that it
would come to him some day unsought.

He might, in this regard, be reproached for the tardiness of his
successes; he himself made difficulties and obstacles which might be
considered as the effects of extreme pride.

Halevy once suggested his singing at the Tuilleries before King Louis
Philippe and his family.

"I only sing to my friends," replied the artist.

"That is strange," said the author of "The Jewess," "Lablache and Duprez
go whenever they are asked."

"Delsarte does not."

"But consider! This is to be a party given by the Crown Prince to his
father."

This last consideration touched the obstinate heart.

"Well! I will go," he said, "but it is only on three conditions: I must
be the only singer; I am to have the chorus from the Opera to accompany
me; and I am not to be paid."

"You will establish a dangerous precedent."

"Those are my irrevocable terms."

All were granted.

From his youth up Delsarte manifested this, perhaps excessive, contempt
for money. On one occasion it was quite justifiable. Father Bambini had
taken him to a party where he was to sing on very advantageous terms.
The scholar was treated with deference; but the teacher who had neither
a fine face nor the claims of youth to shield him against aristocratic
prejudice, was received much as a servant would have been who had made a
mistake in the door.

The young singer felt the blood mantle his brow, and his heart rebelled.

"Take your hat and let us go!" he said to his old master.

"But why?" replied the good man. He had heeded nothing but his pupil's
success.

Delsarte dragged him away in spite of his protests, and lost by his
abrupt departure the profits of the evening.

Chapter XI.

Delsarte's Family.

Delsarte married, in 1833, Miss Rosina Andrien. The young husband felt a
high esteem for his father-in-law (primo basso cantante at the Opera);
but we must not suppose that this consideration influenced his choice.
He made a love marriage such as one makes at the age of twenty-two, with
such a nature as his. Moreover, reason was never in closer accord with
love.

Miss Andrien was remarkably beautiful. She was fifteen; her talent as a
pianist had already won her a first prize at the Conservatory. She was
just the companion, wise and devoted, to counterbalance the flights of
imagination and the momentary transports inherent in the temperament of
many artists.

I pause, fearing to wound a modesty whi