Meanwhile the city by the lake, where Claudine, Gabrielle, and the rest led their quiet, uneventful lives, had become the scene of a strange experiment. Not all her citizens, indeed, but the best part of them, and the part that was more and more acquiring the preponderance, were bent on making her a pure theocracy; to be governed in strict conformity with the law of God, by those who regarded themselves as His servants and deputies. That magnificent experiment had been tried before. For a few bright, glorious, disappointing years Savonarola had taught his Florence that Christ alone was her Lord and King, till even the children shouted in the streets, “Viva it Re Gesu!” We know how it ended — how, after misfortunes and mistakes not a few, the prophet, as was meet and fitting, died for his disowned, repudiated King. The work of the prophet of Geneva lasted longer; and he was spared the final tragedy, which, nevertheless, would have immeasurably heightened his fame. But there were many points of resemblance, if many also of contrast, between the fervent, passionate Italian and the calm, strong Frenchman, whose fire was the more intense because it burned inwardly.
That the Frenchman’s work not only lasted longer, but went deeper than the other, was doubtless partly owing to the fact that he was seconded by some in whom there was really the law of the Spirit of life — the new life, which means righteousness, power, and victory.
But even outside the Libertine party — with which we shall have more to do — there were always those in Geneva who remained untouched by the mystic influence, like Ami Berthelier, and his sister, and young Norbert de Caulaincourt. Still, there were many who threw their whole souls open to it, as the fuller spreads his cloth in the sun to bleach it. Norbert’s father was one of these. His life since he received the new faith had been a lonely one. The occasions were very few when he could receive at Gourgolles some itinerant Huguenot preacher, or journey in disguise to some field meeting, or secret administration of the Holy Supper. It is true that he had always the Word of God, and that spiritual life may be maintained at a very high level by direct access to the fountain, without any intermediate streams or channels; still, in the normal course of Christian life, streams and channels are God’s way of blessing.
“I am another man since I came here,” he said to his friend, Antoine Calvin.
“Now you will go and spread the light,” Antoine answered, stitching away diligently at the new edition of his brother’s Institutes of the Christian Religion.
“I am willing. But — where to go? What to do?”
“Ask my brother.”
“I do not care to trouble him with other men’s business.”
“That is his business. He saith to one man “Go,” and he goeth, to another “Come,” and he cometh, and to his servant — that is to say, to every Genevan — ”Do this,” and he doeth it.”
De Caulaincourt paused a while ere he answered, “Then let him send me wither he will. For,” he added with emotion, “all places are alike to me now. I have tried once and again to communicate with the dear ones left behind at Gourgolles. But in vain; no word, no token comes to me. I see that I am dead to them, as they must be to me. Henceforth I have no home on earth; saving that which your kindness gives me here.”
So he went to Calvin, and was sent forth presently on an evangelistic mission to the peasants of the Savoyard district adjoining Geneva. His knowledge of their patois, so unusual in a Frenchman, was a special qualification for the work, and as the scene of it was near at hand, he could easily return for counsel, guidance, or encouragement — that is to say, if he returned at all. For every missionary of the Reformation went forth with his life in his hand; and he knew it.
All the new Geneva was burning and glowing with missionary zeal. Not eager youths alone, like Louis de Marsac, but men of mature age, like De Caulaincourt, caught the fire, and longed to spend and be spent — nay, to be offered up — for Him whom their soul loved.
Him whom their soul loved! That was what the Reformation, that was what Protestantism — nay, that was what Calvinism meant for them. Not an iron system of logic, but the face of a living, everlasting Friend, who, each man felt, loved him, chose him before the foundation of the world “to glorify God and to enjoy Him forever.” Dogmas that to us look stern, look repellent even, seemed to them — like that other “stem Daughter of the Voice of God” of whom the poet sings — to wear —
“The Godhead’s most benignant grace,
Nor was there anything so fair
As was the smile upon (their) face.”
There was sweetness unutterable, there was strength adamantine, which no world in arms could subdue, in the creed of these heroic souls — “Thou shalt guide me with Thy counsel, and afterward receive me to glory. Whom have I in heaven but Thee? and there is none upon earth that I desire beside Thee.” And not stronger souls only, but nobler, holier, and tenderer than those who held it thus, has the world never seen, and is never like to see.
Their code of morals did not shut out the pure and sacred joys of earthly life, even if sometimes too austere to take account of its minor charms and graces. Youths like Louis de Marsac, who looked towards martyrdom as the eager young soldier of to-day might look towards the Victoria Cross, did not dwell always on the heights of spiritual exaltation. Or rather, the heights where the air was keen and pure and one had wondrous Pisgah views, and the valleys where flowers blossomed and sweet waters ran, were to them but parts of the same journey, with the same Friend walking beside them, and the same Home in prospect at the end.
