“All I could never be,
All men ignored in me,
That was I worth to God whose hand the vessel formed.”
It was not in obedience to William Farel's voice that Anthony Froment had come to Geneva, greatly as he loved and revered the Reformer. Anthony Froment had heard the Voice that called the fishermen by the sea of Galilee, and that was the Voice he sought to obey. Farel asked him to go, and he shrank back and refused. That other Voice called, and he obeyed.
He was little more than a lad, not twenty-two, shy, slight, with nothing in his appearance to commend him. The Huguenots on whom he called—friends of Farel—looked askance at him, and would have nothing to do with him. Depressed and disheartened Anthony decided that he had mistaken the guiding, so he packed up and turned his back on Geneva.
And then he could go no farther!
If the men, would not listen, perhaps the children would. He turned back again. And so the school at the Golden Cross was begun.
Before long all the city had heard of it. Not only the children went, but their parents, men and women in ever increasing numbers.
When, the morning after their talk, Béril and Ulric made their way thither, it was to find themselves in the center of a crowd of citizens, councilors of the city, merchants, tradesfolk, ladies, people of all sorts and conditions, nearly all with grave and eager faces.... the faces of men and women who had come not out of curiosity or for a passing amusement, but with a deep and real purpose.
The people of Geneva had heard of the wonderful awakening of the Reformation in other lands, in Germany, England, France, even in other parts of Switzerland, but their city was held to be a stronghold of Rome. The Prince Bishop's power was only limited by the Syndic and the four Councils, for there were 700 priests in the city. Farel, who had seen the Papacy overthrown in Berne and many another place, had met but short shrift here, and had within two days been ordered to leave on pain of being burnt to death; yet there were many anxious to learn something of the wonderful power that was transforming and molding men's lives everywhere.
So they found their way to the Golden Cross, where the shy, boyish, little schoolmaster preached. Christ daily, after his lessons to the children were given.
“Why, there is Master Baudichon, the leader of the Huguenots," Ulric whispered to Berl "And there is Guerin, the cap taker. And look, isn't that Cousin Claudine?”
“I believe—yes I am sure it is," whispered back Béril, amazed at the sight of the brilliant, handsome cousin that had such influence over Greta.
“That's one for Greta," chuckled Ulric. "Won't I tell her when we get back. Nothing on earth would induce her to come—and she is the first person we see!”
But Ulric grew silent, when, lessons over, Froment stepped up on to a round table, Bible in hand, and spoke out his message.
It was no fiery denunciation of the errors of Rome, no attack upon priest or nun, it was simply the Gospel of the grace of God, the story of God's unspeakable love to lost and ruined sinners, the love that gave His only begotten Son to be the propitiation of our sins, that whosoever believeth in Him should not perish but have everlasting life.
As Béril listened, the crowded hall, the very speaker faded from her sight. This was what she had been longing for; orphaned, lonely, burdened by a dark and heavy secret she could not tell to anyone, a hideous responsibility she knew not how to bear. His message was all for which her weary heart was aching.
It was the first time she had ever heard the Gospel, and she did not need to ask if it was true, she knew it was.
She was dying of thirst—here was living water. She drank, she lived.
Hidden in the crowd, the child broke into a passion of silent tears; but they were tears of gratitude, of relief, of joy.
When the sermon was over, and the listeners dispersed, she rose, too, and her face dazzled Ulric as he glanced anxiously at her. Then he smiled.
“Béril, I know, I understand," he said, taking her hand in his brown schoolboy grasp. "There are two of us now.”
“You, too, Ulric?" she said. "Oh, how wonderful it is! He gave His Son. He loved us like that! Oh, if only everyone knew! How can we ever thank Him for it?”
But one of Froment's listeners still remained when all the others had left, and sat still like one in a dream.
It was Claudine Levet, the bitter enemy of the heretics, who had come to scoff, to have fresh food for her mockery.
There she sat, her white face full of trouble, in utter contrast to the rich clothes and brilliant jewels that she wore.
“Is it true what you say?" she demanded abruptly of Anthony.
“Yes.”
“Is that book really a New Testament?"
"Yes.”
“Is the mass mentioned in it?”
“No.”
“Will you—" she hesitated for a moment.
“Will you lend it me?”
“Gladly.”
Claudine Levet took the Testament and, carried it home. And for three days and three nights no one, not even her husband, had speech with her.
She had shut herself in her room. A crust of bread and water sufficed her in those days when she was alone with God and His Word.
It was a new Claudine that came out at last—the old life, with its aims and pleasures and ambitions was gone forever.
