“And if in our unworthiness
Thy sacrificial wine we press;
If from Thy ordeal's heated bars
Our feet are seamed with crimson scars,
Thy Will be done.”
“Stay, there is one more name we must add. You have Baudichon—”.
“He has left the city," a voice returned, quickly. "He is already on his way to Berne.”
“Then he must be overtaken and brought back. Baudichon ye have on the list, Chautemps, Ami Perrin, Ami Levet, and these others—but one has been left out—Jules Morand, physician.”
“He is well-beloved by many even of our own. Besides, it would be hard to connect him with the murder. Later on, when we can strike deeper—.”
“Fear not, I have the evidence we need against him; one Bruyere, the dealer in curios, the miser, but devout, will witness against him. Add his name to the list.”
It was the end of a stormy day, and a very serious conclave it was that had obeyed the Bishop's summons and gathered in his palace.
Things were not going quite as smoothly as the priestly party had anticipated.
On July 1 the Bishop had entered the city, and now on July 3 the great work of vengeance was still undone. Moreover, their plans had received an unexpected check.
That morning had witnessed all the impressive pomp and display of a grand procession, imploring God's protection for the Holy Catholic Church in the assaults made upon her; and afterward the Council was summoned, and the Council and people were asked by the Bishop whether they owned him for their Prince and Lord. To say "no" was to admit themselves rebels. To say "yes" was to undo all the result of the conflict that had waged so long between the two parties.
They replied that they owned the Bishop as their Prince, due regard being given to their ancient laws and liberties.
But after the Bishop had delivered a long homily "for the good of their souls," and had returned to his palace, the Syndico followed him there, and insisted on laying before him sundry old parchments setting forth their rights and privileges, and the limits put therein upon his suzerainty.
Bishop de la Baume made them no answer. The delegates withdrew, and a Council of the priests and leading Catholics was hastily summoned. The Bishop wanted a list of all the heretics, and of all who could be accused of complicity in the murder of Canon Wengli.
So the list was drawn up.
But it was here the stand taken by the Council hampered them. The Council denied the right of the Bishop-Prince to make arrests or to conduct the trial. How was this difficulty to be overcome?
The next day a friendly invitation from the Bishop reached several of the leading "Gospelers." He wished to see them at his house, to take counsel with them, to arrive at an understanding.
Dr. Morand was one of the invited.
“Oh, father, will you go?" Greta demanded.
The physician looked down with a smile into her eager, flushed face and sparkling eyes.
“You were fain I did, methinks," he said, teasingly.
“Of course I am," Greta said, with vigor. She jumped up, and slipping her arm within his, nestled her curly, brown head against his shoulder.
“I feel as if everything will come right, now the Bishop has returned. We were like sheep without a shepherd, and so many have got scattered. Oh, father, beloved, you do not know what I feel when I hear you sneered at and laughed at as a Lutheran dog, a heretic. People who are not fit to brush your boots jeer and call you a fool, and worse. Oh, I cannot tell you all they say. And all your richest patients—those who can pay most, are giving you up and crowding to Dr. Vorment. Oh, it makes my blood boil.”
“Silly girl," the physician laughed. "What does it matter what people say, especially people you seem to despise?”
“I shouldn't mind if I didn't love you so," Greta whispered. "But there, the Bishop shows what he thinks of such talk—such rubbish. He singles you out for the honor of an invitation. He sends for you to go to his house. Father, you will go, won't you?”
“If I do," Dr. Morand said, genially, you must not build any hopes upon it, little one. I know whom I have believed, and neither priest nor Bishop can undo what God Himself has done for me. My soul is in His keeping now. I need no human mediator. I am persuaded that He is able to keep that which I have committed unto Him against that day.”
“All the same," whispered Greta to herself, silenced but unconvinced, "I will vow seven long candles to St. Gervais if only my Lord Bishop may lead father back to the Holy Church.”
