“He taught me all the mercy, for He showed me all the sin.
Now, though my lamp was lighted late, there’s One will let me in.”
TENNYSON.
THE snow lay thick upon the mountain paths Jacques and René had to tread. But they were young and strong, and cared little for cold or hardship. In due time they reached Vernoux, where they were hospitably received by Jacques’s uncle, a mechanic named Pierre Lorin, in easy circumstances, and with a grown-up, prosperous family. Lorin’s eldest son, who bore his own name, had recently married the daughter of a magistrate, through whose influence he obtained charge of one of the town gates. His office gave him the use of a good house adjoining the gate, in which he gladly accommodated his parents and his unmarried sisters and brother. But these advantages had been bought by more than one sacrifice of principle. He had been married “in the Church,” having previously gone to confession and made a verbal “abjuration of heresy;” and he had purchased the “certificate of Catholicity,” without which he could not have held any civil or municipal office. It is true that these compliances left him as much a Protestant as ever in conviction; but no man can act or utter a series of falsehoods without injury to his moral character. It was a strange position which the State occupied towards the Protestants. At every crisis of their lives she stood before them, one hand full of bribes, the other armed with the sword, commanding them to speak a lie. “If a ruler hearken unto lies, all his servants will be wicked,” says the wise man. What then could rulers expect who demanded lies, and thus sowed broadcast a crop of dragon’s teeth?
René, himself in all the ardor of his first love, thought the Lorins, and the other Protestants he met in Vernoux, cold and indifferent. What was then called “Nicodemism,” was rife among them, they held their faith “secretly, for fear of the Jews.” In almost every act of their lives they compromised their convictions. Marriages and baptisms in the Church were universal: it was said, and not without much plausibility, that they were inevitable.
The fair was over in good time on Saturday; but a merry-making was to follow, and the Lorins entertained their friends who had come in from the country at an early supper, that all might be ready for the festivities of the evening. René would gladly have avoided the féte by continuing his journey to Mazel, but because this would have obliged him to travel on the Sabbath, he deferred his departure until Monday morning. His purchases (including some linen and other matters for Jeannette’s modest trousseau) he intended leaving in the care of the Lorins, as he must pass again through Vernoux on his return from Mazel.
He was seated at the supper table beside Jacques, and talking to him about Jeannette’s wishes and his own purchases, when some words, spoken by one of the guests, arrested his attention. “Any other time, my brother,” said this man, whom Lorin had evidently been pressing to remain for the féte― “any other time I should be glad to stay. But tonight! Not if you were to give me both your hands full of louis-d’ors fresh from the king’s mint. We are all friends here, are we not?―I thought so. Well, messieurs, at sunrise tomorrow an assembly is to be held in the forest, near the great elm tree. I have promised to take my wife and daughters. And you could not do better than come too, every one of you here present.”
Various were the excuses made. Was it unnatural? These men and women, with feelings like our own, preferred spending a December night in sleep, to toiling painfully through forest paths, and standing in wet grass, or ankle deep in snow; even if the galleys and the dungeon, or such a death as that of Paul Plans, had not loomed in the distance.
But no excuse found favor in the eyes of Étienne Lorin. “Did you but know the joy and comfort you would find, not one of you would hold back,” he said. “Of what are you afraid? Of cold? Little you would reck of that with hearts burning within you, like theirs whom our Lord met and talked with by the way. Of weariness? You would soon forget it, thinking of the rest He gives the heavy-laden. Of the dragoons, the prison, and the galleys? Only hear our pastor talk of Him, and to go with Him to prison or to death will seem a light and easy thing.”
But his entreaties were in vain; so, bidding farewell to his brother’s family, he rose from the table. René rose also, and came to his side. “Monsieur,” he said, “I will bear you company, if you will allow me.”
“What, my lad? Are you willing to lose the féte?”
“I do not case for it. Indeed I had rather not be there,” said René. “On Monday I am going to St. Argreve.”
“Very good. Then come with me. Rest tonight by the fire in my cabin; and tomorrow go on to St. Argreve from the place of assembly, which is in your way.”
René thankfully accepted the offer, and parted cordially from the Lorins and Jacques Brissac. But as he left Vernoux, in the company of his new friend, the snow clouds loomed darkly above them, and a few flakes began to fall.
