“He did God's will, to him all one,
If on the earth or in the sun."
—BROWNING.
YOUNG Musgrave ran back again from the doorstep of Beza's dwelling to the house of the Virets. He wanted to hear the very last tidings of the sick girl before he went to his own lodgings in another part of the town, just to snatch a mouthful of food before going to the riding-school in the Corraterie, as he usually did after dinner on Saturdays. Snow was not falling then, but the day was intensely cold, and brooding snow-clouds hid the crests of the grand and distant mountains that keep watch from their thrones over the City of the Lake. As Robert drew near the house he saw Jacques Mercier come forth. Mercier was his friend as well as that of the Virets, and he questioned him eagerly.
“They are counting her life by hours," Mercier replied; "still, the physician thinks she may last till tonight, or haply a day or two.”
They walked on together in silence. That the young English gentleman and the working goldsmith should be very good friends was not strange in democratic Geneva. They had made acquaintance in the Plainpalais, where the Genevan youth used to practice the manly sports and exercises which, in those perilous times, were so necessary a part of their training. Mercier had occasionally helped Robert out of difficulties into which his rather reckless daring had brought him, or shown him how "we of Geneva do these things," which was not always quite the same way as that of "you others of England.”
His plain, honest, intelligent face was clouded just then with perplexity. "M. Robin," he said, pronouncing the name as if it were French, "I am in a strait.”
“Why so, Jacques?”
“You know that M. Viret is in the city Watch, as I am. He should take his turn at the Porte Neuve tonight, beginning early in the afternoon. Could I bid him leave his dying child?”
“'Tis not you, but the Syndic of the Guard who does that. But I suppose he would give him leave.”
Mercier shook his head. "There's a rule against that," he said. "But if I take the turn for him, nothing will be said. M. Robin, could I do less than offer?”
“Well-no, when it is but for four-and' twenty hours. That is not such a hardship." "No hardship at all, save for one thing, which you do not know." Jacques paused a moment, then said with hesitation, "M. Robin, you know I am betrothed?”
“Oh, yes, Jacques, of course I do. Don't you remember you showed me your Madelon in the great market last September, when the Savoyards came with their farm-produce and so forth, and put up booths in the Plainpalais? I bought grapes from her, and figs. I think you settled matters then. You showed your taste, friend Jacques, for she is a right pretty girl.”
“No doubt of my taste, monsieur. It is hers which is in question." With a very gloomy look, Mercier went on, "She and I are not of a mind just now.”
M. Robin was quite too young for the comprehension of lovers' quarrels. If he found himself "not of a mind" with a school friend, he was enough of an English boy to settle the matter straightway with his good right hand; but he knew such a course would not be possible here, and he could think of nothing better to suggest, so he wisely held his tongue.
Jacques continued sadly, "And today, it is her fete. I was going to see her.”
“But we do not keep fete-days here," Robert said.
“That is just how the trouble came," Mercier answered, ruefully. “She is a Savoyard, you know, but a Protestant in heart, which goes, without saying, or else I—” After an expressive pause he went on: "Her parents also are well inclined to the Faith, and will give us their blessing, when the right time comes. Ah me, if—if—. But they do not understand-as how should they?—our strictness about some things. When she bade me to the fete and the merry-making, I said it had a savor of superstition,' being at present in Popish countries, as it used to be here, the day of the saint after whom one was named, and who was to be one's patron—so that I, for that reason, would have naught to do with it. Thereupon she was sore angered, and made answer unto me—"But Mercier had not the heart to repeat the flouting words of his betrothed. He stood in sorrowful silence, his eyes on the ground.
“Marry and indeed, I think you were not over-courteous," said the boy." I would keep the feast of my lady-love in all gladness, and let the Romish superstitions alone.”
“Bitterly have I rued that hasty speech of mine, M. Robin. But I could not tell her so—then. The words would not come to me. She left me in anger. It was her last word, that if I cared not for her fete, it was clear I cared little enough for herself. That was a fair challenge. I need not take part in dance or merry-making, if such should be, but if I do not go to Bernie today and hold speech with her—the truth is, I care not a brass denier what happens to me tomorrow." “Tell you what, Mercier, I'll take the watch at the Porte Neuve for you.”
“Bless your kind heart, M. Robin! But that would never do. You must wait a matter of three years or so ere you don the hauberk and take up the arquebus.”
“Not quite three years, Jacques. A man might serve at seventeen. Stay, though, I have a better thought. Where does your Madelon live?”
“Quite too far, monsieur, for me to go and return before I must report myself at our Quarter; you know the watch is set now an hour after sunset. Her people are Savoyards, as I said; they have a pretty little vineyard of their own, by way of Saconnet, which they call Bernie. It used to be ill going there, for us of the city, on account of the manifold robberies and violence’s of the men of Savoy, the enemies of our Faith, who compass us about like bees, as the Psalmist says. But there is more quiet now on account of the Peace, and besides, the Bopparts got some promise of protection from the lord of their land, who holds them in favor, and who keeps the roads in his estate clear of robbers.”
“Can I not go thither and bring your message?” Robin asked, eagerly." I should love to do it. I have never been so far from the city. It would be a brave adventure and a merry play for me, both at once.”
