‘The black night caught me in his mesh,
Whirled me up and flung me prone.'
R. BROWNING.
MEANWHILE the perplexed, angry heart of Hubert Bohun sought for rest and found none. All his ideas of right and wrong, all the beliefs and principles upon which his soul rested, had been rudely shaken. He might, indeed, have endured the dethronement of the great Council from the rather fictitious eminence to which it had been exalted by his youthful enthusiasm. But what pained his heart far more deeply was his unacknowledged, yet most real, disappointment in the great chancellor. He would still have died for him, have refused to listen to the slightest word against him, have borne any torture rather than speak such a word himself. And yet—what would he not have given to find in him some movement of Christian charity, or even of human relenting, towards the hapless prisoner in the Franciscan House?
Yet, terrible as it was to Hubert to think the chancellor could be wrong, it was far more terrible to him, in this instance, to think he could be right. The words which he had spoken to him on the morning of the last audience, haunted him like a hideous dream. Was God indeed what he described Him then? Did He deal so with His servants? Surely a man so good and so learned must know. But if those dreadful words were true—why, then Hubert despaired within himself of ever being really religious. That is to say, in the chancellor's own sense of the word. He could be religious enough in Charlier's sense, or in that of the monks of Rouen; he could say prayers, and fast, and do good works by the score. But the chancellor often said that without the love of God there could be no true religion; and Hubert did not think he could ever love God if God was like that!
He had always thought of the Son of God as the Judge, rather than as the Savior. Once, and once only, had a gleam of light, shining from the chancellor's words, revealed for a moment the Redeemer— the loving and merciful One, who, though He was his Judge, had paid the great debt for him. The revelation had so far influenced him that thenceforward he had tried to do right, to be pure and good and noble, chiefly, indeed, for love of the chancellor, yet dimly apprehending a higher aim and purpose. If anyone had asked him, he would have said in the language of chivalry—far more congenial to him than that of the Church—that he meant to be true man and loyal servitor to the Lord Christ.
But why then did the Lord Christ keep silence when an innocent man, suffering cruel wrong, made solemn appeal to Him? Hubert now no longer doubted the innocence of the alleged heretic. He had reached this conviction—as we usually reach our deepest and strongest convictions—not following link by link a single and definite chain of reasoning, like the proof of a proposition in Euclid, but drawn irresistibly by a hundred cords of evidence. The man's stainless life and conversation, his devout and holy words, his noble bearing, above all, his courageous truthfulness, pleaded for him both with the heart and the reason of Hubert. He knew that all this time he was calmly facing a horrible death, from which one word would deliver him, rather than stain his lips with that one word—a lie. He thought that in his place he might do the same, if strong enough. But then he would do it in pride and scorn, hardening his soul to a temper of fierce defiance. This man was not defiant, but—so he heard on all sides—gentle, patient, forgiving. Much did Hubert wonder what upheld him thus. Much he wondered, too, what he thought about himself and his own doom. What did he expect, when all was over and his enemies had done their worst upon him? The Council condemned him; the Church cursed him, would soon cast him out solemnly; and Hubert could not conceive of any spiritual help or comfort coming to a man apart from the Church. Worse and more terrible still, Christ Himself was silent towards him. Did he, then, see nothing before him after death but a great blank, a land of darkness?
There were men in the world—Armand had told him so —who thought there was nothing else to see. Hubert began to turn this thought over in his mind; and the longer he did so, the more natural and probable it seemed to him. At first he had rejected it with horror; but the horror passed, and the thought remained. In his weary wanderings of soul in search of rest, he began to draw perilously near what looked like a place of rest, but was in truth only a shifting quagmire, which has swallowed many a wanderer up quick, and the pit has shut her mouth upon him forever. It is a mistake to think that only in our own age, and under the pressure of our own perplexities, has the ever-breaking shore, that tumbles in the godless deep,' sounded its dirge in the ears of men. The dark doubt of everything, beyond that which we can see or touch, which comes to souls whose innermost beliefs are shattered and nothing given them in their room, is as old as Job and the prophets, as old as Pharaoh and the pyramids, as old as human strife, and sorrow, and agony. From the beginning, the great mysteries have been there, encompassing all mortal life; yet for the most part it is, and ever has been, some special personal anguish, some violent perverting of justice seen or suffered, which arouses men to face them, and to explore their depths.
Whilst Hubert, all unknown to those around him, was sinking deeper and ever deeper in the Slough of Despond, Armand's life was in marked contrast. He came one day to see his brother, and with an air of great mystery, which covered, though it could not conceal, an almost unbounded exultation, asked him to come with him into the fields. When they had reached a quiet spot, he told his story. Demoiselle Jocelyne had ‘broken gold' with him. ‘I have sworn to be her true servitor forever and ever,' he said, ‘and she does not scorn my homage. Of course, I am yet but a simple esquire. But the duke will find a way for me to prove my manhood and win my spurs. And then—we shall see.'
