“Lubac n’est plus a plaindre,
Il est hors du danger;
Il n’a plus rien á craindre,
Ni rien á désirer.”
Complainte sur la Mort de M. Lubac (Désubas),
ministre du Saint Évangile,
LITTLE Claude, from one of the upper windows, saw the horsemen approaching, and gave the alarm. When therefore the officer, dismounting at the door, flung the bridle rein to his attendant, there already stood before him a fair, pale, graceful woman, whose claim to the letters he bore was not doubtful. With a courtly and respectful salutation he said, “I have, I presume, the honor to address Madame Meniet? I come from Montpellier; and I bear letters for madame from those of whom she most desires to hear.”
Annette rather motioned than invited him into the house. He followed her to the family room, where he instantly became the center of a group, who stood around, awaiting his tidings in breathless silence.
That day, for the first time, the shattered invalid had resumed her chair by the fire; herself sorrowfully wondering, as others could not fail to do, why a life so useless and burdensome was spared, whilst the young and gifted, whose lives were of priceless value, were laid low. Madeleine stood beside her, tenderly holding the feeble, withered hand. René, in his eagerness, drew nearer the stranger and recognized, to his surprise, the kind-hearted young officer, whose guide he had been at the cost of a bitter repentance. Claude kept close to his mother’s side; Desjours and Babette stood in the background.
Chantal looked around, first upon the little group, then, not without astonishment, upon the appointments of the room, which were those of an ordinary, though comfortable farmhouse. It would be hard to say what he expected to see there; but no mark of refinement or cultivation would have seemed to him out of place.
Words were not found easily, though he had much to tell. It was Annette who broke the silence. “And my husband, monsieur?” she asked, quietly taking for granted his friendly interest and compassion.
“I am sorry, madame, to be the bearer of heavy tidings. M. Meniet is condemned to the galleys.”
“For―life?” The brief words were rather breathed than spoken.
The young man bowed his head sorrowfully. The bloom was borne in silence, as one long and certainly expected. Only the children wept quietly; and a low, heart-broken wail came from the lips of the aged mother, as she rocked herself to and fro. To him who told the tale, this calm seemed more sad than the wildest lamentations.
But all was not told yet. “My brother?” Annette’s pale lips murmured.
“Madame, your noble brother is with God.”
“Since when?”
“Since the second day of this month.”
Then a strange and sudden change passed over the soul of Annette. He was no more her brother, the idol of her childhood and youth, the pride and joy of her maturer years; he was Christ’s triumphant martyr, of whom she could think and speak calmly, as of St. Stephen or St. Paul. She could even wonder why the end had been delayed so long; usually, in such cases, a few days sufficed for the brief necessary formalities.
“Why did they keep him out of heaven for those long needless weeks?” she asked. Had she known all, she would have accounted those weeks, as many another had cause to do, a treasure beyond price; the crown of her brother’s brief, but most fruitful ministry.
The young officer answered gently, “Madame, that life was precious, and there were many who desired to save it. It was thought hand that your brother should die by his own avowal, when no other legal proof existed that he had performed the functions of a minister. The Intendant referred the case to Versailles for special instructions. And in the meantime, promises, solicitations, entreaties were all exhausted to win from his lips, the one brief word that would have saved him. Not even ‘I recant’ was required of him. ‘I doubt,’ ‘I will consider,’ ‘I desire instruction,’ would have averted his doom.”
Annette spoke bravely now. “And you, monsieur, who wear the king’s uniform over a heart―I know it―of untarnished honor, what would you have thought of him had he uttered that word?”
“I can well understand, madame, a brave man’s refusal to purchase life at the cost of honor. Pride―a noble pride―would sustain him. He would spurn the unworthy proposal from him with scorn; and hold himself, in dying, the conqueror of those who prayed him in vain to live. Not so your brother. He was ever serene and patient; full of sweet, self-forgetting courtesy, and of gratitude for what was kindly intended. He seemed to hold himself last and least of all, yet happier than all. Though he stood face to face with a cruel death, no man thought of pitying him. Rather it seemed as though he pitied those who sought to move him; but gently―in love, not in scorn.
‘My lot is not sad,’ I have heard that he said; ‘it is one to be desired. I fear nothing; for the Lord is my Shepherd, my portion, my hope, and my strong fortress.’ The States of Languedoc, as you are probably aware, have just been holding their assembly. The Bishop of Montpellier, and others of the higher clergy, often visited the captive, and tried their argumenta and their eloquence.”
