“ Doubt of any sort cannot be resolved except in action.”
Carlyle.
There is no greater help towards decision than to decide. Many a long spiritual conflict is ended once for all by the putting forth of a hand or foot, by the smallest pledge which commits to action. Norbert walked back to town with his head high, and his heart strong within him. For two years he had been kicking against the pricks of the hard, austere Genevan life, and longing for the gaiety, the adventure, the risks even, that should have been his portion as the son and heir of a gentleman of France. And yet now, when all these were offered to him freely, he had turned his back upon them all, and cast in his lot with Geneva.
Was it only through love and loyalty to his father, which was what he called it to himself? Was there another reason, never named by him even in thought, but of which he yet was conscious to his very finger-tips — that in Geneva he walked the same streets, he breathed the same air, as Gabrielle Berthelier? No doubt this drew him unawares, but so did many other unconfessed impulses, likings, attachments. As he crossed the Plain-palais he remembered that only last Saturday he had distinguished himself at the arquebus practice there; if he kept his place in two more trials, he would have a prize. Then, as he entered the Porte-Neuve, and trod the familiar streets, he knew that to him these indeed represented “home.” For the old life at Gourgolles had faded in the distance, while the new life of Geneva was — well, it was very far from perfection, it might easily be better, but it might also be worse. These Genevans, so stern in word, were kindly in act, after all. He had lacked for nothing, nor his father, since they came friendless and penniless to their gates. And when his father was in peril and a prisoner, had they not made his case their own? Had not Master Berthelier been willing to give up — ah, too much! — to save him? Master Berthelier was a fine fellow — if all were like him!
Now he was passing the church of St. Gervais, and he owned to himself that, while he had no special love for pastors in general, he did not altogether detest kindly Master Poupin, whose turn it had been to preach there last Sunday. Still, it was best to go to the cathedral, for there one heard Master Calvin. He was a man! King of Geneva, King of the Reformed all over the world — he, the exile, the son of the advocate Noyon, whose brother bound books. Norbert did not love John Calvin, rather the contrary; but undeniably he was proud of him, both as a Frenchman and a Genevan. With all his soul he reverenced strength, wherever he found it.
If only he might look at him and listen to him from a safe, respectful distance! If only that terrible prospect — of which his father had told him the day before — of a personal interview and admonition, was not hanging over him! He almost wondered at himself for not having gone away with the young count, solely to escape it. But that would have been a very cowardly proceeding, quite unworthy of a gentleman of France. Indeed, while talking to the count, he had half forgotten it. Now it came back upon him with a feeling of dismay. He wished, with all his heart, that Master Calvin would let him compound for the lecture by three days on bread and water in the darkest dungeon of the Eveche.
By this time the stars were shining over his head, and the city watchmen were hanging their lanterns at the street corners; many of the shops had also lanterns hung outside them, or were lighted from within. Norbert, being hungry, thought that of his favorite confectioner looked very tempting; he could see plainly within it some delicious cheese-cakes, of a kind he had once made bold to offer Gabrielle. Ah, Gabrielle! “Does she ever think,” he wondered, “that I risked as much for her as Louis and the others who went to France are risking for their faith?”
His home, as he approached it, showed more light than usual. Someone must have come to sup with Master Antoine. He lifted the latch, entered, and went at once to the supper-room.
All were seated at table, the men as usual with their hats on, and Jeanette, the servant, at the bottom. De Caulaincourt looked up, and said, “You are late, my son;” and Jacques, the youngest of the Calvin, rose to get a stool for him, placing it in the only available spot, between his father’s seat at the head of the table, and that of a guest who sat beside him. In him Norbert recognized the person who had given him the young count’s note. Master Muscaut also recognized him, and expressed his gratification at meeting a young gentleman of such remarkable courage and address. “Although,” he added, “to be frank with you, young sir, you have left a very ill savor of the Genevese behind you in our country. “Twas a horrible trick you played off upon our seigneur; and so wroth did it make him that he fell into a fit, and is never like to be his own man again. But I warrant you, he had enough of his senses about him to forbid any one of us going near your city, which is hard upon poor men who have their bread to earn, and who know very well that, whatever may be said of Genevan heretics, Genevan crowns are good money, and pass current with the best. I have ventured here, so to speak, under the rose; for a man cannot eat and drink chamois” skins, and I have enough on my hands to make a covering for your big cathedral — and very little else besides.”
