That very day Norbert, on his way home from school, was accosted by a stranger, an elderly man, dressed respectably in gray homespun, and leading a mule laden with merchandise. This, though he did not know it, was Muscaut, the Savoyard, dealer in peltry, who had a permit from the magistrates to enter the town for the purposes of trade. He it was who, on a former visit, had seen Gabrielle, and recognized her by her likeness to her mother. Someone, apparently, had pointed Norbert out to him, for, leaving his mule to the care of a bystander, he hastened after him, and spoke —
“I have a letter for you, young master.”
“I think,” said Norbert, “you must be mistaken. Who would write to me?”
“I am not mistaken. You are the young gentleman who went masquerading as a young lady. Then this is for you.” He gave him a small piece of paper, folded but not sealed, and with no superscription.
“From whom is it?”
“From one whom you know, and who knows you, yet could not set down your name in writing, since he had never heard it.”
Norbert opened the paper, and read Will you meet me as a friend, just before sunset, at the Savoyard side of the Plain-palais, under the clump of trees behind the wine-shop of Amos the Jew? You may bring one friend with you as a precaution, if you will. Your sincere well-wisher
— VICTOR DE LORMAYEUR.”
Norbert, with his usual daring, at once decided to go, and to go alone. He would not tell his father or any of his friends, lest they should try to prevent him, suspecting, not unnaturally, a plot of the Savoyards to get hold of him, and take vengeance for his trick. But, for his own part, he trusted absolutely to the honor of the young count, who had so generously given him his life. It might have occurred to an older and more wary person that the letter might not be from Victor de Lormayeur, whose handwriting he had never seen, but from some enemy using his name. But Norbert never thought of this; in his present uneventful life he was glad of anything to happen, and awaited the evening with lively curiosity.
He reached the place of rendezvous a good half-hour before sunset. But the man he sought, or who sought him, was already there, on horseback, in a plain green hunting-suit, with a silver horn by his side. On seeing Norbert he dismounted, throwing the reins to the single attendant he had brought with him. “Good even, brave lad or fair lady,” he said. “Come with me under the trees, and sit, for I would talk with thee.”
Norbert looked at the bright young face with the good forehead, the soft eyes, the weak mouth and chin. He knew no harm would come to him from this man. But he preferred to stand, while Victor sat or lounged with his back against a tree.
“You Genevans have made precious fools of us,” he said.
“Not the Genevans, who knew nothing,” Norbert answered promptly. “It was my doing, as I told you.”
“Still, no doubt they were glad enough to get their men back without ransom. I hope they rewarded you well, my brave enemy?”
Norbert laughed. “They were near rewarding me with bread and water and a dungeon, if not worse,” he said.
“And I may tell you, Sir Count, ‘tis the general opinion that your father should be sent, in good silver crowns, the fair ransom of the three prisoners.”
“Do they think, then, to disarm his wrath? They ought to know him better.”
“They do not think of his wrath at all. They think of what is just and right,” Norbert said, proudly.
“They must be stronger than we wot of, if they can afford to disregard the wrath of a Lormayeur,” answered Victor, rather nettled.
‘Tis a lesson they have had to learn. How many years is it since you Gentlemen of the Spoon have been moving earth and heaven to compass their destruction? Have you done it yet? Can you do worse in the future than you have done in the past? If not, why should they trouble themselves?” asked Norbert, who to this Savoyard talked like a Genevan, while to the Genevans he often talked like a Frenchman.
“Thou art a bold rascal. But that is just what I like thee for, and why I have come in search of thee. Know, however, that my father would have demanded reparation, sword in hand, at the gates of Geneva long ere this, but for the mischance which laid him helpless on a bed of sickness. When I told him of the black arts of those wicked heretics, whereby the fair lady and the steed she rode on had been transformed into hares, he at first refused to believe me, though the men of the escort bore out the story. True, they had not seen the change — such things are never seen in the happening, the devil takes care of that; but the very same day two hares were found by the huntsman in a snare, and one of them cried piteously with the very voice of a young girl, while the other was just the color of your palfrey; — and so the thing was quite clear to all persons of sense and reflection. In the end he changed his mind, and believed it all; but the fiercer was his wrath against the sorcerers of Geneva, which was reasonable, and also against me, which was not reasonable at all, for how could any man fight with sorcery? So terrible was his rage, that at last he fell into a fit.” Here Victor threw into his voice a decent amount of regret, and paused a little, ere he continued. “The leeches say he is better now, and like to live; but in no state to go to war — and never will be, as I fear, again. Still, he is more gentle and easy to entreat. Thus is it that I have got from him the leave he long denied me — to go. to Spain and lay my sword at the feet of my rightful sovereign, the Duke of Savoy — now fighting for the King of Spain, for whom he has just gained a great victory, at a place called St. Quentin. As soon as he has done their business for them he will get the Spaniards to help him in his, and come back with an army to recover his own proper domains from the French. I want to strike with him in that quarrel,” said Victor de Lormayeur, the light of a manly purpose kindling in his eyes.
“Then Sir Count, may God go with you, and deal with you as you have dealt with me!” said Norbert, heartily.
Victor looked away from him, and plucked up a handful of grass and weeds. “The truth is,” he said, with evident embarrassment, “I am leaving behind a young lady whom I-whose favor I am wearing.”
Norbert looked amazed. Certainly the count had consoled himself very quickly for the loss of the Genevan bride! He knew not what to say, and therefore wisely said nothing. At last Victor went on, though still with evident confusion. “Thou wilt marvel, and indeed it is hard to explain. I had to yield to my father’s will, and sacrifice my own. But now all that is over. And I needs must tell thee, because “twould suit me well to have thee go with me to Spain.”