She ran down singing to the kitchen, and was soon busy making and baking, a pretty picture in her snowy chemisette and apron, and up to her dimpled elbows in flour. Even when the boys raided her preserves and raced off with a smoking tartlet apiece she only laughed, and went on telling enchanting stories to Irene and Aimee, perched out of the reach of temptation on a distant press.
She felt happier than she had done for months. Things would come right; she was sure of it. She frowned a little when old Martha brought in Gerard Gramont with a letter from Claudine Levet for her father. Not that she disliked Gerard, who was studying hard, in addition to his carving, and growing to be of real assistance to Aimé Levet; but she hated anything that reminded her of her father's connection with the Gospelers.
“Father is out," she said, ungraciously, “but you can leave the note.”
Gerard looked at her a little anxiously.
“Merci, mademoiselle. You will remember," he said, hesitatingly, "that it is of the first importance.”
Greta beat her cake with renewed energy and deigned no reply.
“Will mademoiselle pardon me for asking," the boy said, after a pause, "has M. le Docteur had an invitation from the Bishop.”
“To his palace, yes," Greta said, with dignity. "He is going to-day.”
He drew nearer.
“Mademoiselle, if you love your father—ah, I know you do—because you love your father," he broke in earnestly, "never let him go. Keep him away from the palace at all costs. M. Levet has had one also, and M. Baudichon, and several others. God help any that go!”
Greta paused for a second, told the two little girls to run away, sending them off with a hot cake each to console them, and turned to her visitor with flashing eyes.
“I think you are mad, Gerard," she said, contemptuously. "How dare you say such a thing to me?”
“I dare because M. Morand is the truest friend I have ever had, and I would lay down my life to serve him," Gerard said, slowly. "I do not ask you to believe me, Mademoiselle. Others are saying what I said. Everyone fears a trap. M. Levet is not going. He has listened to Madame's persuasions, and is fleeing from the city. Oh, and M. Chautemps also.”
“Ami Levet can do as he likes," Greta said, disdainfully. "My father is made of different stuff and does not tremble at shadows. A gentleman does not decline an invitation because he is afraid.”
“But you will give him Madame's letter?" Gerard pleaded, as he took his leave.
Would she? Greta was not sure as she twisted it in her fingers after his departure. Her father had not spoken quite decidedly. This might decide him not to go. She would willingly have tossed it into the fire, but conscience would not quite consent to this. Still, it would be easy to lay it aside and let it be forgotten till he was safely started.
So Ami Levet's letter never reached the Doctor, and he went unwarned to the palace.
“Father Clement would say I was right, I know," Greta said to herself, as she watched him disappear, her heart swelling high with hope. "It is the first step in the right direction. Who knows what the Bishop may do in even one interview? I may even see the change beginning when he comes back.”
When he comes back!
But Dr. Morand did not come back.
Hours passed and none who had entered the palace gates came back.
Only two of those whose names were on the fatal list had failed to appear. These were Ami Levet and Chautemps, and they, yielding to the entreaties of their wives, had left the city. All the others went to the palace, but not one returned.
Even Greta's gaiety and high spirits failed her at last. Ulric went out to hear what tidings he could glean, and she and Béril sat speechless, with beating hearts, awaiting his return.
He was not gone long, for the whole of Geneva was ringing with the news.
The men had stepped straight into the enemies' trap.
“They are prisoners—Father and the rest," the boy said, hoarsely, "in the dungeons of the palace. They were seized, everyone of them, directly they entered, loaded with chains, and flung into the dungeons. Only Chautemps and Levet suspected and made their escape. They are safe, but Jacqueline Chautemps has been seized and made prisoner too. If the husband has escaped them, they have made sure of the wife. They will wreak their fury upon her.”
Béril had uttered a cry of horror and dismay, but there came no cry from Greta's white lips. Her face was like a mask.
“It isn't true; it can't be true!" she gasped at last.
Ulric took her hands in his.
“Poor old Greta, it is worse for you than any of us," he said, brokenly. "You worshipped him so. Oh, to think of him chained and in a dungeon! How can we stay here and bear it? Oh, father, father, if only I were a man, and could do something—anything to help you!”