“The Lord has forgiven me and saved me." This was her explanation. "He has given me the living water.”
So the work spread. Soul after soul was gathered in. There was Baudichon, the leader of the Huguenot party, there was the capmaker, Guérin, who, not content to keep the good news to himself, began to tell it forth to others. These and many more—Dr. Morand among them—had heard the word of life from the lips of the little French schoolmaster.
But Greta was as far away as ever. Her enmity remained keen and intense against the Truth, though she was her old merry good-natured self in other things. It was only at her father's absolute command that she would remain in the room for the daily readings and prayer. Claudine Levet had sought in vain to persuade her to go and hear the preachings, all her old influence was gone. Greta would not listen to a word from anyone but her father, and even then her manner was a silent protest.
Irene had to keep her treasured Testament out of sight altogether, and the children would wait till she was at Mass or at the Convent, where she often found her way now, and taking it from its hiding place would carry off Béril to their favorite haunt, the garret, and gather round her as she read to them from its pages in the dancing light of the huge wood fire.
Sometimes Ulric—who was a student at the "Great School" which was famous far beyond the limits of Switzerland, and the forerunner of the College afterward founded by Calvin—would join them; but there was another little listener more regular than he.
Béril could not say when she came first but one day she became conscious of a tiny figure crouching at the door, which had been left ajar—a mite of a girl, very shy, and half wild, but like enough to Gerard for Béril to know at once who she was.
To notice her in any way was to cause her to disappear instantly, but, ignored, she would creep out of her own little garret, and take up her post at the door day after day.
To Béril the thought of the poor little mite, shut up alone in the garret, all the long hours Gerard was about his work, was a real trial. She longed to do something to brighten the little, lonely, starved existence; she did not know how much she was doing.
Gerard was not long in discovering the difference. He was doing all he could for the little sister that was all he had in the world and it was no fault of his that that "all" was pitifully small.
She might have the giant share of the food doled out grudgingly by old Bruyere; but he knew it was not the food a child ought to have, often she could not touch it at all. Béril's gift had enabled him to get some warm clothing such as he had never before been able to provide; but that was all spent now.
However long the hours seemed to the little prisoner in the attic, they seemed longer to him. Every morning as he closed the door upon her, his heart stabbed him afresh. He knew how perfectly unnatural those long hours of solitude and the utter absence of playfellows were for a child, but with all his love he could do no more for her.
But he began to notice how the wan little face brightened into a smile on his return, and she had always something fresh to tell him of the wonders of the garret next door, the glorious games the children played—she had plucked up courage to join them once or twice when the three little ones were alone— though if Greta, Ulric or Béril appeared she would vanish like a little ghost, and nothing would induce her to return. The beautiful stories the demoiselle read from the little book were re-told to Gerard.
He would listen spellbound, he had never heard anything like it, and the stories did not lose their beauty on her baby lips.
“I can say Irene's text now," she announced proudly one night. "Wilt hear me, Gerard? ‘Herein is love, not that we loved God, but that He loved us, and gave His Son to be the propitiation for our sins.' Didst know that, Gerard?”
Gerard lifted his face from the panel he was carving with rare fidelity and delicacy.
“He may love rich people like them," he said. "'Tis certain He loves not us, Mignonne. Dost think it looks like it?”
“Oh, but He does," Mignonne returned, earnestly. "The demoiselle said so. He loves us all—every one.”
“Mignonne, do you remember father and mother?" he asked, bitterly. "Canst remember any home but this bare garret?”
The child's eyes grew dreamy.
“Sometimes I seem to have lived here always," she said, slowly. "But other when—I know not how— I seem to mind me of a house no wise like this, with glorious gardens and lawns and flowers and singing birds, where I might play all day, and a lady very fair, who kissed me much and often held me in her arms, and a tall knight who laughed and loved me too, and carried me on his shoulder, and you—but you were different then—you used to laugh then and play with me, and wear beautiful clothes like Ulric. Morand, but richer. But I know not well whether these things were, or, did I dream them.”
“It was no dream, Mignonne," the boy said, hoarsely." You were so little I deemed you had forgotten, but you remember well. And now father is a banished man, in a prison somewhere, or even dead belike. And mother is dead, and of times I think it would be better if you and I were dead too. But we are here, and we shall never see that lovely home again.”
“But why, Gerard?" questioned the child.
“Because someone who was stronger than father, hated him," Gerard returned. The slender hand that held the carving tool tightened on it. "He forged a lie against him and it succeeded. A little one like you could scarce understand; but father was condemned though he was innocent, and his enemy robbed us of everything, money and home and good name. No wonder it killed our mother. Think you now, Mignonne, that God is love?”