“This bodes ill for the night, and the morning too,” said Étienne Lorin, wrapping his cloak around him.
“I fear it will thin the assembly,” René observed.
“No danger of that. They expect M. Désubas.”
“Is he the pastor of whom you spoke just now? I never heard his name.”
“That shows you a stranger in the Vivarais. There is not a name so loved in all the country. If prayers and blessings can make rich, M. Désubas has earned enough already for a king’s ransom.”
“Halte-lá, Perh Lorin, halte-lá, for a friend who would bear you company” cried a voice behind them. They looked back. A tall young man was following them with rapid, swinging steps, his staff in his hand, and his long hair―tawny as a lion’s mane―floating loose behind him.
“Not like you, Phre Lorin,” said the stranger, “to run away from the town without word or message, leaving your friends to follow as they might.”
“Not like you, Jean Desjours, to be left behind by any man,” Lorin answered laughing. “I never yet saw you that you were not first―at feast or fight, at play or preaching.”
“Do me the justice to observe, M. Lorin, that it is long enough since you saw me at feast, fight, or play. Of what were you talking when I came up?”
“Of what should we talk tonight, Jean Desjours? Here is a young man from the mountains, well-born and one of the faithful, who hears the name of M. Désubas for the first time.”
“Is it possible, monsieur?” asked Desjours, courteously raising his cap as he addressed René.
“I come from the Hautes Cévennes, monsieur,” René answered.
“There, Jean Desjours!” said Lorin. “You have a fair opportunity for the use of all your eloquence. Two long leagues lie before us. Make the most of them.”
“You mock me, Pere. I am not eloquent, I am only an ignorant country lad scarce able to read and write.”
“But ready of speech, as of hand and foot.”
“I would use hand and foot far oftener in M. le Pasteur’s service, if he would allow me. My tongue is a poor instrument. Still, if your friend cares to hear.” ―With characteristic hastiness he turned to René,― “Monsieur, I was born yonder, near Brussac. My father―a careful, honest, God-fearing man―had a little vineyard of fine grapes, a few apple trees, and a good house. But when the fever came, seven or eight years ago, he died; and my mother followed him to the grave. I was their only child. I mourned them bitterly; but time passed, and I found comfort. I was a thoughtless, light-hearted lad. I loved a dance or a merrymaking: I loved still better to prove my skill at wrestling or archery, or to bait the wild bull from. I missed no chance of going to an assembly, not for anything I heard, but for the adventure, the danger―it was only a frolic of another kind to me. But by-and-by a new joy came; a presence without which dance and féte were nothing. All went well with me. Toinette knew, and did not slight my love. She was a Catholic; but neither of us cared for the difference in religion. I painted and adorned my house, and furnished it comfortably, even daintily―for I meant to bring the fairest bride in the parish to the fairest home. In one hour all was swept away. I was left a desolate outcast, with nothing save my staff and my wallet, to call my own.”
“In one hour!―How was that, Monsieur?”
“The law did it―the law of the land. My cousin claimed all I had, as my father’s rightful heir. And his claim was legal. My father and my mother had been married ‘in the Desert;’ and such a marriage is not worth the paper upon which the registry of it is written. In the eye of the law I am nobody.”
“None but a scoundrel would have taken advantage of that,” said René.
“I spared not to say so. And with many a bitter curse, God forgive me! Every one, Catholic and Protestant, pitied me, and cried shame on Philippe. M. Afforty, the judge of Vernoux, whose office obliged him to put the law into execution, made no secret of his compassion for me, and his contempt for my cousin. He even referred the matter to the great lawyers of Toulouse, but what could they do? The law was plain. Staff in hand, and not daring to cast a Look behind me, I went forth from the door of my father’s house. Of course, monsieur, you guess the rest? What could I expect? Toinette was not to blame, nor her parents. They could not give their child to a homeless wanderer. She is in a convent now: every day I ask God to bless her.”
“And you? Sorrow might well have overwhelmed you.”
