“Who so in one thing hath been true, Can be as true in all.”
Sewell.
Years came and went. Again it was an August morning in Geneva, only fairer than that which witnessed long ago the departure of the nuns of St. Claire. The gate of Cornavin had just been opened to admit the vendors of milk, fruit, and vegetables, who were bringing their wares to the early market. Walking behind a cart full of country produce, as if in charge of it, there slipped in unnoticed two who had nothing to sell, a man in a blouse, and a dark-haired boy who might have been fourteen, but if so, was small and childish-looking for his years. These two soon stepped aside from the throng, and drew unobserved into the shadow of a house. Then, with a sudden impulse, the older traveler knelt down and pressed his lips upon the rough, uneven ground.
“Thank God!” he said with emotion. “His free city! This blessed Genevan soil!” There were tears on his strong face when he rose again.
“Father!” cried the boy. “Look, father, look! Yonder is the Throne of God, the Great White Throne!” For the monarch of mountains rose above them, distant yet plainly visible in the pure clear air — not flushed in a sunrise glow, but white and stainless, in its awful majesty, like the everlasting righteousness of God.
Germain de Caulaincourt raised his tear-dimmed eyes. “That is Mont Blanc, a very great mountain,” he answered indifferently.
Sixteenth-century souls did not often thrill to the touch of Nature’s sublimities, though many of them quite appreciated her gentler charms. But no doubt there were exceptions, and the look in Norbert de Caulain court’s young eyes as he gazed was enough to rank him amongst them. He had large dark eyes and a beautiful face, of a soft, girlish type.
His father laid his hand kindly on his shoulder. “You must be very tired,” he said, “and very hungry.”
“So are you, father,” young Norbert answered brightly, though without withdrawing his gaze from the white wonder in the sky.
“I know not what to do, till it is later, and we can go before the syndics,” pursued De Caulaincourt.
“An inn?” suggested Norbert, still looking up.
Germain shook his head. “Inns have scant welcome for penniless visitors,” he said.
As he spoke a door was opened on the other side of the street, and a white-haired man came forth slowly, for he was lame. He looked for a moment at the two strangers, turned away, took a few steps down the street, turned back, and looked again, as one irresolute.
The strangers removed their peasants” caps, and saluted — not with the air of peasants. Ami Berthelier responded, and by a common impulse they drew nearer. He spoke first, “I think, monsieur, you are strangers here?”
“We are, monsieur. We come from France, exiles for the Gospel’s sake.”
“How have you contrived it?”
“By long wanderings over the mountains, hiding in peasants” huts, and journeying mostly in the night time. I brought with me from home a little money and a few jewels — just what I could conceal about my person; but on the hills we were set upon by brigands, and robbed of everything — indeed, we were glad to escape with life. Last night we walked from a little mountain hamlet — I do not know its name. And this morning we hung about the gate till it was opened for the market-people, and came in with them.”
“Strangers who seek refuge with us go to the Town Hall, and tell their case to the magistrates.”
“I know it. And I pray you, tell me of your kindness where to find the Town Hall.”
“Nay, monsieur, not yet. Their worships do not sit until after service, which is at six o’clock. Rather come in first with me and break your fast.”
“But you were going forth. I shall disarrange you.”
“Not at all. I am of Geneva, you are of the Faith. That is enough. Do me the honor to come in.”
They were soon in Berthelier’s living room, where a plainly-dressed woman, with a sweet, rather sad face, was introduced to them by their host, who had already learned their names as his sister, Claudine Berthelier.
She responded courteously, if not cordially, and went out to hasten the breakfast.
Soup was in Geneva the universal morning meal; but, in consideration for the hunger of his guests, Berthelier whispered a word to Claudine, and presently, the old servant, Marguerite, brought in a dish of cold salted beef, which with soup, bread, and a pitcher of light sour wine completed the preparations. The table was well polished and spotlessly clean, but table-clothes were not then in use, and a piece of bread scooped out was the only saltcellar.
“Where is Gabrielle?” asked Berthelier as his sister entered. He had scarcely finished speaking, when a lovely girl, half child half maiden, came in; her very plain bodice and petticoat of gray serge could not hide the graceful lines of her figure, while her flower-like face looked all the fairer for the contrast. She was followed by the old servant, who brought with her, after the custom of her class, her own pewter plate, and set it down modestly at the end of the table.
All gathered round the board — Berthelier at the head, the two Caulaincourts at one side, and Claudine and Gabrielle at the other. The strangers stood, expecting a lengthy grace. But to their surprise Berthelier only murmured, “May God bless our food,” and began to carve the salt beef, as welcome to his hungry guests as the daintiest fare.
“Is it true, monsieur,” he asked presently, “that King Henry has issued a new persecuting edict?”
