The indignation excited in Delsarte by this cruel trick instantly gave way before the reflection that success was a matter of life and death with him, and that perhaps his last chance lay within his grasp.  He forgot his rags; every nerve became iron; and when the curtain was rung up, a beggar with the bearing of a prince advanced to the foot-lights, was received with derisive laughter by some, with glances of surprise and indignation by others, and, with a sad and patient smile on his countenance, gracefully saluted the brilliant audience.  The courtliness of his manner disarmed hostility; but when he sat down to the piano, ran his fingers over the keys, and sang a few bars, the exquisite voice found its way to every heart.  With every moment his voice became more powerful.  Each gradation of emotion was rendered with an ease, an art, an expression, that made every heartstring vibrate.  Then he suddenly stopped, bowed, and retired.  The house rang with bravos.  The dress-circle forgot its reticence and joined in the tumult of applause.  He was recalled.  This time he sang a grand lyric composition with the full volume of his voice, aided in effect by those imperial gestures of which he had already discovered the secret.  The audience were electrified.  They declared that Talma was resuscitated.  But when he was a second time recalled, his tragic mood had melted; there were “tears in his voice” as well as on his cheeks.

After the fall of the curtain the director grasped his hand, loaded him with compliments, and offered him an engagement for a year at a salary of ten thousand francs.  He went home to occupy his wretched attic for the last time, and falling on his knees poured forth his soul in prayer.

The next day Delsarte, neatly dressed, paid a visit to the directors of the Conservatoire.

“Gentlemen,” said he, “you would not give me a recommendation as a chorister; the public have accorded me this.”  And he displayed his commission as Comedien du Roi.

Delsarte remained upon the lyric stage until 1834, when the failure of his voice, which had been strained at the Conservatoire, compelled him to retire.  He continued, however, the study of music, and his productions, particularly a “Dies Irae,” placed him in the front rank of composers.  At this period of his life, meditation and study resulted in a firm religious faith, which never wavered afterward.

He now applied himself to the task of establishing a scientific basis for lyric and dramatic art, and after years of patient labor perfected a system on which probably his fame will ultimately rest.  His cours for instruction in the principles of art was first opened in 1839.  From the outset he was appreciated by the highly cultivated few, nor was it long before the circle extended and the new master won a European reputation.  Some of his pupils were destined for a professional career; but many, men and women of rank and fortune, sought to