“I grew desperate and reckless, ready for any wild work that offered. I had nothing to lose, not even a name. As for my life, that I was willing to fling away, like an apple bitter to the taste. In such mood I attended an assembly. It was the first time M. Désubas, then a young Proposant, preached in these parts. ‘Here,’ thought I, ‘is a young man, just my own age; and like me, without borne or portion in the world. Though, indeed, the law, which gives me nothing, has the kindness to offer him a halter, and six feet of earth for a malefactor’s grave.’ I watched him as he rose to speak―there was peace, even joy, in his Pace. He was not reckless like me, he looked as though he prized his life as God’s good gift, which yet he was willing, any moment, to give back to Him. Then I listened―and listening, I forgot him! I stood, not in his presence, but in God’s. Until that hour I had been, with all my thoughtlessness, a Pharisee of the Pharisees, proud of my sufferings and my sacrifices. Was I not one of the faithful, stripped of all I possessed on account of the Faith? Was I not a confessor, at least, if not a martyr? Before M. Désubas had done speaking, I was the Publican, standing afar off, and crying, ‘God be merciful to me a sinner.’ I was miserable―and yet, in truth, less miserable than when, defying God and man, I boasted my own integrity, and heaped bitter curses upon those who wronged me. My sins wrung my heart as my sorrows had never done; but then it was with the living God I had to do―not with man. There was my comfort.
“I followed the young pastor everywhere, hoping that God would speak to me by his lips again. And He did. Under the quiet stars, in the soft bright midsummer night, M. Désubas told us of the love of Christ, that exceeding great love whereby He came down from Heaven to seek us, gave his own life instead of ours, and brings us back to the Father. And he said that the Father Himself loves us, watches for our return, waits to welcome us home. It was all for me. It was I who was loved thus, with a love passing knowledge. From that hour I was no more desolate, no longer sorrowful. What, though I was an outcast and a wanderer, with no name, no portion upon earth, I had a name and a place in my Father’s house better than a son’s, even an everlasting name that should not be cut off!
“When morning came I was standing under a chestnut tree, alone. I took out my mother’s Testament, and with some difficulty found the words that had been the pastor’s text― ‘Greater love hath no man than this, that a man lay down his life for his friends.’ I marked them―with my blood, for I had neither pen nor pencil. I knelt down and thanked God, then I went back to the village singing aloud for joy.”
“And were you not reconciled to Philippe Desjours after that?” asked Lorin.
“Of course I was. The next time we met I stretched out my hand to him.”
“Very like you, Jean―always in a hurry.”
“Perhaps so. But, Pére Lorin, do you know that Philippe himself is coming to the Préche tomorrow morning?”
Desjours made this announcement with an air of triumph, which provoked a jest from Lorin.
“I suppose,” he said, “you expect M. Désubas’s eloquence so to touch his heart that he will repent and restore your inheritance.”
“I expect something better: that he will become a fellow-heir with me of the inheritance incorruptible, undefiled, and that fadeth not away.”
There was an interval of silence, then Lorin said, “Here we are, messieurs” ―pointing to a light which shone from a cottage window to guide their footsteps over the snow. They were soon received by Lorin’s wife and daughters, who had a bright fire burning and supper ready. Desjours was evidently no stranger there, but a frequent and welcome guest.
After supper the family retired to rest, leaving Desjours and René to keep each other company beside the fire. When they were alone together, Desjours took out his Testament, and showed René the verse marked with blood. That which followed was underlined also, with a pencil. Desjours read the words aloud, “‘Ye are my friends,’” adding, “It was M. Majal marked those for me, saying, ‘There is your inheritance and portion, and mine too.’”
“M. Majal!” cried René. “Then you know him also.”
“Know him! Of whom else have I been talking the whole evening?”
“Of M. Désubas.”
“The same. He is Majal, Désubas, or Lubac, on the lips of the faithful. Majal is his family name, Désubas that of his birthplace.”
“The very man I am seeking!” René exclaimed in delight. “Can I speak with him, think you, tomorrow after the Prêche?”
“Certainly; if you have patience to wait, for there are always many who must needs speak with M. le Pasteur. Let us wait together. I should be in despair if I had to go away without touching his hand.”
Long did they talk. Desjours, the elder by ten years, was the chief speaker, though René was not a silent listener. Their theme was the Word of Truth, and still more, him who brought it; and they wrought up each other’s enthusiasm for it, or rather for him, to a pitch that was perhaps scarcely sober or safe. There is only One who can always discern between the dross and tinsel of youthful feeling, and the pure gold of faith. And it is by fire that He makes the separation.
