One day, after having sung in his own style at one of the public exhibitions—­applauded, however, only by a single auditor,—­he was walking sadly and slowly in the court-yard of the Conservatoire, when a lady and a gentleman approached him.

“Courage, my friend,” said the lady.  “Your singing has given me the highest pleasure.  You will be a great artist.”

So spake Marie Malibran, the queen of song.

“My friend,” said her companion, “It was I who applauded you just now.  In my opinion, you are a singer hors de ligne.  When my children are ready to learn music, you, above all others, shall be their professor.”

These were the words of Adolphe Nourrit.  The praises of Malibran and Nourrit gave Delsarte courage, revived his hopes, and decided him to follow implicitly the promptings of his genius.  His extreme poverty compelled him at last to apply to the Conservatoire for a diploma which would enable him to secure a situation at one of the lyric theatres.  It was refused.

The autumn of 1829 found him a shabby, almost ragged applicant for employment at the stage-door of the Opera Comique.  Repeated rebuffs failed to baffle his desperate pertinacity.

One day the director, hearing of the annoyance to which his subordinates were subjected by Delsarte, determined to abate the nuisance by one of those cruel coups-de-main of which Frenchmen are pre-eminently capable.  The next night, during the performance, when Delsarte called, he was, to his surprise and delight, shown into the great man’s presence.

“Well, sir, what do you want?”

“Pardon, Monsieur, I came to seek a place at your theatre.”

“There is but one vacant, and you don’t seem capable of filling that.  I want only a call-boy.”

“Sir, I am prepared to fill the position of a premier sujet among your singers.”

“Imbecile!”

“Monsieur, if my clothes are poor, my art is genuine.”

“Well, sir, if you will sing for me, I will hear you shortly.”

He left Delsarte alone, overjoyed at having secured the manager’s ear.  In a few moments a surly fellow told him he was wanted below, and he soon found himself with the manager upon the stage behind the green curtain.

“You are to sing here,” said the director.  “There is your piano.  In one moment the curtain will be rung up.  I am tired of your importunities.  I give you one chance to show the stuff you’re made of.  If you discard this opportunity, the next time you show your face at my door you shall be arrested and imprisoned as a vagrant.”