The star of the unconquered will,
It rises in my breast,
Serene and passionless and still,
And calm and self-possessed.”
Longfellow
That night, in the house of Berthelier, no eye closed in sleep. Through its long hours four hearts wrestled sore, in conflict or in prayer, each one alone with God. No joy came in the morning; and yet perhaps there came to each a little of that rest, of that vision of an end to pain, which with great sufferers sometimes takes the place of joy.
Claudine and Marguerite had the same thought. Each resolved to go with the child to the land of the stranger; Marguerite because she had nursed her; Claudine, with better reason, because being a Catholic at heart, she had nothing to fear from the Savoyards, and might perhaps smooth matters for Gabrielle.
Berthelier’s comfort was less than theirs, in so far as it only touched himself. “When there is nothing left to live for,” thought he, a man can always die.” Why not? Who could blame him, if only he made suitable provision for his sister and his old servant? He was free to take leave, when he would, of this new Geneva, in which he had neither part nor lot. It was what any of the great men of antiquity, whom he admired and wished to copy, would have done in his place.
As was meet and right, the strongest comfort was given to the sorest need. Child of Geneva, child of the Reformation as she was, every fiber of Gabrielle’s heart clung round her home. All she knew and loved was there — or had been there. At first the blow, so sudden and so strange, stunned and bewildered her, but the power to feel all its bitterness came back only too soon. Happily, one relief was not denied her; when the first overwhelming shock was over, she could weep. At first she wept wildly, passionately, then in a restrained, quiet way, the quieter for Claudine’s sake, whose couch she shared.
At last, in the tearless exhaustion that followed the long weeping, a light half slumber stole over her. Louis de Marsac stood beside her, holding in his hand a flute “or long narrow glass filled with wine. Maiden,” he said, wilt thou drink in this glass with me? “So in old Geneva troth was wont to be pledged; but those two, who knew each other’s hearts, had exchanged no troth pledge. In her dream she answered steadily, “I will,” and put forth her hand to take the glass. The action woke her. She came to herself, and knew that the proffered draft was no earthly vintage, but the sharp, strong wine of martyrdom. A great awe stole over her, and with it a great calm.
Strength came to her that answered her desire. It was morning now. She arose, bathed her face, dressed herself noiselessly, so as not to wake Claudine, who was dozing, and went into the other room. Berthelier and Marguerite were there already, in earnest conversation.
“You must let me go, or my heart will break,” pleaded the old servant, her hand on her master’s arm.
“Though your heart break, I cannot,” was the answer. “I give you a month to bring yourself to the stake, and the poor child under fatal suspicion. “Twould be enough to ruin her with these Savoyards, to have as her attendant a red-hot Calvinist like thee.” Then more gently, Thou dost believe in prayer. Pray for her; ‘tis all thou can’t.” Then Gabrielle stood before them, pale and weary-eyed. But the morning greetings were spoken firmly, with a kiss for her father, and a faint, watery smile for Marguerite, who turned her face away, and quietly left the room.
“Father,” she said, sitting down beside him, “you must not grieve over this too much.”
He woke the manhood in himself to speak to her bravely.
“I know they will be kind to thee,” he said. “And thou wilt be rich, be honored, be beloved-though never, I think, as we love thee here. Poor Marguerite has been pleading to go with thee. But it is best, hard though it sounds, that thou shouldest go alone.”
“I do not go alone, my father. Did those go alone who have gone to France to preach the Gospel?”
“Child, I know thy thought; and I am glad it comforts thee. But, Gabrielle, in that Catholic country thou must be very wise, very wary. Keep strong guard over thy words and acts, thy thoughts even. Remember the command, “Be ye wise as serpents.”
“Do not fear. I shall not seek martyrdom. If there be divers ways to choose from, all leading home, naturally one chooses the easiest.”
“To Berthelier these words seemed reassuring. He did not know the depth and intensity of Gabrielle’s religious convictions, so he hoped she would bend to circumstances, as in his opinion she might do very lawfully. He was glad now that he had placed her in her childhood under the tutelage of his sister.