He threw himself down on the settle and hid his face from sight. Schoolboy though he was, his frame was shaking with long-drawn sobs.
But without either sob or tear, Greta passed him by and made her way blindly out of the room.
Béril followed her a few minutes later, but it was to find her door shut and fastened.
The girl pleaded to be let in, but in vain.
“Don't give up hope yet, Greta," she pleaded, kneeling at the door. "Gerard Gramont has just been with the latest news. It is thought that the Council will interfere. Then, too, M. Baudichon had already left the town. He is on his way to Berne, and surely Berne will do what they can for their brethren in peril. Above all—there is God! Let me in, dearest. Let me try and help you bear your sorrow.”
But Greta remained obstinately silent, and the girl had to creep away at length without a word in answer.
The supposition that the Council would interfere proved to be well founded.
The Civil Government kept a jealous eye on the encroachments of the Bishop-Prince.
It was invested in a Syndicate of four and four Councils—the Council of Twenty-five, the Council of Sixty, the Council of Two Hundred, and the General Council, the four Syndics and the Council of Twenty-five undertaking the administration for all practical purposes, the other Councils only being summoned in times of special danger.
The news of the Bishop's treachery filled the Council with indignation. A meeting was at once convened, and they demanded that the prisoners should be given up, but the Bishop refused.
He had sent his officers in pursuit of the refugees, and Ami Levet had been overtaken and seized. The priest in charge had ordered him to be scourged on the spot, and carried away to the Castle of Gaillard, a strong fortress at the foot of the mountains.
Thither the Bishop determined to remove his other prisoners.
But the Council continued to demand their surrender, that they might be brought before the judge, according to Genevan law, and warned him that he was setting law and custom at defiance. His only reply was: "I shall judge them myself.”
The Council of Sixty was summoned, but still the Bishop remained firm; the Council of Two Hundred was called, but the result was the same.
Neither side would give way. The Council contended that he was trampling on their ancient liberties in attempting to judge the accused, but the Bishop refused to yield the prisoners up.
And so, day after day, suspense and sorrow reigned in many a home in Geneva.
The whole town was discussing what the fate of the accused would be, and to deepen the horror, vague stories began to be whispered that the armies of Savoy and Friburg were gathering to unite in an attack on the city.
Perhaps nowhere were the uncertainty and separation more felt than in Dr. Morand's little household. Motherless, and now practically fatherless also, the children did not know where to turn. Greta was like one frozen into stone, just going mechanically through her duties, but opening her heart to no one. Béril, who suffered scarcely less than his own children, devoted herself to the two little ones, and the two boys wandered anxiously about, not knowing what to do with themselves.
It was more than a week since the arrests had been made. Things in the city had been getting unsettled. On July 12 a gospeler working in his field had been murdered by the Bishop's officers.
“They see no harm in destroying men," said some of the Huguenots. "May we not destroy the images of wood and stone?”
An image of the Virgin was accordingly carried off from the Castle gate and burned. The two boys had been watching the proceedings, and now loitered by the lake-side unwilling to go to their now desolate home.
“There's Gerard," Peter said suddenly, glad to see a familiar face and running off in pursuit.
“Hullo, what are you doing here?" Gerard said, pitying the child's evident distress.
“Nothing—anything," Peter said listlessly. "Watching the boat's—there's Ulric.”
Gerard went over to him, and stood chatting for a few minutes, and watching the boats with them half unconsciously—small boats, that were being quietly brought up and moored by the lakeside.
Suddenly he broke off in the midst of a sentence. Ulric looked up quickly to see the reason, he was gazing intently at the boats, his brows knit together.
“I must be going," he said. "Don't stand here any longer.”
He turned away, then beckoned Ulric to him and spoke too low for Peter to hear.
“Could you find you exact spot again, Ulric, even in darkness?" he asked.
The boy nodded.
“Will you meet me here to-night after dark?" he added.