A few days later, two wayfarers from Switzerland to Geneva drew near the Porte de Rive. One was of low stature, bent still lower by age and weakness. Duty and travel-worn, he leant heavily on the arm of his companion, a tall young man of six or seven and twenty, with a well-knit, athletic frame and handsome face. Norbert de Caulaincourt was doing his work well in the Church and in the world: every feature, every movement showed the brave and capable man, prompt to serve, fit to rule, and ready for either as God willed. His face, at once powerful and refined, was just now shaded with sorrow. His fellow-traveler, the aged Reformer, William Farel, had been repeating to him word for word — for he knew every word by heart — Master Calvin’s last letter to himself.
Farewell, my best and most faithful brother, since it is God’s will that you should survive; live in the constant recollection of our union, which, in so far as it was useful to the Church of God, will still bear for us abiding fruit in heaven. I wish you not to fatigue yourself on my account. My breath is weak, and I continually expect it to leave me. It is enough for me that I live and die in Christ, who is gain to His people both in life and death.
“Once more farewell to thee, and to all the brethren thy colleagues.”
“And yet, father,” Norbert said, “you come.”
“What would you have? We are brothers. And remember, it was I that gave him to Geneva. He said he wanted quiet to study and to write. And I — I invoked the curse of God upon his studies and his writings, if for them he refused the call to this city. When, for all answer, he laid his hand in mine, I knew that Geneva was saved. But I did not know then that so was the cause of Truth throughout the world. Young man, I am no prophet, but this I can tell you — so long as the world lasts neither the name of John Calvin nor the work he has done will be forgotten.”
A sigh of weariness interrupted the eager words. The old man of fourscore had toiled on foot all the weary way from Neufchatel to Geneva, for this farewell visit to the friend and brother of his heart.
“Here we are father,” said Norbert, as they approached the gate. “God grant we be in time!”
“He will grant it,” said the sanguine Farel.
In fact, a day and a night of sweet communion were given to these friends of thirty years, as they waited together on the borders of the river, not dark to either, and bright indeed to him whose footsteps were to cross, it first.
When Norbert and Farel passed together through the gate, Norbert of course supposed that the aged Reformer, whom no one in Geneva had expected ever to see again, would be the center of universal interest. What was his amazement when, scarcely noticing his venerable companion, every one crowded round him, cheering, congratulating, welcoming-some even weeping for joy! His, fellow-townsmen all knew him, and nearly all loved him-but what had he done to deserve from them such a reception as this? People he scarcely recognized pressed about him, eager to touch his hand, to embrace him even, if they could; and he could hear the cry that ran along the street, bringing the women and children out of the houses — ” Norbert de Caulaincourt is here! Norbert de Caulaincourt has come back!”
It was really some minutes before he understood, so bewildered was he by the unexpected ovation. At last it was the cry of a poor crippled lad whom he had befriended that brought him illumination. “Thank God, Master Norbert, you were dead, and are alive again!”
“If I was, I never heard of it,” said Norbert. “Who told you?”
“A gray-foot; said you died in Savoy, of the Sickness.”
“I have not been in Savoy since you saw me,” said Norbert. Then, observing the fatigue of his aged companion, “Stay us not, dear friends,” he added. Master Farel is very weary, having traveled on foot from Neufchatel. Let me bring him without delay to Master Calvin. And tell us, I pray you, how it goes with him?”
“No change, M. Norbert, save that he grows weaker every day. But the news of your safety will do him good.”
Half an hour afterward, Norbert was knocking at the door of the bookbinder in the Rue Cornavin. It was opened to him by Gabrielle Berthelier — and the news of his return had not reached her yet.
She had kept a long and weary watch beside two sick beds, followed by hard work in the household of her friends, and ending in the supreme emotion of her interview with Calvin, the night of anguish afterward, and the next morning’s shock and horror. Her soul had been strong to suffer, but her frame was not strong enough to bear the revulsion of a sudden joy. Never having swooned before, her amazement was great when she found herself presently in Norbert’s arms, while half the household stood around them with frightened faces. The first thing she heard was Antoine Calvin’s kind voice. She is coming to herself,” he said; and then he helped Norbert to lay her comfortably upon a settle in the living-room. “Poor child! “he added, as he placed a pillow under her head, she is worn out. She needs comfort. Comfort her thou, Master Norbert.”
Later, Ambrose de Marsac came, full of joy, to congratulate Norbert, having heard of his safe return. He was well acquainted with the house of the Calvin, so he asked Grillet to leave him at the door, which chanced to be open, and to come back for him in an hour. Guided by the voice of Norbert, he went on boldly, and turned into the room from which the sound came. Perhaps it was well for him then that the gift of sight was denied. For Norbert and Gabrielle stood together, and on both their faces was a look that would have gone to his heart like a dagger.
Norbert was instantly at his side, grasping his hand. But Ambrose, after the French manner, embraced him heartily, saying in the gladness of his heart, “This my brother was dead, and is alive again.”“
“Ay; my good friends have had a vain alarm about me. But I am still very anxious on my father’s account., The story, I fear, may be true of him. He has been in Savoy.”
“I don’t think it. There is no depending on these gray-feet, they tell so many lies. Besides, our man was confident it was you. “The young gentleman,” he said.”
Here he paused, “Norbert, there is someone else in the room. Who is it?”