One day Claudine Berthelier came home from a short walk in considerable excitement.
“I have just met Madame de Maisonneuve,” she explained to Gabrielle and Marguerite. “And she insists, positively insists, on our going there to-morrow night, to a supper they are giving in honor of the Seigneur de Vezelay, who has just come from France.”
The Maisonneuves — properly Baudichons de Maisonneuves — were the wealthiest family in Geneva, and zealous, Protestants.
“My father will not go,” said Gabrielle.
“True. M. de Maisonneuve could not persuade him, though he did his best. But madame says you must come she will take no excuse. And, unfortunately, so must I, much as I hate it; for thou couldest not go alone. God knows, child, it is no will of mine to put vain thoughts; into they head; still, it is very plain these ‘Regenerate’ have enough of the world about them to like to see a pretty face at their supper-table. What wilt thou wear?”
“What but my Sunday robe, my silver girdle, and the blue ribbons my father gave me?” said Gabrielle, her eyes sparkling with pleasure.
“Well,” said Claudine, only half content. “A plague upon these new sumptuary laws, which will allow no more, I suppose, to the daughter of a simple burgher, not in office — even on a feast day. Though, if all had their rights — As for me, I shall do well enough in my gray robe, with a muslin kerchief and a well-starched coif. Madame will send for us, and send us back again, under safe escort.”
“A good thing you will not need mine,” said Marguerite. “There will be someone left to take care of the master. But I own that, though I have little opinion in general of feasting and revelry, I am not sorry the child should have a bit of pleasure for once in her life.”
“A very mild bit of pleasure” indeed, that entertainment at the Maisonneuves, would have seemed to a twentieth-century maiden. The repast, restricted carefully to the number of dishes by law allowed, was served upon a long narrow table, or “board” of polished wood, the men, all covered, sitting at one side, the ladies at the other. But if there was no great variety in the fare, it was abundant and very good. The wine was good too, and freely though temperately used. Placed first upon the table was that old Genevan institution, pot all feu, a literal pot of noble dimensions, containing hares, capons, venison, and other meats in their own rich soup, made with wine instead of water. Joints, roast and boiled, succeeded, and gave place in turn to goodly piles of the confectionery for which Geneva was still famous, although, under the new regime, the market for it had declined. There were not many young people present, but by those who were this part of the entertainment was thoroughly appreciated.
“I wish Norbert was here,” said a familiar voice.
Gabrielle looked up, and met the smiling glance of Louis de Marsac, who sat opposite, and was inviting her attention to some particularly delicious almond cheese cakes. Of course, she had known he was there all the time; but she was doubly glad to have him speak to her, for her aunt, in virtue of seniority, had a place a good deal above her, and the young people on either side were strangers. She put her hand out for a cake.
“This is better,” said Louis, giving her another. “Is it right to take the best?” she hesitated. “Certainly, when no one else wants it.”
Just then the concluding grace was said by one of the pastors present; and they all rose from table and dispersed about the hall, forming little groups for conversation. Gabrielle stood uncertain, feeling rather lost and lonely among all these strangers. She was grateful to De Caulaincourt, who came to her side and pointed out some of the personages present, whom she did not know. “But where,” she asked him, “is the Lord of Vezelay? “Do you not know him? That tall, handsome man in the velvet cloak edged with fur.”
“I thought that was Dr. Theodore Beza.”
“Who is Lord of Vezelay,” said De Caulaincourt, smiling. “A man of learning, a poet, and at the same time the lord of broad lands and much wealth. And all he has, gold, learning, genius, he asks no better than to lay at the feet of His Lord and ours.”
“I know he is a great friend of Master Calvin,” said Gabrielle. “I thought he would have been here to-day.”
“He was bidden, but was too busy to come. But there are here four pastors out of nine, and three syndics out of four, so methinks Church and State are represented fairly.”
“I have been seeking you, De Caulaincourt,” said their host, coming up at the moment. “I want to present you to Dr. Theodore. He knows one who hath been lately near to Gourgolles, and he can give some tidings of your family; not much, but good as far as they go.” So De Caulaincourt was hurried off, and Gabrielle left alone once more. But Louis had been on the watch for his opportunity, and approached her.
“I pray of you, damoiselle,” he said, “let us play together the game of the key.”