But at length René slept―the profound and dreamless sleep of youth, which seemed to have lasted but a moment when it was broken by Desjours, who, standing over him lantern in hand, bade him make baste, Test he should be late for the Prêche. In an instant he was on his feet. “Today I shall see M. Majal,” he thought, with rapture.
The little party took a hasty breakfast, and filled their wallets with rye bread, cheese, and apples, to be eaten after the assembly. Then, with staves and lanterns, they went forth into the profound darkness of a December morning. The snow had been falling all night, was falling still. Their way through the forest would have been difficult to find, even in broad daylight. Lorin, a trained forester, who knew every snow-laden pine and leafless elm as a man knows the friends of his childhood, carefully led the van, his lantern in his hand, and his wife leaning on his arm. Desjours followed, escorting Marie Lorin; and René brought up the rear with the younger daughter, Jacqueline.
Yet Desjours eventually contrived to make his way to the front, which seemed his natural place. And at last it was he who, in a moment of perplexity, when even Lorin’s experience was at fault, cried out joyfully, “Our friends are near! Listen; they are singing a psalm.”
It was easy to tell from what direction the sound came, and the party pushed on with renewed courage. Soon Lorin said, “Let us quicken our steps. I fear we are late. The day is breaking.”
The snow had ceased to fall, and the cold blue light of dawn was slowly increasing. René thought, with a shudder, of another daybreak, only two months ago. As they drew near the spot where the congregation was already assembled, they recognized the words of the song of praise, chanted amidst the snow on that dreary December morning―
“How lovely is Thy dwelling-place,
O Lord of Hosts to me,
The tabernacles of Thy grace,
How pleasant, Lord, they be!”
An accidental clearing in the forest was used as the place of assembly, as it had been on several previous occasions. The crowd was dense when the Lorins, arrived. But Desjours succeeded in finding a fallen tree, and spreading his cloak upon it, made a comfortable seat for the women. By this time the psalm was ended.
“No, you are not late,” the newcomers were assured by those around them. “The pastor has not yet appeared.”
“Not yet?” Desjours exclaimed. “That is strange. He is always early.”
Desultory conversation followed amongst friends and relatives, to whom the assembly was a trysting place. Those who lived at considerable distances from each other, and enjoyed few opportunities of meeting, gladly filled up the intervals of worship with
“Discursive talk
From household fountains never dry.”
But René, who knew no one in the crowd, stood apart, watching anxiously for the coming of the pastor. Desjours knew every one, and had numberless greetings to exchange. Yet, ere long, he too became silent and abstracted; he was growing uneasy at the delay.
At last René drew near the spot where Lorin was standing with some acquaintances. “Can we have mistaken the hour?” he asked him in a low voice.
“Impossible! Sunrise was the time fixed upon.”
“And now the sun has risen. M. Majal is very late.”
“That is true. Something must have happened to detain him. He may have missed his way. The forest paths are hard to find.”
“Or the snow may have hindered him,” suggested a bystander. “I hear some of the roads near St. Argréve are quite impassable.”
But this conjecture―which, after all, had been only hazarded to hide a latent, ever-growing uneasiness―was at once rejected as absurd.
“M. Majal did not let the snow hinder him,” said a white-haired old man, “when he came up the mountain last winter to visit my son on his deathbed; and after nightfall too, for he dared not venture out in the day. That was weather to talk of, with the bitter wind blowing in your face, and the snow so thick you could scarce see your hand before you. But he said my poor boy’s delight, and the comfort God gave him through his words, paid for all. God bless M. le Pasteur! And next to him, God bless the brave lad who was his guide that night―a friend of yours, I think, M. Lorin―one Jean Desjours. Is he here?”
“Yes; he came with me. There he stands yonder, beside that dark slender little man, such a curious contrast to him. M. Plans, that is Philippe Desjours, whose story you heard last night.”
“Hush!” said the old man. “Once more they are raising a hymn. I trust it may be a sign that the pastor is coming.”
It was the noble Huguenot Te Deum, which, swelled by a thousand voices, rolled to Heaven its glorious anthem of praise and prayer. Yet it had not been chosen by the congregation because their hearts were gladdened by the approach of their loved minister, but only because this was the Sabbath morning, and they thought it right to welcome it with a song of thanksgiving.