“Me! Go with you to Spain!” Norbert repeated, in great astonishment.
“I have said it. Never saw I a lad I would like so well for a comrade, despite thine audacity, perhaps because of it. Boy, I will make thy fortune, or rather the duke and I between us will do it. You may begin as my page — no, you are too good for that. I think you have grown in the few weeks since I saw you. You are more of a man.”
“That’s the dress,” Norbert put in.
“You shall begin, then, as my trusted squire. I want you for many things, most of all, perhaps, to keep up my communications with a certain castle I wot of.”
“But,” said Norbert, “you forget the question of religion.”
“What of that? We are not all of us saints and monks. I don’t want thy prayers, boy, I want thy nimble wit, thy daring, thy staunchness to thy friends. With thee for squire and true brother-in-arms, I think I could carve out something of a fortune and a name, fit to lay at the feet of the lady of my dreams.”
Norbert forgot even the bewildering rapidity with which the young count seemed to change the objects of his devotion, in gazing at the prospect thus suddenly stretched out before him. A part in brave deeds, a work to do, a name to make in the great world — the brilliant world where men fought and conquered, wooed and won fair ladies, and lived half in mirth and joyaunce, half in wild adventure and high emprise — that was what was offered him. The brimming cup of life was borne to his lips; in one long eager draft he might drain it, if he would. His cheeks flamed, his eyes sparkled, his boyish form dilated; he seemed in that one moment to grow up to manhood.
He knelt on one knee, and stretched out his hand to lay it in the count’s, like a vassal who swears allegiance to his lord. And with his hand his heart went out to him. Yet, an instant after, he withdrew it, and a dark shadow crossed his face.
“But — ” he said.
“No “buts” for me,” said Victor gaily. The weak face looked into the strong one, and so kindly, so winning was that look, that weakness had almost conquered strength.
Norbert’s eyes fell. “But France?” he said at last. I am a Frenchman. I bear no sword against France.” “That may be arranged,” said Victor.
“But — my father?”
“If he is a man of sense — and of that I may not doubt — he will be glad to have thee so well provided for.”
“No. He will say, “What shall it profit a man, if he gain the whole world, and lose himself?”“
“Lose himself?” Victor repeated, with something like the wistful look of a very intelligent dog who is trying in vain to make out his master’s meaning. Just then a red ray of the setting sun stole through the trees, striking the silver buckle of Norbert’s belt, and making Victor’s diamond ring flash out into a many-colored glory. He stood up, and moving aside a little, pointed significantly to the great ball of fire now just touching the horizon.
“I pray you, let me think,” Norbert said.
“Yes,” the count answered; “until the sun sinks.”
Norbert turned his face towards the glowing western sky. The time was short. If he had never thought before in all his life, he must think now. Yet, try as he would, he could think of nothing but the young count, his face, his dress, his accoutrements, and, above all, the oddity of his talking to him of another lady-love, after the assiduous court he had paid so lately to the supposed Lady of Castelar. That, no doubt, was how people acted in the great world, a place full of surprises and adventures, and chances of every kind. So different from cold, commonplace, monotonous Geneva. And yet, in Geneva men kept troth, and were staunch to their friends. Witness their dealings with his father and himself since they came amongst them. All this time the sun was sinking — oh, how quickly! — still he had not thought, was not able to think. He only felt that he too, perhaps, had a troth to keep. Had he not said, “Thy people shall be my people, and thy God shall be my God”?
“I am the son of Germain de Caulaincourt, gentleman of France,” he said proudly, to himself. Better that than squire to the Count of Lormayeur. But now of the great sun only a rim remained, a narrow line of red fire. In a moment it would be gone. So would all his past, if he went thus his father, his faith, his home, ay, even this Genevan home, which, after all, held some he cared for. To abandon all these would be to lose himself. He could not do it.
A hand was laid upon his shoulder. The young count stood beside him. “Come, my squire,” he said, smiling.
Norbert, with a sudden impulse, threw himself at his feet.
“Not your squire, Sir Count,” he said. “That may not be. But always your grateful servitor, whose life you saved, and who holds himself bound to you, in all lawful ways, so long as that life shall last.”
“If so — do what I want you. Why not?”
“There is my father. I am mansworn to him, and he to Geneva.”
“The Genevan heretics may hang, as they very well deserve! I warrant me you like them none so well yourself. Nor the life you lead among them.”
Norbert was loyal to the core. Not for worlds would he say to this foe of Geneva what yet he had often said to himself. He made answer stoutly “I have eaten their bread and salt, and they have dealt well with me and mine.”
“Are they worth your chance of a merry life, and, after it, a good end in the true Church, to make your salvation?”
“I know not what they be worth, Sir Count. But I think that I would not be worth your trust and favor if I left them now. For it would be leaving my father, and my father’s faith.”
Victor knew he was beaten. His hand dropped by his side, and his bright face clouded over.
“All my life long,” said he, “I have never got yet one single thing I wanted.”
“Sir Count,” said Norbert, and his voice was ominous of a break, “I beseech you to let me go. It makes it too hard for me, when I look in your eyes and hear your voice. For I fain would do what you ask me — and I cannot. But if ever I can serve you, even at the cost of my life — ”
“You are an obstinate young spark!” the count interrupted, with sudden anger, which passed as suddenly. But there — it is just my luck. I say no more. After all, you are French. Go your ways. Go back to your Geneva, since you must, and God go with you. Stay, though.” He drew from his finger the diamond ring the setting sun had glorified. “Take this in token of my liking for a brave lad. If ever you need a friend, bring it, or send it, to me, and you will find I have not forgotten — the fair lady of Castelar.”
And so they parted.