“Too true, monsieur; though indeed he need not have taken the trouble, since under the old one fires were already blazing throughout the kingdom.” The exile proceeded to give examples and details, which culminated in horrors that would have effectually destroyed the appetites of a modem breakfast-party. Here the only one through Whom they sent a shiver of positive pain was Claudine; for Berthelier already knew all, and Marguerite thought only of the glories and rewards of martyrdom. As for young Norbert, his eyes and thoughts were dwelling with a kind of fascination on his opposite neighbor. Gabrielle was scarcely older than himself, yet to the boy she seemed a “maiden fair” whom any knight might be proud to fight for or to serve. But why was she not dressed like his sisters? Why did they cover her all up with that horrid gray thing? Still, what eyes, what a mouth, What lips! How grave she looked, how quiet! He wished that she would speak, or at least smile. By way of an overture he essayed to pour out some wine for her; whereupon she thanked him (in the sweetest of voices), but said she only drank water; at which he did not greatly wonder, in view of the quality of the wine.
At length everyone had finished. “Grace after meat,” was said very briefly; then the old servant beckoned to the boy. “Young sir,” she said, “the bell is ringing for morning prayers. Will you come with me and worship God?”
Norbert looked at his father, who, however, was so deep in talk with Berthelier that he was obliged to speak to him. “Will you go, father?” he asked.
“Go thou, my son; I go not this time,” Caulaincourt answered, and continued his discourse.
So Norbert and Marguerite went to church, and Claudine and Gabrielle into another room. Berthelier and his guest remained standing at the window, and looking out upon the street, now filling rapidly with men and women on their way to the morning service at the neighboring church of St. Gervais; the men in gowns or doublets of frieze, save a very few, who wore broadcloth, being in office or members of the council, while the women wore frieze skirts and bodices with close-fitting hoods. As the materials were plain, the colors also were sober; scarce a bright hue was to be seen, far as the eye could follow the long unlovely street.”
“Master Berthelier,” asked the Frenchman suddenly, “what do men find to do, who come here penniless as I?”
“That depends, monsieur. You are a gentleman of France?”
Caulaincourt bowed his head, and Berthelier’s look said, “I thought so.”
“Almost,” said Caulaincourt, “could I wish myself an honest silk-weaver, or a mason or carpenter, so that my boy and I might not be a burden to strangers.”
“There are no strangers here, for you. To a Genevan every Protestant is a brother.”
“Yet no man wants to cling helplessly about his brother’s neck. It is written, “Bear ye one another’s burdens,” but also, in the same place, “Everyone must bear his own burden. How can I bear mine, and the boy’s?”
“No difficulty about the boy. When the syndics have seen you and heard your story, some citizen will offer to take you both into his house. Then your son will go to school. And you” he paused.
“And I?”
“Can do what you like, within the limits of the law, which here, I own, are somewhat strict. Still, I suppose you will not want to play games of hazard, or to dance or sing profane songs on the Sabbath day?”
“Why, no,” Caulaincourt returned, smiling. “Yet that which I want to do, my countrymen would think more disgraceful than all these together. For I would fain learn and practice any honest craft which would keep me from adding to the burdens, already so great, of our generous hosts.”
“But that would be hard for you. A gentleman — ”
“Should not be a beggar, nor a thief.” After a pause he added, “In my journeys I thought of printing. It seems to require less than most other crafts that bodily labor to which I am unused. And I have always loved books.”
“So much,” said Berthelier, “I have guessed already.” He had not talked so long with his guest without discovering in him a man of intelligence and education. “Still, I doubt that hands will take kindly to the compositor’s stick which have been used, or I mistake, to handle the sword.”
“I have served the king, and in more realms than one,” De Caulaincourt said modestly. “But since I received — through Christ’s honored martyr, the Councilor Du Borg — the knowledge of His truth, I have lived in retirement on my own estate, which is that called Gourgolles, in Dauphiny — as I told you, did I not?”
“I suppose even there you found you were safe no longer?”
Caulaincourt assented. “It cost me much to go,” he added sadly. “And much that is very dear to me is left behind. Two little maids and two boys, one of them a babe. Thank God, I kissed them as they slept. And their mother, dearest of all. But she knew, and forgave me.”
“For taking her son?”
“She is not Norbert’s mother, though he is dear to her almost as her own little ones. I was slow to believe in the danger, and I shrank from the sacrifice. I hoped times might change, and I hoped also that I might be able to instruct my wife and children in the things that accompany salvation. But the hearts of women cling so to the old, the well known.”
“Of that,” said Berthelier, “I have proof. My sister, who was once a nun of St. Claire, remains, even in this stronghold of the Religion, a Catholic at heart.”
“And my children,” Caulaincourt went on — “children care for naught but play and merriment.”
“Not here,” said Berthelier, smiling. “Here the very children burn to go as missionaries to France, or Italy, or the Low Countries, and to win the crown of martyrdom.”
