“Thou knowest Whose eye through shade and depth can see
That this man's crime was but to worship Thee,
Like those who made their hearts Thy sacrifice;
The called of yore—wont by the Savior's side
On the dim Olive Mount to pray at eventide.”
“It seemeth to me that your lad's message was a wondrous timely one," one of the group said, later, as, feeling that the danger was over, they were walking home. "And he lost little time in bringing it. It were well that we lost not sight of him. Is he one of us. Knoweth anyone his name?”
“That do I, if I mistake not," said Dr. Morand's grave voice. "It looked to me like one Gerard, a servant of Bruyere, who dwelleth at my house. I will observe the lad.”
He remembered, now, hearing Béril speak of him, and wishing something could be done to help him, and through him little Mignonne; but in the press of other things the matter had escaped his attention. He reproached himself for it now, as he left the others and let himself into the house. It should not occur again.
“I have been unfaithful," he said to “I have placed myself among those to whom the Lord shall say, 'Inasmuch as ye did it not—.'
It was late. He expected to find the roomy living-room—with its oaken beams, paneled walls, shining with blue china, and gleaming with copper and polished weapons—in solitude. But the lights were not lowered, old Marthe was dozing at the end of the room, and Béril was seated on the settle in the chimney corner in earnest conversation with a bronzed soldierly man—a stranger; her hand resting on Bruno's shaggy head, while the firelight lit up the earnestness of her delicate little face.
“Dr. Morand, this is my guardian, the Comte de la Tour," she said, springing up as he entered; "he has come at last.”
The two men looked into each other's eyes, the one a soldier, the other a scholar, and both liked what they saw.
“I am glad to welcome you; Monsieur le Comte," the physician said heartily, "even though you come, as I fear you do, to rob us of a great treasure.”
“Oh no, he will not, I trust not," Béril put in quickly, slipping her hand under his arm. "I have begged him not to. I love being here. I do not want to go away.”
She soon retired, leaving the two men together, but there was little sleep for her that night.
She lay gazing up into the starlit sky, but in imagination she was living the last few months over again.
She had so much hoped for, even while she had dreaded, the coming of her guardian. Jean, her father's servant, had been despatched to him at once with the news of her father's death, and her own whereabouts, but while she dreaded being separated from the Morands, the only real home she had ever known, yet she felt that when he did come her lips would be unsealed, and she could tell out the story of her promise to one who could help her.
In all her memories one night stood out dearly from the rest. It was the night when her father's illness had taken its sudden fatal change for the worst.
She knew the doctor was anxious, that something had upset the even progress of convalescence, but she did not guess how much the change meant.
He himself knew.
She was sitting on the broad window sill, looking up into that same glory of the stars, Bruno's head upon her lap, too restless and weary to leave him, though not really alarmed, when his voice called her suddenly, but quietly.
“Béril," he said. "I am going to die.”
She gave a little cry of horror. She did not believe him for one moment: sick people had such fancies she knew, and she thought this was one of them. But death was a new thought to her and frightened and horrified her.
“You are getting better, father," she protested.
“I was—I am not now. I came to Geneva for a purpose," his voice broke. “I have failed to accomplish it—and I am dying. Things look so different when one is dying, Béril”
The girl was kneeling by his bedside; she could not speak.
“I heard some words once that I cannot forget. ‘He found no place of repentance though he sought it earnestly with tears.' It is like that with me. Are you listening, Béril?”
“Indeed, yes, father.”
“Come closer, or you will not hear me. There was a man I wronged once. I was ambitious, and he stood in my way. I could not reach the goal that I had set before me while he remained, then chance put a weapon into my hand, I used it ruthlessly, and he fell. So I gained my desire—and I lost my soul. I have had everything—and nothing. People thought me rich, famous, successful, people envied me. No one knew—but God.”
His voice was growing very weak, sometimes she could scarcely hear.
“I came here to undo what I had done, to find him out, and redress the wrong. But, perhaps, God Who refuses my repentance will let you, who had no lot in the sin, succeed. Promise me you will try, that you will never rest, till the truth is brought to light, and the innocent is vindicated.”