He led her to a small table, upon which lay a large and heavy key, or a piece of metal made to resemble one, with marks and figures on it. To push this key as far as possible over the edge of the table without letting it fall, formed the simple, unexciting pastime with which the Genevan citizens rested their weary brains after much political and theological debate. There is a tradition that Master John Calvin himself was known, in some rare moments of leisure, to push the key.” Two other youths joined the game, and volunteered to instruct Gabrielle, who usually gave the key too strong a push, and sent it clattering to the floor, to her own dismay and the amusement of the rest. They used to stoop all together to pick it up, and the one who got it claimed the post of instructor. But by-and-by the, other two dropped off, and Gabrielle said to Louis, “How is it I cannot do it?”
“Because, mademoiselle, you do it too well. You put forth more strength than is needed.”
“I see. But most things one has to do as well as one can. With all one’s strength.”
“I think not. No more than one would give all one’s money to a beggar. Then, one would have nothing for the next; and worse, one would become a beggar oneself.”
“I suppose that is so. But no one ever tells us not to give too much. All say, ‘Give,’ ‘Spend thyself,’
‘Deny thyself.’ That last must be right always, M. Louis.”
“No, damoiselle-indeed no!”
Gabrielle looked up, surprised, at the bright young face before her. She knew, how well! what Louis meant to be and do. Surely this was strange doctrine — for him! She said softly —
“Even Christ pleased not Himself.”
“His purpose was not to please Himself, nor to deny Himself. It was to do the will of God.”
“But that will, for us, is to take up the cross.”
“Not the cross always. Often it is joy. The Master sits at the board and pours the wine for the feast. He bids us drink, and give thanks.”
The young man’s face glowed, his bright eyes met Gabrielle’s: “There was something in them that moved her, almost too strongly. She took refuge in a commonplace. My aunt and the pastors, who do not agree always, agree at least in this — they prefer fasts to feasts. I think my aunt is glad that I have no proper day of fete, as no one knows exactly when I was born or christened. But my father objects, and must needs keep my fete next Sunday.”
They stopped to listen to the psalm a company of well-wishers of the Maisonneuve family were chanting outside in their honor. Then followed Bible reading and prayer, led by Beza and one of the pastors. So the party broke up, and De Caulaincourt and Louis de Marsac escorted the Bertheliers to their home.
Next Sunday a little packet was put into the hands of Gabrielle. It contained an ivory table, set in silver, a choice specimen of the work of a well-known Italian artist, an exile for religion, settled in Geneva.
She remembered with burning shame that she had inadvertently told Louis de Marsac that day was to be her fête. Gifts were such rare things in her experience that she had never dreamed of expecting them. And yet they were precious — sometimes.
=============================
Thus time passed on, bringing by-and-by an event, in the crowded annals of Geneva, scarce worth a recording line, yet to certain young lives of decisive import. One day in mid-winter there was a solemn service in St. Peter’s, and after prayer and blessing and exhortation, the hands of the Presbytery were laid upon two young heads bowed before them in reverent awe. Denis Poquelin and Louis de Marsac were ordained as pastors and missionaries, that they might go forth bearing the Bread of Life to their native country of France.
Master Calvin preached from the very appropriate text, “Behold I send you forth as sheep in the midst of wolves.” And in the crowded church there were not a few who could scarce hear his words for weeping. It was not that the young missionaries had kindred there. Louis de Marsac had been brought to Geneva, in early childhood, by his father, an exile for the Faith, long since dead. Denis Poquelin, also a Frenchman by birth, had but newly come from Lausanne, where he had been educated. But all who held “the Faith” were of kin in those days.
Berthelier was not present, he had declined to go. “Human sacrifices are not to my taste,” he said. “Neither the pope’s, nor yet Master Calvin’s.” Claudine was there, however. “At least,” she said, “I can put up a prayer for these two poor innocent children, who are being flung into the fire for the sins of other folk.”
De Caulaincourt was absent in Savoy. Norbert had gone, to church with the scholars of the academy, but, as it was half-holiday, he walked home with the Bertheliers. When they got out of the church and into the street of the rising sun,” Claudine’s wrath, the wrath of the wounded dove, broke forth in most unwonted fashion, for her.
Now God forgive that long-nosed, black-avised, heretic preacher you have all sold your souls to V she said. “There he stands, free and safe, with all Geneva at his back to protect him, and bids those two poor boys go forth and be burned at slow fires, as calmly as I should say to Marguerite, “Go into the kitchen and fetch me a dish-clout.” If he thinks as much as he says of the glories of martyrdom, why does he not go and win them?”
“That is what I sometimes think,” Norbert chimed in. “I would not even send him to France, but only to the Marches of Savoy, where my father goes. It may be very wise, very prudent, to stay here and preach to us all, but — And yet — I know he is a brave man. Did I not see him face the Libertines that day in the cathedral?”
From beneath the hood that shaded Gabrielle’s face came a low, trembling voice “Perhaps it is not the hardest thing to go.”