“To get home is all one wants,” she went on. “And I think I shall get there soon.”
“My little girl, what wouldest thou say?”
“What I cannot make quite clear to you, or to any one. But I do not think God will leave me in the land of the stranger. He knows I could not bear it. If He means me to die for Him — like so many girls and women, as well as men — He will strengthen me. Still I don’t think it will come to that. He has other ways — I feel as if no hand would touch me save His own, which does not hurt. And then there will be Home, even better than Geneva. You, too father, you will come there ere long.”
“Yes, my child, ere long,” said Berthelier, much moved. There was silence, for he would not shadow the child’s simple faith, even by a word. At last he spoke again. “Tell me aught I may do for thee, Gabrielle.”
“We have two days yet, father. I want to choose gifts for the friends and neighbors, and to bid them all good-bye. You must have my little French Testament. My Bible I take, of course. For Aunt Claudine and Marguerite, I must think — and oh, father, one thing more!”
“What is it, dear heart?”
“It is about Norbert, poor Norbert, who loves us so well. He will be breaking his heart because all this is for his father, chiefly. I pray you, go to him and comfort him. Were it not well to bring him in here for his morning soup? ‘Tis a holiday, methinks, at the school.”
“I will go to him,” said Berthelier, soothed by the thought of doing something for her.
But as he rose, Marguerite with a scared face appeared at the door.
“Master, come here,” she said.
They followed her into the sleeping-room, to find Claudine on the floor in a swoon. She had tried to rise as usual; but, already in frail health, the shock of the day before had proved too much for her. When she recovered consciousness, and had been helped into bed by her brother and Marguerite, she tried to reassure them.
“There was nothing to matter,” she said, “save a passing weakness.” They must go and take their morning soup, she would rest a little, and then have some also.
But she looked so white that Berthelier said, when they left the room, “I will go round to Master Aubert and pray him to visit her. Norbert, too, I can see and bring back with me.”
He returned presently with the syndic apothecary Aubert, who did not think seriously of Damoiselle Claudine’s illness, though he gave her some very nauseous medicine, and told her to remain in bed. When he was gone, Berthelier said to Gabrielle “I could not find Norbert. Last night Master Antoine told him all the matter as it was. Never a word did he say, but took up his cap and went out. He has not returned since, nor been seen by any one. They are going to ask the Watch if he passed last night through any of the gates.”
“Poor boy!” Gabrielle said pityingly. He was her own age, still he seemed to her as a younger brother — a child almost. But she had little time to think of him. Whether in spite of, or because of Syndic Aubert’s draft, Claudine, though not seriously ill, was ill enough to require constant attention. It was very evident that she, at all events, could not accompany the poor little exile. Gabrielle must go forth alone, and in the depths of her heart she felt it was better so.
Meanwhile an inspiration had come to Berthelier. There was one thing, a thing of considerable importance, which he could still do for his child. It would be worse than useless to send a store of clothing or other personalities with her to Savoy; such things as she had been wont to use would be quite unsuited to her new position. But money? Always and everywhere money was of use. Much of Gabrielle’s comfort, and especially her means of communication with her old friends, might depend on its possession. A capacious purse stored with good crowns, “well ringing and well weighing” would be her best servant in the land of the stranger. But how was he to get it, he whose modest income barely sufficed for the frugal needs of his household?
There was one way. Small love was lost between him and his distant cousin — distant in all ways — Philibert Berthelier, the leader of the Libertines. Still, Philibert remembered what Ami had suffered for his father’s sake, and knew also that he had lent him large sums of money which were never repaid. More than once he had told him, in his careless way, to come to him if he were ever in need of a handful of good crowns. Philibert’s own expenditure was lavish; and reckless and dissipated though he was, he inherited something of his father’s bonhomie and good nature. Ami Berthelier had little doubt that he would help him in his need. A group of the banished Libertines, with Philibert and Perrin at their head, had established themselves in Pregny, which was in Bernese territory, but only a few miles from Geneva. Here they hoped, while quite safe themselves, to disturb the new regime and ferment discords in the town. All therefore that Ami Berthelier had to do was to hire a horse, ride to Pregny, explain his wishes to Philibert, and return by nightfall, bearing with him that golden load “which the Spaniards say is a burden light.” He told no one the nature of his errand; only saying he was obliged to be absent on important business, but would come back if possible that night, if not, the following morning. Gabrielle wondered secretly that any business should induce him to absent himself during so large a part of their last brief time together, but her absolute trust in him kept her silent, if it could not keep her satisfied.