Then I fear my Norbert will scarce find comrades here to his liking. He is a strange boy; very childish in some ways, yet by flashes unexpectedly manly. It used to grieve me that the boy who was all mine seemed the least disposed of all to share my thoughts. He preferred playing squire of dames to his step-mother, or sharing the sports of his little sisters, to attending to his studies or listening to the Word of God. And yet that child, for he is no more, hastened home alone from a masquerade in the neighboring town, and sought me in my study. I was ill-pleased with him, for he had gone there with his step-mother against my will. But when I heard his story, I saw the hand of God’s providence. He had overheard a whisper between the mayor, at whose house the entertainment was, and a captain of the king’s cuirassiers stationed in the town, about their plan for the arrest of the heretic lord of Gourgolles the next day. And he came to warn me. Then, at my desire, the brave boy hurried back to the town, alone and in the dark, two long leagues, to fetch my wife, whilst I made such scanty preparations as I could. Thanks to Norbert’s good running, she arrived in time to receive my directions about our children and the estate. As I have said, she forgave me. We parted in peace. At the time I scarcely felt anything. My heart seemed dead within me, like a stone. Only I was conscious of a pang, and a keen one, when I gave Norbert also the farewell kiss, and he did not cling to me, nor seem as if it hurt him to part.
So I took my solitary way down the hill. I was walking on doggedly in dull heaviness of spirit, when I heard quick footsteps behind. “I am betrayed,” I thought, and did not greatly care — for. What had I to live for? I turned. It was the dark before the dawn, but I could see the figure of a boy, who ran after me, panting, breathless. Next moment Norbert’s hand was on my cloak, his voice in my ear.
“Father, stay for me!”
“You?” I said.
“Why did you bid me good-bye?” he panted, “when you knew — ”
“Knew what?” said I.
“Knew I was yours.” As soon as he found his breath he added, “I have learned one verse out of your Bible — ” Thy people shall be my people, and thy God my God.”“ Monsieur Berthelier, what I did then, it shames my manhood to tell of now. I had not wept at the parting — but the deeps were broken then.”
“I understand,” said Berthelier. “When I was in prison, if I could have wept, I might not have lost faith in God and man.”
“Ah, you too have suffered?” said the Frenchman, with interest.
“Not as you. Go on, I pray of you.”
“It would but be tedious to tell of our wanderings, our dangers, our escapes. And, indeed, I care not greatly to look back upon those days of hardship and peril, which grew to weeks. In God’s mercy we are here, and safe. A word that sounds strange on the lips of a Protestant. For the boy’s sake I am glad.”
“You are as safe,” said Berthelier, “as the ramparts of Geneva and the hearts and hands of her citizens can make you.” “If only,” he added, “Geneva were at one within herself.”
Caulaincourt looked surprised. “Are there then dissensions among you?” he asked.
“There are; and I, with the luck of all my life, am on the wrong side, or rather, I should say, on no side at all.”
“You speak in riddles, monsieur.”
“Did you know that, ere your new faith reached us, we Genevans had a hard fight for our ancient liberties?”
“Wherefore do you say your faith, as though it were not also yours? Surely you are no Catholic.”
“I am a Huguenot.”
“Then — a brother.”
“Not in your sense. With us a Huguenot formerly meant one who loved our ancient liberties, and leagued himself with our friends of Fribourg to maintain them. But now, instead, the children of the champions of liberty in Geneva are called Libertines.”
“Methinks the old name was better.”
“And they were better men who bore it.”
“But what should your Libertines, or Huguenots, do now? The truth, which you have received, has made you free, and thus done all, and more than all, they wanted.”
“All their fathers wanted, perhaps. Yet I scarce think even that. Master Calvin and the Consistory tie men’s consciences too tight, to my thinking.”
“Men cannot be tied too tight from sin, or from error.”
“That depends. The Libertines, at all events, like the new state of things even less than their fathers did the old. In this I think them both right and wrong.”
“How can that be? You cannot walk to the right and the left at the same moment, nor be at once in light and in darkness.”
“Is one ever either wholly right or wholly wrong?” asked Berthelier, with a slight shrug of his shoulders. “Who knows? Certainly not the man who walks. — These Libertines of ours claim the liberty to live as they list.”
“Making liberty a cloak for licentiousness,” De Caulaincourt threw in.
“True; but is what I have under my cloak the business of other men? Methinks if Master Calvin and the Consistory were well advised, they would let men go their own way — within reasonable limits, and avoiding open scandals — and not insist upon every one’s living like St. Antony, or like Noah, Daniel, and Job, as the Bible hath it. But they must needs have all cut out after their own pattern, which may be pure and lofty, but it does not suit every one. Let the Church keep her province, and the world hers, says I. But my kinsmen say, “Very well, then. In revenge for the irritating supervision you Churchmen persist in keeping upon us, we claim Church privileges. If we do not belong to you, let us alone; if we do, then make us free to everything you can give.” So they insist, While they keep their vices, upon going to the Holy Supper. The Council of Twenty-five, which we call the Little Council, and which is part with Master Calvin and part with them, has given an ambiguous decision, but the ministers (and here I think them right enough) protest against what they call a profanation. So things are at present.”
“And I perceive that Geneva is not, just yet, a heaven upon earth,” said De Caulaincourt.
“Nor ever will be,” acquiesced Berthelier, with a bitter smile. “But I think it is now time to present yourself at the Town Hall. With your good leave I will walk with you to the door, but my escort further would not be helpful, as I am rather in ill odor with their worships. Both on my own account and my sister’s I am under censure, and have been fined once and again for our non-attendance at church, and other sundry misdemeanors.”