“Cowards!” murmured someone―probably Desjours.
“Nay,” said Annette; “I reproach not them, nor any, Yet monsieur can understand that to us it looks scarce heroic, or chivalrous, to bind an opponent hand and foot, to place the gibbet before his eyes, and then bid him contend for his faith.”
“In such a contest, madame, I have no difficulty in understanding who is the hero. I am no theologian; the points in dispute were incomprehensible to me, and in no way interesting; but those better informed frankly praised your brother’s learning and ability, and his modest, gentle self-possession. The Bishop of Montpellier spoke of him―and to him―with tenderness and affection.”
“God reward him!” said Annette, almost surprised into natural emotion. “Christ say to him one day, I was in prison, and you visited Me.”
The young officer looked as though he too would gladly have claimed a share in that blessing; and, in truth, he might have done so. But even the most unreserved hold some things sacred, and consecrate them by silence. He went on: “The Intendant examined him several times; but at last, when the end drew near, he was obliged by order of the king, to ask him solemnly, in the name of Him whose presence he was about to enter, whether there was any foundation for the popular rumors which attribute disloyal designs to the Protestants. ‘Have the Protestants a common treasury―a collection of weapons? Are they in correspondence with the English?’ he asked. ‘In all that,’ M. Désubas replied, ‘there is not a word of truth. The ministers preach nothing but patience, and fidelity to the king.’ ‘I am quite aware of it, monsieur,’ was the Intendant’s answer.
“A yet stranger thing took place when at last his sentence was read in the crowded court. I saw nothing as I looked around save tearful faces; judges, lawyers, soldiers, citizens alike were moved. Many a doom have the Intendant’s lips pronounced, nor did they falter then. But he added an unwonted comment:
‘Such, monsieur, are the orders of the king; but, I assure you, I condemn you with sorrow,’ ‘I know it, monsieur,’ the condemned answered calmly. My eyes were fixed and held by the noble serenity of his face, the only one there that had in it no sorrow―no regret. But presently there was a movement, as of surprise, amongst those around me, and a murmur passing along, Look!―M. l’Intendant.’ Then I looked from the prisoner to the judge, and I saw that he was weeping, like all the rest.
“Shall I go on, madame? Have I told enough?”
“Go on, monsieur. Your words bring comfort.”
The captain lowered his voice and half averted his face as he continued, “The place of death was the Esplanade.”
“Well we know that, place! From thence has many a martyr entered the joy of his Lord. Often did we talk― But go on, monsieur.”
“Though I was very near all the time, yet I have no word for you, madame. No spoken word. None could be heard, for the thunder of the fourteen great drums which were beaten without ceasing around him. But he did not look as though he heard the clamor. The calm that had been his throughout was changed to glory then. Even the bitter accompaniments of his doom that glory touched and transfigured. The uncovered head and feet, the white, shroud-like shirt (his only garb), the halter on the neck, threw out into stronger relief that form so noble, that face so full of beauty. He knelt down at the foot of the ladder, raised his eyes and hands to heaven, and prayed fervently. Then he bade courteous farewell to the Jesuits who attended him, but asked them to allow him to die in peace, and gently put aside a crucifix they would have had him kiss. With quick steps he ascended the ladder; but there was one more trial between him and heaven. He had to stand, awaiting death, while the executioner burned to ashes before his eyes the books and papers that had been found with him. It was a solemn pause. The drums thundered on loudly as ever; but in the dense weeping multitude no man stirred or spoke. All looked their last on the still, white-robed figure, and the calm and radiant face that looked up straight to God. Then―at length―the end came. But I saw nothing; nor am I ashamed of the tears that blinded me. And this I know―in all that great multitude you could not have guessed Catholic from Protestant. All wept alike.”
There was a silence, broken, to every one’s surprise, by the voice of Madame Larachette repeating, with solemn fervor, “‘These are they which came out of great tribulation, and have washed their robes, and made them white in the blood of the Lamb. Therefore are they before the throne of God, and serve Him day and night in His temple; and He that sitteth on the throne shall dwell among them.’”
The young soldier bowed his head, and listened reverently to the sublime and sacred words. While Annette felt nothing except that her brother had entered heaven in triumph, leaving a long track of glory behind him. Presently she stretched out her cold white hand to Chantal. “We thank you,” she said. “You are kind to us. What is more, you were kind to him.”