Norbert de Caulaincourt spent his night on the Crets de Laurent, a rising ground inside the bastion near the Porte Neuve. To and fro, up and down, did he wander in that solitary place, trying to escape the pain that was tearing his heart in two. He was only sixteen, but if his love for Gabrielle was not all years might make it, if his heart was a boy’s heart, not a man’s, at least it was a full heart. He gave all he had, and who can do more? That he also loved his father right well added bitterness to his pain. The thought that Gabrielle was being sacrificed for him tortured him like fire.
Why had they ever left their native land, their own beautiful France? Since coming to this strange, hard Geneva there had been naught but ill fortune. Would they had “wings like a dove,” as the psalm said which they sang in school, to fly back to the old time, the old place — perhaps the old Faith — as to that he did not know. Whatever else might keep him faithful to the new, it would not anymore be Master John Calvin. No help in him! Never, never again would he go to him with prayer or plaint. He was iron — cold, hard, strong as adamant. He stood apart and calm, like some great general who sends his soldiers forth to die. He moved men as one moves the pawns on a chessboard. No player wants them taken, but if they are — what matter?
He and all the rest would bid him pray. Doubtless they were praying now, for Gabrielle, for his father, and the others. To what use, if the Almighty-the Eternal, as they called Him here — were also like that? And who could doubt it? He was working out His own high purposes. They would prosper. They would sweep on like fire, or storm, or hurricane; and all that came in their way was tow, and stubble, and dust. — What use in caring?
What matter? If only he and his friends could all die together, and die without pain! At last his thoughts began to wander, as thoughts will do even in the keenest anguish. Instead of present troubles, past pleasures came to him. His mind roved idly amongst fragmentary dreams and memories of the feasts, the dances, the masquerades his step-mother used to tell him of, and to which on a few rare, delightful occasions she had even taken him. Those masquerades — she had made him dress up for one of them as a girl. All at once a thought flashed like lightning through his brain, a thought wild, terrible, magnificent. With the glow and the glory of it he sprang to his feet, he cried aloud in that solitary place.
Presently he sat down under a tree, and pondered. Could this thing be possible? It was morning now. The glorious sun of May was shining on him through the scarce unfolded green of the young leaves. He did not see it. So far as he was concerned, it might still have been midnight.
Not until hours had passed did he rise up to return to the town. Little of the outside world though his senses took in, he gave one long earnest look to the majestic sight that had drawn his eyes and his heart when he trod first on Genevan soil — Mont Blanc in all his glory. He had called it then “The Great White Throne.” Should he stand soon before a greater?
He turned away, and went on, presently noting near the path a little pool. He went aside and gazed long and earnestly into its depths; a passer-by would have thought he was admiring his own likeness, clearly reflected therein.
Then he hurried to the nearest gate. He had to cross the town to get to the Rue Cornavin. It was now near midday, and he had not tasted food since the previous evening. So, feeling very hungry, he turned into the first of the famous Genevan confectioners” shops he happened to pass, and, boy-like, made a hearty meal upon spiced bread and cheese-cakes.
This was on the Pont Bati, where the shops were excellent. He then turned aside into the Rue du Temple, and sought the shop of one Master Sangsoue, an apothecary.
“I dare not go to Syndic Aubert,” he said to himself, “it would be too dangerous.”
“Oh, is that you, Master Norbert de Caulaincourt?” said the man of drugs, who knew him by sight. “Have you heard of the trouble of your friends the Bertheliers? Though scarcely to be called a trouble, after all. Strange news indeed, that a slip of a girl growing up in our midst, whom no one thought anything about, should turn out to be a Savoyard lady of the noble house of Lormayeur.”