Mercier's eyes shone, and his whole face was transfigured. "Will you—oh, how good of you! But"— his looks darkened again—"it would not do. The way is long; and besides, M. Robin—your school?”
“Being Saturday afternoon, when the ill scholars are chastised, I have leave of absence. I do not go to the Academy, but to the riding-school, whence also I shall take holiday just for once. But how am I to go?”
“Easily enough. The way is plain, though it is long. You cross the bridge of the Arve, and follow the course of the river till you come to a little hamlet half ruined in the war, and an inn with three cross-bows for a sign. Ask there the way to Bernie, where is the vineyard of one Boppart, and any man will guide you. But it will take you all the time you have, and more, between this and, the shutting of the gates— much more, if you stay awhile to rest, as after such a tramp you needs must.”
“Well, I shall come to the Porte Neuve, and you will let me in.”
“Yes, I can see to that. These times, all that road is very safe and quiet, as I have said, else be sure I would not let you go. God bless and reward you for it, M. Robin.”
“What shall I tell your Madelon for you, Jacques?”
“Just tell her, monsieur, the cause that keeps me from her today; and she, who has the kindest heart in the world, will more than pardon me. And, monsieur, if it please you, will you give her this? It is for her fête, as she calls it.”
He took from his capacious pocket a small box of polished wood, beautifully inlaid, and with a little silver key tied to the handle. Robin was enough of a boy to want to know what was inside; so Jacques opened it, and showed him all the requisites for sewing— scissors, thimble, needles, pins, all of the best kind then known. The Genevans were skilled in the manufacture of these things, many of the best artificers from Catholic countries having come to them as refugees.
Robert exclaimed at what, under the circumstances, was a very costly present. "There is only my mother and myself," Jacques said, apologetically, " and I earn good money in my craft.”
“But why, since thou art a worker in gold, dost thou not give her a brooch or a ring, or something which thou hast made thyself?”
Mercier shook his head. "Girls of our degree do not wear gold," he said. “But they sew, and that right skillfully—so I think she will like that gift of mine. Tell her my heart goes with it.”
“That I will, and now I am off, like an arrow from the bow. Only I must first run home, and tell the Bernards not to expect me until they see me.”
The Bernards were a respected family of Genevan burghers, with whom the father of Robert had arranged for the board and lodging of his son during his residence in Geneva. They were supposed also to exercise a sort of supervision over him out of school hours; but it must be confessed that they held the reins very loosely. Nor had it ever been necessary to do otherwise, as the boy's conduct hitherto had been irreproachable.
"And, M. Robin, see that you take with you a warm outer garment. The cold is bitter," said Mercier.
Robert nodded. "My father gave me a warm coat, lined and trimmed with fur," he said. "I cannot wear it in the town, for such is not allowed to us who are scholars. But once I get beyond the gate I can put it on. I will bring it.”
“God go with you, sir, and may He protect and prosper you.”
“Oh, there's no need," said Robert. Then, correcting himself, "I mean, there's no danger. Save, indeed, from the dark night we are like to have. But I'll make the Bernards lend me a lantern. As to the Savoyards, since the Peace was made they are quite civil. Master Bernard was saying it is because they want to trade with us. I say to thee, Jacques Mercier"—boy-like, he could not help stopping to utter the thought that seized him at the moment, great as was his hurry to "run home" and be set free to start on his adventure—
"I say to thee, I've often caught myself wishing the old times back again. When I sit in my place in the Academy, I sometimes miss my turn for the thoughts that come to me of those who sat there not so long ago—whom Dr. Beza remembers so well, and used to talk about. Indeed the Rector does too, and so do the Pastors—they tell us of the scholars that learned the Truth from Master Calvin's own lips, and went forth to die for it, in France, in Savoy, in the Netherlands— everywhere. He said to them, ' Go and die! ‘and they died. But that was glory, joy and glory! Even the heathen knew it was sweet for a man to die for his country. How much more the Christian!”
So spoke the, child of Geneva, the pupil of the Academy from whose gates John Calvin had sent forth many candidates for the crown of martyrdom. What wonder if their memory and their spirit lingered yet in the very atmosphere of what might well have been called the School of Martyrs!
Mercier looked at him in surprise. "Bless you, M. Robin, what has come to you?" he asked. “You look as if you, you yourself, would like—”
“And I just should!” Robert blazed out." What glory like that? Or—the next best thing—to die in battle for the Right. I had an uncle who died so—when I was a babe in arms—at sea, fighting the great Armada. Since I knew anything I knew about him, and was proud of him. But I must not stay talking. I am off to the Rue Cornavin. Au revoir.”
Mercier looked after him admiringly. His thoughts were something like this, though he did not give them definite words. “There goes a brave lad, God bless him! He will do great things some day. There be folk God chooses for that—elects, as the pastors say.
I suppose that goes into everything, great and small. For nothing is too great for Him, and nothing too small. 'Twould not be wrong to say even, He has elected me to watch at the Porte Neuve tonight. So I must go to work at once that I may be well ready for it, and with a willing heart.”