“It is I,” said Gabrielle, coming forward, and laying her hand gently on his arm.
The face with the darkened windows seemed to glow with some inner light. It needed not to speak, he said, “the step, the touch told.”
“And you will be yet more glad for me,” Norbert began; but Gabrielle withdrew her hand from Ambrose to place it warningly on his.
“More glad for you?” repeated Ambrose. “Why?”
Gabrielle’s gesture of warning was lost upon Norbert. He answered simply, though his voice had in it an under-thrill of feeling, “Because, not five minutes ago, Gabrielle Berthelier promised to be my wife.”
There was a long silence. Many changes passed over the blind man’s face, revealing nothing new to Gabrielle, but to Norbert, much. At last, Ambrose de Marsac, gentleman of France, with a calm and self-repression worthy of his race, made courteous answer to Norbert de Caulaincourt Brother, thou are no prodigal; though, like him, thou comest back to a joyful welcome. Nor will I be the elder son. Take the best robe and the ring — yea, take the crown also, and God bless thee!”
He turned to go. Norbert sprang forward, offering his arm, but he put it aside. “Grillet will come,” he said. “Stay thou with mademoiselle.”
How it had all come about, neither Norbert nor Gabrielle ever told; although neither then nor after had either the smallest doubt that it was the thing that had to be.
A few days afterward, on the evening of the 19th of May, Germain de Caulaincourt returned in safety, to the great joy and relief of his son, who, had been vainly trying to get tidings of him. It was true that he had been ill, though not of the plague; and true, also, that he had been hospitably received and tended at Lormayeur, from whence he had hastened, hoping to be in time to see Master Calvin once more. He was not disappointed.
The day following, the 20th of May, the pastors of Geneva used to meet together every year for what we should call a “clerical dinner,” though they called it “the Censures,” because they were supposed to use the opportunity for fraternally admonishing one another. On this occasion it was Calvin’s particular desire to have the entertainment at his house, so as to meet once more with his dear brethren. The two Caulaincourts were among the invited guests; since, though not ordained pastors, they were recognized and honored servants of the Church.
Strengthened by an adamantine will, perhaps also by the last flicker of the failing lamp of life, Calvin took his seat at the table, and offered a short prayer. He even ate a little, endeavoring to enliven us,” as Beza, his friend and biographer, said afterward. Those around him sought to keep up the appearance of Cheerfulness by at least a semblance of ordinary talk. Presently, in a momentary lull of voices, Pastor Poupin was heard saying to someone who sat near, “We shall meet on Monday at the betrothal of Norbert de Caulaincourt and Gabrielle Berthelier.” The words caught that keen and eager ear which was so soon to be closed to all earthly sounds. The dying man, with something like a start, raised himself slightly, and looked full at Norbert, as one surprised. Then, in a moment, the surprised look passed, the searching eyes softened, and the pale face relaxed into a smile of content and acquiescence. For now the ruler had laid down his scepter, the steward had given up his charge into the Master’s own hand, where it was safer far than it had been in his. Norbert never forgot that look, although he did not then know its full significance. It was a benediction without words.
Soon afterward it became evident to the guests that their host was utterly exhausted, and Beza and the others entreated him to rest; so he was borne by loving hands to the adjoining room, and laid upon the couch he was never to leave again.
After that day he spoke with men scarce at all, but with God continually. The week that remained to him on earth seemed but one long impassioned prayer. At last, on the evening of the 27th of May, the watchers around him heard him saying, “The sufferings of this present time are not worthy to be compared with the glory —” Here his voice failed, and in another moment that glory was “revealed” to him. After his name in the Consistorial registry were inscribed the simple words, “Went to God, Saturday the 27th.”
There was a grave in the Plain-palais, undistinguished by name, or mark, or monument. But the mark was upon the history of the Church and the world, and the monument was Geneva, the city of his creation. She continued long what he made her, the refuge of the oppressed, and the stronghold of Protestantism. Many children she had who rose up to call her blessed, and amongst them none nobler, more loving, and more beloved than Norbert de Caulaincourt and his wife, Gabrielle Berthelier. For some years Norbert continued, through much peril, to pursue the calling he had chosen for himself; and he was known in more lands than one by the honorable title of the friend of the martyrs.” Eventually he was ordained, and accepted a pastorate in Genevan territory, though he still made frequent journeys into foreign lands on the business of the Churches. During one of the brief breathing times, when the Huguenots of France enjoyed peace and toleration, he went with his father to Gourgolles; and there, to the intense satisfaction of the elder De Caulaincourt, the ties of affection were re-knit once more. All the family were friendly; Norbert even found a promising young nephew willing to embrace Protestantism, and to come to Geneva to complete his education at the celebrated academy.
For himself, he ever returned with joy and gladness to the happy home of which Gabrielle was the center. A group of merry children grew around them. Louis, the first-born, was the pride and treasure of his blind godfather, Ambrose de Marsac; whilst Ami, the next in age, gave all the love he could spare from home to their frequent visitor, the stately, learned, and gracious Dr. Theodore Beza. The three little sisters who made the household band complete were Claudine, Arletta, and — so called at the special request of Gabrielle — Yolande. All entered early upon their traditional inheritance of high thought and noble living; and all held it unreproved, and passed it on undimmed and untarnished, to those that should come after.
THE END