“I thought I could not breathe in that fine air,
That pure severity of perfect light,
I wanted warmth and color.”
THE glory had passed from Gerard’s dream. “The palace of music he reared” seemed to melt and vanish away as quickly as did the palace of ice raised by imperial pride in the bright brief sunshine of the northern summer. It was not merely the horror of the tale he had just heard that produced this effect upon him. The calamity that overtakes a stranger excites compassion; the misfortune that strikes a kinsman awakens sorrow.
Désiré Gerard, a Catholic by education, an infidel by deliberate choice, was a Protestant by birth. At eight years old he had been taken by force from his family, and consigned to a Jesuit school; though through the kindness of the patron whose attention had been attracted by his genius he was soon removed from the hated control of the Jesuits, and placed under instructors who regarded the Mass rather as a musical exhibition that as a religious dogma.
The vague recollections of early childhood that remained with him had not been without their effect upon his character. They had sharpened his hatred of priestcraft; and, unconsciously to himself, they had been like an invisible fence guarding him from the contamination of fashionable vices.
But now an hour had come when they must be more―or nothing. Now was the time to avow his father’s name, the traditions of his race. The opportunity was favorable, ―the world would listen now. In the general curiosity and interest excited by the “affaire Calas,” Marmontel (or his successor as editor of the Mercure) would welcome a writer who could advocate the claims and explain the tenets of the persecuted sect. Voltaire himself would be flattered to receive a poetic epistle from one of its members, returning thanks for past, and soliciting future favors. But in order to describe, he must know; it would be necessary for him to renew his acquaintance with the scenes, the haunts, the friends of his childhood.
Why not? What could be more natural? And Gerard repeated the words, just then so familiar to his thoughts, “And it came to pass in those days, when Moses was grown, that he went out unto his brethren and looked on their burdens.” There came back to him his mother’s face―his sister’s―their mountain cottage; the long moonlight walk to the place of Assembly, which once, and once only, he had been privileged to attend; the psalm chanted by a thousand voices; the preaching, dimly understood, but heard with reverent awe; the hymns and songs of martyrdom. And a great longing swept over his soul, as the wind sweeps the chords of an Eolian harp. It was the yearning of an exile for borne, of a captive for liberty. Other words from De Sacy’s page rose to his lips, as his heart began to thrill and glow with the enthusiasm of a generous purpose. “By faith Moses, when he was come to years, refused to be called the son of Pharaoh’s daughter; choosing rather to suffer affliction with the people of God, than to enjoy the pleasures of sin for a season; esteeming the reproach of Christ greater riches than the treasures in Egypt.”
Could he say that? He could not even understand it. “Pleasures of sin,” “reproach of Christ,” —the words conveyed no meaning to him. Yet they seemed to awaken old associations, to bring back old lessons of right and wrong, and long-forgotten words of precept and of prayer.
Then there came a rebound―a revulsion of feeling―a pang of fear and apprehension―strong as the yearning had been. His life was full of “pleasures.” Every sense, every appetite was gratified. In his present abode, all was soft, fair, luxurious. And in Paris, there was the world of letters and of art― brilliant society, sparkling conversation, salons, operas, theaters, oratorios. Cold and bare in contrast looked the Cévennol mountains, and rigidly austere the lives of those who dwelt amongst them. Their creed too seemed narrow, gloomy, joyless. It was the creed of men whose home was the Desert. Should he return thither, his ideas and mode of life would strike his kinsfolk with horror, while theirs would cramp and petrify him.
He pictured, too, the contemptuous pity of his fashionable friends; and, what he dreaded still more, the consternation of the Bairdons. His connection with the proscribed sect involved conditions sure to revolt and scandalize them, both upon religious and social grounds. It was hard enough that his origin was obscure, his name unknown―his father, whom he scarcely remembered, had been a poor artizan, a glass maker, as he believed. But how would they endure the discovery that even that father’s humble name he had no legal right to bear, since probably there had not been in his family for generations a marriage or a baptism which the law would recognize? No―he could not do it. For Griselle’s sake he must keep silence, at least for the present. By-and-by he would act the part of Moses, seek out the friends of his childhood, acknowledge his kinsfolk, and if it might be, aid in their deliverance. Moses waited, and so would he. He must first acquire a secure position in the court of the Egyptians, must become a power amongst them. How fortunate that Arboissère had pointed out to him, that very day, a road―so swift, so sure―to this desired consummation!
Yet he did not soon, or easily, reach a conclusion. Sleep did not visit his eyes that night; and many a bitter struggle had the old thoughts with the new ere the conflict was decided.
But the next day he kept his appointment with the abbé, and intimated that he had no objection to enter into a commercial speculation, provided it was safe, and likely to be remunerative. The abbé replied by naming, under the seal of secrecy, an august personage as partner in the concern. Gerard started―but he was well aware that since the brilliant speculations of the Scottish adventurer Law, the high nobility had largely indulged in a taste which partly resembled and partly replaced their former one for reckless and often dishonest gambling. Therefore he only bowed his head in due reverence, and said, with much more courtesy than truth, “Such a name is an abundant guarantee for the honorable character of the transactions.”
And then he lent himself to arrangements about the letters and interviews necessary for the prosecution of their scheme, which had in them an attractive savor of romance and mystery.