Norbert left the Bertheliers at their own door, and then walked slowly back to the Rue Coutance. There was a vague hope in his heart, which was destined to be gratified. He met De Marsac, who took his hand after the fashion of the time, and said —
“I was looking for you.”
Norbert made as if to turn, “I suppose you are going to the Bertheliers?”
“No. My farewells there are said. ‘twas thee I sought. Come with me.”
“Thy going is fixed for to-morrow morning, is it not?” “Yes.”
“I shall see thee off. Give me the rendezvous.”
“Thanks. I knew thou wouldest be there. But so will others. And Denis, for so short a time as he has been here, has friends also.”
Norbert understood. Louis meant that this should be their real farewell. They had so much to say to one another that for some time they said scarce anything. Then Louis tried to give Norbert some advice about his studies.
“I”ll do what I can,” Norbert said gloomily, “but I shall hate the school now. All the good has gone from it, with you.”
“Oh no! You will think of me, and do these things for me.”
“Ah! if thou wouldest ask me to do something for thee, really, for thyself!”
“Let us turn here into the Rue des Chanoines. There strikes the clock of St. Peter’s, and it is the hour at which I am to wait upon Master Calvin, and have him bid me God-speed. Wilt stay for me outside, Norbert? I shall not be long.”
“With all my heart,” said Norbert, relieved; for he feared (very needlessly) that Louis would have proposed their going in together.
Louis knocked, and Norbert made haste to slip out of sight before the door was opened. He walked up and down for a few minutes, but no very serious demand was made upon his patience. It was not long before Louis came forth, his bright face shadowed, and tears trembling in his eyes. Men were far less careful then than now to hide such evidences of emotion.
“What is the matter? “Norbert asked, sympathizing. “Nothing; all is well. If tears come, they are for joy — joy that such honor is given me — that I am counted worthy. Yet there is pain too — my dear father in God! But do not let us talk of it. Come to the cathedral court, where all is quiet.”
They did so, and for a little while walked up and down in silence.
Then Louis spoke suddenly, “Thou saidst, if I would ask thee to do something, for myself?”
“Ah! try me.”
“Thou doest know, thou hast guessed, whom in all Geneva, in all the world, I hold most dear.”
“Yes, I have guessed. Although, I own, I marvel at thy taste.”
“What? You marvel? I thought you held also in esteem, in admiration”
“Esteem and admiration are no words for it. Never in all my life was I so frightened of anyone — ”
“Frightened! at gentleness itself, and loveliness?”
“Gentle he may be to thee, whom he likes. Not to ill scholars like me. But lovely! Heaven help thee, Louis, where are thine eyes?”
“Of whom are you talking?” asked Louis, standing still.
“Of whom should I talk, save the man from whose door you have just come forth? I know you love him with a love which unto me is passing strange.”
“There is another kind of love passing — but not passing strange. Oh, Norbert, hast thou not guessed? Thou hast seen her so often; thou hast seen us together more than once or twice. Dost not remember that morning when both you and I rose before cock-crow to carry her bread to the oven? — We have not drunk out of the same cup. Nor have I spoken to Master Berthelier, far less to her. For see, I go forth with my life in my hand, and whether I return or no shall be as God wills. But if I do, and I think I shall — she knows. Norbert, I hold thee somewhat as a knight would hold his dear and loving squire, a young brother already in heart, later perhaps in arms. Wilt thou do the squire’s, the brother’s, part for me whilst I am absent, serving her in aught wherein she may need thy true service?”
The boy who listened felt as if the solid ground was rocking beneath his feet. Had he been anything but a boy, in half his nature still a child, he would have known long ago. His misfortune was that in the other half he was not a child. At least in his own opinion it was a man’s heart that broke within him now. His palace of delight had shivered at a touch, and fallen about him in shapeless ruin. For a while he did not dream of answering. He could not.
Louis, so much taller, looked down kindly, even tenderly on the boy beside him. He saw that somehow he was grieved and hurt, but he had no faintest suspicion why. What aileth my young squire?” he asked. “Have I hurt thee, Norbert, by calling thee thus?” For he knew the lad, like others of his age, would fain be accounted a man.
“Oh, oh no!” Norbert roused himself to say. “Louis, I will do it. You may trust me.”
Little more was said till they parted at the door of Marsac’s lodging. Louis thought Norbert only a boy, and supposed that his silence and his sorrowful looks were due to the approaching parting. His own heart was stirred to the very depths, he was leaving so much that he loved, and he was so grateful for the love poured forth from all sides upon him. Full of this thought, he took his young brother in his strong arms, and, as the way then was between man and man, folded him in a close embrace, and kissed him lip to lip.