  He questions his scholars.

The first notes of the piano serve to mark the change to practical instruction.  The pupils sing in turn.  The master listens with the concentrated attention peculiar to him; the expression of his face explains the nature of the remarks he is about to make, even before he utters them.  He points out mistakes, he illustrates them.

Little by little, however, his dramatic genius is aroused.  Achilles seems to seize his weapons or Agamemnon his sceptre.  The scholar is pushed aside, Delsarte takes his place.

Then the artist is seen to the utmost advantage.  There, dressed in the vast, shapeless coat which drapes itself about him as he gesticulates, his neck free from the cravat which puts modern Europeans in the pillory, and allowing himself greater space than at his concerts—­there, and there alone, is Delsarte wholly himself.

The piano strikes the opening notes of the prelude, and before the artist has uttered a word, he is transfigured.  If he is singing serious opera, the oval of his face lengthens, the lines become more fixed, his cheeks shrink, his forehead is lighted up and his eye flashes with inspiration; the pallor of profound emotion pervades his features, the somewhat gross proportions of his figure are disguised by the firmness of his pose and the juvenile precision of his gesture.