He did not breathe a whisper of that shadow of the past which lay between him and his betrothed, invisible to her, but not to him. Indeed, it was fast fading from his own sight, by dint of not choosing to look at it. He was cultivating, and with good success, the convenient power of forgetting. He would never have been allowed to forget, if he had once told his story to Hubert. Perhaps it was as well, so he thought, as things turned out, that he had not. Still he felt that Hubert might have sympathized with him more heartily, and congratulated him more warmly on his good fortune. But to rejoice with those that do rejoice, when we ourselves are perplexed and sorrowful, is a very difficult attainment, and it was far beyond poor Hubert's reach just then.
So the time wore on, until Friday, July 5. On that day a hush of expectation seemed to brood over the town; people stood about in groups, talking low and eagerly, and doing little business, save in and near the cathedral, where there were great stir and excitement. Carpenters and other trades people were hurrying to and fro, bearing costly stuffs for decoration, or carrying boards, planks, and seats. As one of the officials told Hubert, ‘the whole place was being turned out of doors, and made over again.' For the next day was to witness a solemn general session of the Council, rendered illustrious by the presence of the Kaiser, and by all else of pomp and state and glory that the world could bring to lay at the feet of the Church.
Outside the Göttlingen Gate, in that part of the Brühl where Hubert had witnessed the eclipse of the sun, other preparations were being made that day; but of these men did not greatly care to speak.
Hubert received his orders that evening from the lips of Charlier. It afforded great satisfaction to the senior chaplain to act as the chancellor's mouthpiece for the benefit of the insolent young favorite, who had sometimes passed into the chancellor's presence when his own kinsman had been excluded.
‘You are to attend the session tomorrow, Master Hubert Bohun,' he said; ‘but you are not required to take notes. You are to remain quiet in your place until the sentence of the Council is read upon the affair of Jean Petit.'
Hubert started; he had not supposed that business would come on tomorrow. He said so, and in a tone that showed his great surprise.
Charlier was rather pleased that he did not affect any superior information, but frankly acknowledged his ignorance. So he graciously condescended to enlighten him. He said that the vague and general condemnation of the doctrines of Jean Petit, which was to be pronounced on the morrow, was perhaps as much as could be expected from the Council; but it was very far indeed from being as much as the chancellor desired.
‘The Duke of Burgundy has been extremely free with his gold, and many of these prelates,' he added with a shrug of his shoulders, ‘well—well, what would you have? You know, Bohun, there be plenty fat benefices changing hands here every day; and the fingers must be well oiled to let them slip through with ease. But all these things grieve our good chancellor to the heart; as I can see, who am his kinsman, and know him really. Indeed, of late, though you doubtless have not observed it, he hath been very sad. However, to return to your business. Here is what you have to do, and see that you make no mistake. As soon as the judgment is read, one of the notaries of the Council will hand you a copy. You must then immediately leave the place; return hither; take a letter which you will find ready on the table in my lord's cabinet, seal it up safely, together with the paper you have received, address the packet to the Rector of the Sorbonne, and hasten with it to the house of Lebrun, the French goldsmith, opposite the Rhine-Thor-Thurm. He hath a' confidential servitor just going to Paris; and he hath promised me, to oblige the chancellor, that the man shall wait, and take with him this packet. It is of great importance; so you must be sure to give it into the hands of Lebrun himself, and to get a written receipt from him. Do you understand? '
‘I understand well enough. What shall I do if Lebrun is not there?’
‘He will be there. You must not give the packet into any hand but his.’
‘Can I see the chancellor to-night?’
‘No, you cannot. No one can see him—not even I. Today, as you know, hath been a fast; and to-night he gives himself to prayer and meditation.'
Hubert said no more. He understood quite well that the chancellor wished to make it impossible for him to go on the morrow to the Brühl. But it grieved him that he should think this precaution necessary.
‘He ought to have known me better,' he thought.
Two men, that night, were kneeling in earnest prayer, within a few paces of each other, and very probably at the same time. If only by some strange chance they could have knelt together, they would have made a marvelous discovery. They would have found that the same words fitted both their needs, the same faith and hope animated both their hearts.
‘O Divine Jesus, draw us to Thyself,' the martyr prayed in his dungeon. Less confident, perhaps, yet with as true a longing for the light and joy of His presence, the great chancellor took up the word— ‘Let the holy will of God be done. If He wills it, let Him give me here a foretaste of His sweetness; if He wills, let Him deny it; my heart is ready for either.’
But not on earth were those two noble-souls to recognize each other. One of them not only took his place amongst the judges of the other, and gave his voice against him, but added a keen affliction to his bonds by the severe sentence of condemnation which he passed upon those articles of his which had been submitted to him.
‘If I live,' said John Huss, ‘I will answer the Chancellor of Paris; if I die, God will answer for me at the Day of Judgment.'
But God did not wait until the Day of Judgment to answer for His servant.