“None could be otherwise,” Chantal said, raising her hand to his lips. “He won all hearts. For,” he added, “c’était un parfait honnête homme.” “Stainless gentleman” is, perhaps, the best English equivalent for this high meed of praise, won by the Pastor of the Desert from the strangers and enemies amongst whom he came to die.
“No thought of bitterness mingles with our sorrow,” said Annette, still with the same strange calmness. “Even in death my brother makes peace. In those tears wept together, Protestants and Catholics will forget some old wrongs. And it will not be hard for us, who love him best, to forgive and pray for judges, bishops, Jesuits, who learned to love him too.”
“The Catholics,” Chantal answered, “spare not openly to comfort those of your religion, telling them of the honor the martyr has conferred upon their cause.” After a long silence he resumed: “And now, madame, my errand here, as a private person, is done, or will be when I have handed you these letters.”
He produced a pocketbook, from which he took two sealed letters, both addressed to Madame Meniet, at Mazel, near St. Argrève; one in a free and flowing hand, the other cramped and awkward, betraying the imperfect penmanship of Jean Meniet. Annette knew both instantly. She took them with changing color and trembling fingers, while the grateful words she tried to murmur died upon her lips.
“I wish, with all my heart,” Chantal added, “that my business here, as a soldier, were ended also.”
“I do not understand you, monsieur,” said Annette faintly; for already the sight and touch of those letters was breaking down her almost unnatural composure.
“Unhappily, madame, I am the unwilling bearer of the king’s orders that this house should be dismantled and razed to the ground.”
“Do not regret that, monsieur,” Annette answered, growing calm once more. “Believe me, we do not. When we have given God our best and dearest, think you we could grudge Him dumb wood and stones, that neither feel nor suffer?”
“What do you know about it, Annette Majal?” suddenly interposed the shrill weak voice of Madame Larachette.
“You were not born nor baptized here, nor do your dead lie asleep in yonder garden. Mine do; and soon I hoped my noble son would lay me to rest beside them there. Yet think you I mourn for house, or garden, or graves? Not I! God knows I hold them all scarce worth a hair of the fair head lying low this day. You know it too, Annette, though perhaps, I have said some bitter words I never meant. For it was he who taught me to look for a house not made with hands; and if I enter there I shall owe it, under God, to him. But my son! my son! I shall go down to the grave mourning for my son! M. l’officier, if your heart knows pity, ask the Intendant whether the ruin of this poor house, and the sending forth of mother and children shelterless into the cold world, be not punishment enough for the crime of opening our door to Majal. What would you have done, monsieur, if he had come to yours?”
“Mother, dear mother, hush!” Annette implored. “M. l’officier is kind and generous. He would help us if he could. Only God can do that. Let us tum to Him.”
“At least,” Chantal said, “I can take care that M. Meniet and the other captives lack nothing. You may be sure, mesdames, that every exertion will be made to soften their Tate.”
“We thank you, monsieur,” Annette answered gently.
“One word more,” Madame Larachette resumed. “It is the last you shall hear from these aged lips, perhaps too ready with words, when ‘tweer best to let the young speak instead. Nowadays, it is the young who know how to do everything―even to die. Tell those who sent you, M. l’officier, that it is easy to lay these walls in the dust; but we thank God they cannot touch the house where Majal has found entrance and welcome now, for it is eternal in the heavens.”
“Tell them, if you will, something more,” Annette added. “We pray, as doubtless he prayed also, that for them too the golden gates of that home may open wide, through the availing intercession of the Saviour who redeemed him, whose right hand held him up, and whose gentleness made him great.”
Words the hearer did not understand, though he knew they were generous words of pardon and peace. He was spared the necessity of finding a reply. For Babette, thoughtful to the last for the honor of the poor doomed house, had left the room unobserved, taking Claude with her. The child now returned alone, bearing wine and wheaten bread, which, with shy grace, he offered to the soldier.
“You are the last stranger, M. l’officier,” Annette said, “who shall ever break bread beneath this roof; and you honor it and us by doing so. Your sympathy has earned our warmest gratitude. Deign to think sometimes, whilst you are following your interest or your pleasure in courts and camps, that far away in the Desert a few poor proscribed Protestants are praying God night and day to keep you in all your ways, and to bless you with the best blessings He has to give.”