Honest Master Muscaut earned his livelihood by purchasing skins from the shepherds and the hunters on the mountains of Savoy, and selling them again at a good profit, chiefly to the leather-dressers of Geneva. He had, like a few others, a safe conduct from the council, in virtue of which he came and went at his pleasure, even when the internecine conflict between the lords of Savoy and the citizens of Geneva was in the most active of its stages. It was during a former visit that he saw Gabrielle Berthelier, inquired into her parentage, and by this report to the old Count of Lormayeur, set him upon that business of reclaiming her. Until Norbert’s adventure he had been rather a favorite with the count; but he had since been careful to keep well out of his way. He had no fears, however, about returning to Geneva; since he reasoned that the Genevans, having been successful in their roguery (as he thought it), would probably be in good humor. Antoine Calvin was an old acquaintance; being in his own line a true artist, who aimed ever at perfection, he liked himself to select the skins which he needed for his work, though they were afterward prepared for him by an expert leather-dresser. Muscaut knew the particular kinds he affected, and used to keep them on purpose for him; quite regardless of the fact that they were destined for the covering of abominably heretical books.
After supper, young Jacques Calvin, lantern in hand, escorted him to his inn, the Black Swan. Norbert mean while told his father, without reserve, all about his interview with the young count, and showed him the ring he had given him.
De Caulaincourt was much moved. So his wayward boy, after all, had been faithful to his father, and his father’s God! He had been tried, and had not failed, though the trial was no small one. And yet, in truth, he little guessed how great it had actually been. He did not say much. It was an age of strong deeds rather than of many words. Yet his quiet, “Thou hast done well, my son,” quite satisfied the heart of Norbert.
There followed between them one of those silences which are sometimes better than words. Norbert broke it.
“Father,” he said, “I think I ought to tell Master Berthelier. Think you, is he well enough to-night?”
He is certainly better to-day; has been free from fever, and with little pain. “Let us go and see.”
Which they did. Berthelier, very pale, and propped with pillows on his couch, listened to their story with much interest. When they had ended, he said, “All this confirms me in a purpose which I have had in my mind, when I could think at all. Gabrielle ought to execute, with all legal formality which can be devised, a formal transfer of all her claims upon the Castelar estate to her kinsman, Count Victor de Lormayeur.”
“But would any document we of Geneva could execute here be accepted in the Courts of Savoy?” asked De Caulaincourt.
Berthelier smiled. “If we were claiming an estate, I should give little for our chance of a hearing,” he said.
“But since we are renouncing one, that makes all the difference. I think this document may well be of use. The young count is sure to gain the ear of the duke, and if he comes to his own he will see the matter through for his sake. Then I think, also,” he added, after a pause, that Master Muscaut should see the syndics, and take some sort of promise from them to the young count that this should be done. Also, something should be arranged about the ransom of the prisoners, for which, undeniably, the town is in debt.”
“ That concerns me most nearly,” said De Caulaincourt. “But what am I to do? I am myself a pensioner on the bounty of my brethren here.”
“ Father,” broke in Norbert, suddenly, “there is that ring the young count gave me. See — the diamond is large — how it shines too! It must be worth much money.”
“You cannot part with that, my son,” said Berthelier, from his couch.
“I cannot give or sell it, but surely I may pledge it,” returned Norbert.
“ It may not be needed,” said Berthelier. “The Maisonneuves are rich; and there are others, too, who will help. My counsel is, that we send to-morrow to the young count, by the hand of Master Muscaut, a letter stating what we propose to do. Then, if he accepts, we can act — promptly.”
“ Yes, promptly,” Norbert said. “For I understand the young count is immediately going to Spain.”
For more than one reason,” Berthelier said, “I want Gabrielle’s affair settled as soon as may be. For it is even more for her protection than for the count’s advantage. As long as she remains heiress of Castelar, she remains in danger. She may be claimed, she may be entrapped — or seized even by violence, by those who seek to make their profit of her right. But the deed of renunciation will make her in law, what she has always been in heart, a true child of Geneva, nothing else, and nothing more.”
De Caulaincourt assented. “But I see that you are weary,” he added. “Let us talk no more, but wish you quiet rest, and go.”
“Good night, friend. Stay, though, one moment. The letter should be signed by four syndics, on behalf of the town. And early, to-morrow morning. See to it all, I pray of you.”
“I will. Do not be anxious.”
“Ah, here comes Gabrielle. Child, do thou salute Monsieur de Caulaincourt and Norbert, my good friends, who even now are doing thee better service than thou wottest of.”
They saluted her with the courtesy of their nation, and the three went together to the street door. When she returned, she found Berthelier already half asleep.
She paused a moment, doubting what to do, but her light footstep had roused him; he looked up at her “Yolande?” he murmured. Then, recovering full consciousness, “I think I was dreaming — Gabrielle, thou wilt be glad, wilt thou not, to belong wholly to Geneva and me?”
“My father, that I have ever done. Except, of course, as I — as we all — belong to God.”
“We belong to God? Then let the owner take, and use that which is His. So be it. I ask no more.”