“But how can I father?" the child asked, piteously. "I know something of what you mean.”
“It is all written here," he showed her a closely written packet on the bed. "This will make all clear. I have omitted nothing. You must give it to the Comte de la Tour, and tell him what I have told you. Do not leave Geneva till the wrong is righted. Promise me, Béril, for my soul's sake that you will do your best.”
“I promise, father," she faltered. "I will.”
A wonderful relief crossed the pain-racked face.
“God will accept a child's sacrifice," the man said brokenly. “You have promised, God will help you. This paper must be sealed and witnessed, then guard it as your life, child. God's priest is coming to me, he will hear my confession, and then I have done with this bitter world. God have mercy upon my soul!”
This was the story she had tried to tell the Comte de la Tour that evening, while Marthe dozed behind the door, and all else was silent.
“And the paper—where is it?”
“That is the mystery," Béril explained. "Even as father spoke the confessor came in, and father bade me good-bye. I never saw him alive again. I was sent away while the confessor administered the last rites, and when I came back next morning all was over, and the packet was gone. We searched for it everywhere, and I questioned everyone, but it was all in vain. From that day to this I have never seen it.”
“You never will, my dear child," the man said, gently. "It never existed, except in your imagination. Little wonder! All you had passed through was too much for such a child as you. You were worn out with grief and excitement, and you dreamed it all. Put such fancies away.”
Nothing Béril could say would move him from this view. But in one thing, at least, he listened to her, and he consented, though rather unwillingly, to leave her with the Morands for the present. He could see himself that she was little fitted for the long journey in the cruel winter weather into France. He liked and trusted the doctor, and he saw the child was happier with them than she would be anywhere else. So he left her though with the stipulation that it could not be for very long. Next time he came she must be ready to go with him.
All her after life was shaped by the events of the few months that followed, quiet as they were.
Anthony Froment stayed on with Ami Perrin, the ribbon maker, working with his hands, and visiting among the disciples, till one day his sojourn came to an abrupt close.
He was crossing one of the bridges that span the head of the lake (the Rhone Bridge) and unite the two portions of the city, when he came face to face with a procession bearing crosses and relics. He could not turn aside and he would not kneel and bow to the images.
The chants suddenly ceased, and there rose an angry cry instead.
“Fall on the dog. Drown him.”
There was an ugly rush to fling him into the river, but some of the friends who always accompanied him as protectors when he ventured outside the house, rushed to the rescue.
Claudine Levet's husband was an apothecary, and lived at the corner of the Bridge. They drew Anthony within it, and hid him in a secret chamber. Led by the priests the mob attacked the house, but the Huguenots, succeeded at length in drawing them off, though not before Levet's shop was completely wrecked.
That night, Anthony Froment, under cover of the darkness, left the city where he had labored so faithfully.
One after another others were banished. The Gray Friar, Claude Guerin, Peter Fédy, men who dared to preach the truth of God were cast out; but still the little band of believers met in each others houses—Baudichon's most often—and read and prayed together.
The work was of God, and persecution, calumny, and contempt were powerless to stop it. The priests were in despair—without preachers, without leaders, without gift, without any place for worship, still the movement spread and grew.
Sterner measures were called for. It was not enough to strike at the preachers alone.
On the Thursday of Holy Week a grim conference was held in the great hall of the Bishop's Vicar's house. Torches, held by monks, lit up the threatening, desperate faces of the priests.
By some means, however desperate, the light must be put out.
“We will not lower ourselves to dispute with heretics"—this was the ultimate decision of the conference. “We will not ask help from the magistrates, they are only lukewarm. We will conquer the Gospelers by ourselves. Then we will have my Lord Bishop back and the good old times with him. We will ring the alarm bell forthwith, draw our swords and call out the faithful to march against these dogs! Let us kill all the Gospelers without sparing one. We shall be doing God a good service.”
The Easter moon shone down upon the beautiful silent city by the lake. Who could tell what scenes of butchery, carnage, and bloodshed would be enacted within those walls ere her light arose again upon them?
The fiat had gone forth.
By another night not a single Gospeler—man, woman, or child— was to be left in Geneva.