But before I tell you of the last remarkable journey which Farel performed in that year, it is well to look back for a moment to the unhappy country which had refused his message, and driven him into exile. During the three years that had passed since Farel opened his little school at Aigle, tidings from France had reached him from time to time. Master Faber had been for a while living at Blois, under the protection of the Princess Margaret. He had been appointed tutor to the king’s three younger children, Magdalen, Margaret, and Abed-Nego, and he was also keeper of the king’s library in the castle of Blois.
Very soon after came the news that the Princess Margaret had married her second husband, Henry, king of Navarre. You will bear in mind that the kingdom of Navarre was at that time the south-western corner of France. King Henry, who was an indolent man, troubled himself but little about the popish religion he professed. Margaret was allowed to shelter at her court many of the gospel preachers, who gladly took refuge there. The king and queen of Navarre were at this time living in France, chiefly at the castle of Blois, where Margaret learned much from Master Faber, and was thankful to have his company. Louis Berquin as well as Master Faber found a home with Margaret. Gerard Roussel was also one of Margaret’s household. He was her chaplain and court preacher. He had accustomed himself to “keeping back half the truths of the gospel,” and he had his reward. But Louis Berquin was to have a reward of another sort, a “reward that is great in Heaven.” Do you remember these glorious words? “Blessed are ye when men shall hate you, and when they shall separate you from their company, and shall reproach you, and cast out your name as evil, for the Son of Man’s sake. Rejoice ye in that day, and leap for joy, for behold, your reward is great in Heaven.”
Louis Berquin had no thought of keeping back a half or a quarter of the gospel he had believed. The Sorbonne and the priests watched him as a tiger would watch its prey. But the protection of the queen of Navarre served for a time to shield the brave young man, who not only declared his faith openly, but also openly attacked the sins and vices of the priests. “They have a cloak of religion,” he said, “but it is only to hide the vilest passions, the most scandalous lives, and the most complete infidelity.” In vain did Erasmus, and other friends, entreat him to keep silence. In vain did Margaret warn him that even her protection could not shelter him long, if he spoke thus openly and plainly.
At last, in the summer of 1528, an excuse was found for again seizing him. An image of the Virgin, in a street corner at Paris, was found one morning broken to pieces. This was the signal for a fresh attack on the “gospellers” in general, and Berquin in particular. King Francis himself was filled with horror at such an act of atrocity as the breaking of an image. He walked in a procession, followed by all the clergymen of Paris, carrying in his hand a burning wax candle. He went bareheaded, to show his reverence for what remained of the broken image. When he reached the corner where it stood, he worshipped it “very devoutly,” as we are told.
He now allowed Louis Berquin to be imprisoned, without making any attempt, as before, to rescue him. Berquin was at once sentenced to do penance bareheaded, holding a candle in his hand, in the great court of the Louvre, the king’s palace. He was to ask pardon of God and the king. He was then to be led to the “Place de Grève,” where his books were to be burnt. Then to go to the Cathedral of Noter Dame, where he was to ask pardon of God, and of the Virgin Mary. He was then to have his tongue pierced through. He was then to be imprisoned in a dungeon for the rest of his life, without books or ink or pen.
Crowds filled the streets that afternoon, to see the penance of Berquin, for it was to be performed at once. But Berquin did not appear. He had appealed to the king, and refused to leave his prison. Margaret entreated the king to save him. But the king took no notice of Berquin’s appeal—no notice even of Margaret’s entreaties. Berquin’s friends besought him to do the penance. “If you do not,” said his friend Budé, “they will sentence you to be burnt.” “I would rather be burnt,” replied Berquin, “than appear to join in a condemnation of the truth, were it by my silence only.” He was at once sentenced to be burnt alive.
On the 22nd of April, 1529, the officers of the Parliament entered his dungeon, and commanded him to follow them to the stake. It was prepared in the Place de Grève. An eye witness tells us, “there was not a sign of disturbance on his face as he walked along, he looked like a man lost in heavenly thoughts.” He spoke to the people as he stood at the stake, but his voice was stifled by the noise that was made to drown it. His look of peace and joy was thus his last testimony.
Margaret was deeply grieved at the tidings of his death. Master Faber grieved deeply too, but Margaret’s grief was sorrow for Berquin, Master Faber’s was sorrow for himself.
He could have wished himself in the place of the man who dared to die for Christ. From that time saint after saint perished in flames in that unhappy land. Before eighteen years more had passed, eighty-one of the martyrs of Jesus had been roasted over slow fires in the French cities. And long after that did the fire and the sword ravage the land, till thousands upon thousands of the saints of God had followed Louis Berquin into paradise, from that scene of blood. Such were the tidings that reached William Farel amongst the Swiss mountains. And the remembrance of John Leclerc, and Pavannes, and the Hermit, and Berquin, stirred him up to follow in the same glorious path, for to him the reward that is great in heaven was precious. He mourned over Master Faber and Gerard Roussel, but when he thought of Louis Berquin, he thanked God and took courage.
Margaret now feared that Master Faber’s turn would come next. She determined to take him to her castle of Nérac, in Navarre. He would there be out of the reach of his persecutors. She wrote to her cousin Montmorency, the master of the king’s household, telling him that “the good Faber writes that he is not quite well at Blois. And for change of air he would gladly go for a time to stay with a friend, if it pleased the king to give him leave. He has put the library in order, numbered the books, and made an inventory of them, which he will give to any person the king pleases to name. I beg that you will ask leave from the king for this good man....You will be giving an especial pleasure to her, who is your good aunt and friend,—Margaret.”
The king gave leave, and Margaret carried off her old friend to spend the rest of his days in the quiet old castle of Nérac, where she now took up her abode instead of living in France. Gerard Roussel went with her, and, instead of a dungeon and a stake, he had a palace and a miter, and lived and died Bishop of Oléron, in Navarre.