“Yes,” said Norbert, drearily, “I know.”
“Do you know also that Damoiselle Claudine Berthelier had taken to her bed? Though that is not my affair, as no one but Syndic Aubert will serve the turn of her brother — who is not wont to be so fond of syndics. All I hope is, that he will give the poor lady plenty of antifebrine medicine. There’s an herb now, gathered at the full of the moon — but I crave your pardon, young sir, for talking of the mysteries of leech-craft, which in nature you cannot understand. What is your pleasure with me?”
“An” it please you, Master Apothecary, I want a good strong sleeping-potion.”
“For whom, I pray you? Man, or woman, or child? For whom should it be but myself?”
“Ah, now you jest. What should a strong, healthy lad like you want with a sleeping-potion?”
“That is all you know. Have I not been suffering tortures all this week from a bad double tooth?”
“Let me take it out for you. I shall not be a minute, and the charge is but a great.” He turned to fetch the horrible instrument of which Norbert had once before had a most disagreeable experience.
“No,” he answered emphatically, backing almost out of the little shop. Then returning a step, Will you give me the potion, Master Sangsoue, or must I go for it to Master Aubert? Or, better still, for he would give it cheaper, to Master Solomon the Jew, on the Molard?”
Now Master Sangsoue hated Solomon the Jew like the poison he accused him of selling to honest Christians, so he hastened to take down a jar from the highest of his shelves.
“Well, M. Norbert, since it seems you are not man enough to get rid of your foe at once, here is what will lull him to sleep for a good twelve hours. Hast brought a flask? No? Then I must lend you one. Be sure you bring it back.”
“That will I, with a thank you. What am I to pay?”
“Oh, a trifle of half a dozen deniers. But you had better have given the great, and left the tooth behind you.”
“‘Tis not the pay I mind, but the pain,” said Norbert.
“Ah! Perhaps we shall have you consulting that new fellow, full of his conceits, who has come to the town. A dentist, forsooth, he calls himself, and proposes to mend folks” teeth for them in their heads-such presumption! To think he could mend what God Almighty made! But, now that Master Calvin himself has let him try his hand upon him, we shall have all the town running after him. Here is your draft, M. Norbert; I hope it will serve your turn. Take it when you have said your prayers, and are lying down to sleep.”
Norbert took the flask, and turned his footsteps towards the Rue Cornavin. But as he drew near they slackened.
“So far so good,” he pondered. “But now the difficulties begin. What to do with Berthelier? All the others I can manage, but he-he is one of those Genevans who think a lie as bad as a murder. And he has it in him to stand like a rock, I see it in his eyes. Though it is all for her whom he loves so. No, it is for both. Perhaps, after all, there is some good in prayer, and since it is to save His servants, I might ask God to help me. I don’t know. And here I am at the door. Now for all the good wit I have ever had! I”m sure I need it; I could wish myself a graybeard for the nonce. But no, that would spoil all.”
Marguerite answered his knock with a woebegone, tear-stained face.
“Come in, M. Norbert,” she said. “She is asking for you. She is asking for you. She thinks you will be sorry.”
“I do not want to see Mademoiselle Gabrielle just now,” Norbert said. “It is the Damoiselle Claudine I want, and you. Both together.”
“The Damoiselle Claudine is ill.”
“No matter, — I mean, I am sorry, but I must see her. Bring me to her chamber, and do you come too. I have something of importance to say.”
“What has come over the lad, to order his elders about in such fashion?” thought Marguerite. But to-day her wonted combativeness was crushed by sorrow. She only said —
“Nothing is of importance now, save the one thing you cannot help or hinder.”
Norbert put his lips to her ear and whispered, “Perhaps I can.”
She shook her head sadly, but added, “I will see if you can see the damoiselle.”
“Do so; and I pray thee do not let Master Berthelier know I am here.”
“Master Berthelier borrowed a horse, and went forth betimes this morning, we know not where or wherefore. He said he might be back to-night, or perchance not till to-morrow.”
The stars in the courses were fighting for Norbert de Caulaincourt.