“She said so," Mignonne repeated, wistfully. "I did not know who God is, but it was passing sweet to think Someone loved us—loved you and me, Gerard. I asked Irene, too, and she said it was true God did love us. She wished I could go to school with her at the Golden Cross, and hear all about Him. She would take me she said. Will you let me go?”
Gerard scarcely knew what to say, the proposition startled him. He would be glad for Mignonne to learn to read and write; but, on the other hand, she might be shunned and despised as Gerard's sister. The poor drudge of Bruyere the miser.
Of course, the little Morand's protection would be ample, but Irene's offer was probably just a child's thoughtless suggestion, which would by no means gain the consent of her sister or old Marthe.
It was hard for him to refuse any request of Mignonne, though there would be no harm in trying, so he gave his consent.
But the days of the little school in the hall at the Golden Cross were numbered. On the last day of the year a command was issued forbidding Anthony Froment to preach any longer at Geneva, either at the Golden Cross or in private houses.
The next morning the crowd at the Golden Cross was greater than ever. He could not even reach the door, not only was the hall itself packed, but the passages, the stairs, and the streets approaching it.
The sight of Anthony Froment sent a great wave of excitement through the mass of people.
Hear him they must and should.
But the hall would not accommodate a tithe of the would-be hearers.
“To the Molard!" rose the cry, and in a moment the whole crowd had taken it up "To the Molard!”
The Molard was a large square near the lake, and not far from the spot where the fish market was held. It was filled by the time Froment had been carried off thither.
But great as the throng was, an absolute hush fell upon it as the young schoolmaster lifted up his voice in prayer.
“Father," he prayed, "look down upon the poor blind people, led by the blind, so that they both fall into the ditch, and can only be lifted out by Thy mercy. Give me, Lord, strength and wisdom, so that Thy power may be shown—that it may be seen that Thy power is greater than Satan's, and that Thy strength is not like man's strength.”
There he stood upon a stall, and drew his Testament from his pocket.
“Beware of false prophets which come to you in sheep's clothing, but inwardly they are ravening wolves.”
Even those who knew Froment best, had never heard such words as now poured from his lips.
The lad—he looked no more—stood there fearlessly before that huge concourse, and gave utterance to a stern indictment, a solemn unsparing denunciation of the evils of the system under which they groaned.
He spoke of the evil lives of those who professed to be God's representative's on earth, of the awful idolatry which taught that a piece of bread shut up in a golden box was God himself.
He knew that his life hung in the balance, that these might be the last words Geneva would ever hear from his lips, but the time had come, he felt, not only to proclaim the Truth, but to denounce the Error.
Even if it cost him his life he would say with Paul, "I have not shunned to declare unto you all the counsel of God.”
Suddenly a Huguenot—Claud Bernard—sprang forward.
“Save yourself, Anthony Froment," he shouted.
From his position he had seen what others could not—a huge body of armed men, magistrates, priests, and soldiers, entering the square.
“For God's honor let us avoid the spilling of blood," he urged, when Anthony refused, and would have continued his address.
Anthony did not consider his own life, but this was a new thought, and he saw that Bernard was right. Fighting was already beginning. In the confusion that prevailed, he was hurried away unseen, and hidden in the house of a Huguenot named Chantenys.
All day he remained there hidden. The magistrates had dispersed the crowd, and reported to the Council that the young preacher had vanished.
The city was quiet again, but the priests were not satisfied. Hour after hour they kept up their search for the young preacher who had dared to bring such scathing accusations against them, and when at length, after dark, they traced him to the house of Perrin, whither he had been removed, they resolved that he should not escape them again.
They rushed to the house, and surrounding it, shouted aloud that they would burn it and all within unless Perrin brought the preacher out to them. But Perrin was no coward.
“I am free to keep an honest servant in my house without asking your leave," he said, and I shall do so.”
“Anthony Froment, you are my servant" he said, turning to the preacher. "I herewith engage you.”
But meanwhile a flying figure had fled from the shadow of the house, and sped through the streets till he had reached a group of Huguenots who were standing talking in grave tones.
“The priests have traced Master Froment to Ami Perrin's house," he gasped. "They are going to burn it down, and everyone who is in it.”
He had no breath for more, nor did his listeners wait for more.
The appearance of this band of men in the street just as Perrin spoke the last words, put a totally different complexion on the matter; the priests saw they were outnumbered, so separately and silently escaped.
For the moment Anthony was saved.