“It is I who am grateful,” Chantal answered. “Probably prayers are worth quite as much in French as in Latin.”
It may have been to conceal some emotion that he bent down to caress little Claude, saying, “le petit bon homme” much resembled his father, and that he knew a great lady who would be “charmed― ravished” to have such a handsome boy as her little page of honor.
But―perhaps from some confused remembrance of the last visit of soldiers to their home―the child shrank from the caress, and his fair open brow darkened ominously. Annette drew him towards her, and averted the threatened storm by a gentle whispered word, and a few gentler touches. Then she asked “when monsieur would be obliged to carry out that order.”
“I fear, the day after tomorrow,” Chantal answered sadly. “I doubt that I can obtain a longer delay. Remove all you can, madame, and God go with you.”
He bade Annette and the others a courteous and kindly farewell, and prepared to take his departure. René waited upon him to the door, where they talked together for some minutes.
When René came back, all were standing round the chair of Madame Larachette. Hand was touching hand, eye looking into eye; but as yet none had broken the solemn silence. Annette alone seemed to see nothing near. She was gazing, as in a trance, at something far away, unseen by all beside; while little Claude looked up into her face, his own full of childlike awe and wonder.
As René rejoined the group, she said, “Let us give God thanks for our brother.”
It was no longer “my brother,” but “our” ―Desjours’s, René’s, even little Madeleine’s―in the same strong, sweet bond as “our Father.”
All knelt, even the invalid, drawing closer as they did so each to other. René took his place beside Madeleine, his hand softly touching hers.
Then the voice of Annette rose calm and clear: “Father, we bless Thee! For our brother’s blameless, holy life; for his triumphant death, we bless Thee! For all he was, and is, to us; nay, rather, for all Thou wert, and art, to him, we bless Thee! For the joy he had here in knowing Thee, in following Thee, in giving up all for Thee; in toiling, in suffering, in dying for Thy name’s sake, we bless Thee! For the joy he has now in seeing Thee face to face, we bless Thee! ‘Thou hast given him his heart’s desire, and hast not withholden the request of his lips. Thou hast prevented him with the blessings of goodness, Thou hast set a crown of pure gold upon his head. He asked’ (nay, we asked for him, with what burning prayers and bitter tears, Thou knowest!)―we asked ‘life of Thee, and Thou gavest it him, even length of days forever and ever. His glory is great in Thy salvation, honor and majesty hast Thou laid upon him. For Thou hast made him most blessed forever; Thou hast made him exceeding glad with Thy countenance.’”
Thus the mourners thanked God, while yet they stood in the bright overshadowing cloud, on the holy mount, where heaven’s gates were open, and white-robed saints came down and talked with them of suffering and of glory that should follow. But the vision and the ecstasy could not last. Too soon must time and nature resume their rights; desolate, aching hearts be “left alone;” and tear-dimmed eyes, “looking round about, see no man any more.” Then indeed hearts would break and eyes fail, did not One remain still,―even “Jesus only, with themselves.”
In thus retracing the story of an almost forgotten martyr ―the contemporary of Whitfield and Wesley―the brush of fiction has been dipped into no colors cave those of truth and fact. Gladly is it laid aside to borrow the historian’s pencil, which sometimes lends its subject a severe and simple grace that all the painter’s art fails to reproduce. The chronicler of the Pastors of the Desert, having told with what calm triumph Majal “trod the last steps that separated him from the living immortal Christ,” concludes his story in these words “Thus died, at the age of twenty-six, the minister Mathieu Majal-Désubas. His youth, his personal beauty, his intelligence, his gentleness, his serenity, his evangelical heroism, form, as it were, a luminous background, throwing out into full relief the figure of this martyr, the purest and the fairest of the Desert. Nothing is wanting to his glory. He obtained the regrets of Protestants and Catholics, of bishops and judges, of jailors and executioners; the popular poets celebrated his mournful triumph; and ‘the angelic host,’ to whom the ballad says, ‘his spirit took its flight,’ and ‘whose melodies he longed to hear,’ no doubt received him with palms and songs of victory.”
Nay rather, He, whom in his bright, brief careen, he had served so faithfully and followed so closely, “received him unto himself.” For His words are true: “If any man serve me, let him follow me; and where I am, there shall also my servant be.”