One bright afternoon, a few days later, Germain de Caulaincourt might have been seen walking about the Court of St. Pierre, and up and down the Rue des Chanoines, as Norbert had done, months before, when waiting for Louis de Marsac. His usually calm face wore an anxious and troubled expression; and ever and anon, as he passed and re-passed No. 123, he would pause and look earnestly at the closed door and the narrow windows that told him nothing. He was waiting for his boy; when would the dreaded interview be over, and Norbert come forth to tell him all about it? Late the night before Master Calvin had returned from a fortnight’s absence, and that morning he had sent his secretary, the young Frenchman, De Joinvilliers, to desire Norbert to come to him after school. The “desire” was a royal mandate. De Caulaincourt accompanied his son to the door, but not all the boy’s entreaties could induce him to enter. “It would be in no way right,” he said. “Be a man, my son. What dost thou fear? Master Calvin will neither slay nor smite thee.”
“For all that, I would rather go to old Sangsoue, and let him drag out a double tooth for me,” said Norbert. De Caulaincourt had long to wait. The servant who admitted Norbert did not know that her master had been summoned to the sick bed of a friend, for happening himself to open the door to the messenger (as, on a historic occasion, he actually did to no less a person than Cardinal Sadoleto), he had gone back with him at once. So Norbert was shown into the small, plainly furnished room where Calvin usually read, and saw his visitors, and was left there for an indefinite time to his own not very cheering reflections.
Those of his father were scarcely more satisfactory. Being in the cathedral court when Calvin re-entered the house, he did not know what would have partly accounted for the long delay. There was perhaps a touch of superstitious awe in the way in which even able and intelligent men like De Caulaincourt regarded John Calvin. Yet in the present instance he had some cause, slight perhaps, but real, for uneasiness. He knew the singular and daring character of his son, a character he himself, as he was well aware, but partially understood. Could it be possible that the malapert boy would fail to receive Master Calvin’s “godly admonitions” with proper meekness and humility? That he would have the audacity to answer again, to defend himself, or even — unheard-of effrontery! — to argue? No one could ever tell beforehand just what Norbert would do. And if he misbehaved thus, what would happen? De Caulaincourt’s foreboding soul gave him back the celebrated answer of Mr. Speaker Onslow, when asked what would happen if he named an unruly Member of Parliament, “The Lord only knows!”
But here was Norbert at last! It was time; the great clock of St. Pierre was on the stroke of five. Ah, surely it had gone ill with the lad, very ill! His face was pale and tear-stained, his lips trembling, as if he could scarcely keep from sobbing aloud.
His father hurried towards him, in genuine alarm.
Norbert, from a child, had held tears in manly scorn, nor would reproof or punishment have ever drawn them from him.
“Oh, father,” he said, “father! “ — the word was almost a cry.
“What is it, my son?” Then, full of dismay, as a sudden thought occurred to him, “You are not to leave Geneva?”
(Genevan air was somewhat apt to disagree with those who opposed Master John Calvin.)
“Me? oh no! There’s naught of me. It is — it is — Louis de Marsac.”
“Louis!”
“He and Peloquin. They are in prison at Lyons — like to die.”
De Caulaincourt was much moved. Better even than Norbert he knew what those tidings meant. He sat down on one of the stone seats in the court, and covered his face with his hands. For some time he could not speak.
Norbert spoke at last; and the silence once broken, he was glad to pour all his story into his father’s ears.
“Twas this way,” he said. “I stood waiting there, in that room of his, all lined with books round the sides, and up to the ceiling; I scarce thought there were so many books in the world, and of course all different, for who would have two of the same in his house? On the table were pens, an ink-horn, and many papers, some set together orderly, others lying about. Beside the master’s carved chair there was a stool or two, and presently I sat down, and tried to think what it was like he should say to me, and what I should answer. But the time was long, and I grew mortal weary. At last I nodded, and would have fallen asleep, but I thought that if he came and found me thus, it would look unmannerly, and make him the more wroth with me. So I stood up and went to the window, which was at the back of the house, and looked out upon a fair garden full of flowers. They were good to see, and reminded me of France; though I did marvel somewhat that Master Calvin should take thought of the like.”
“He does, and more than most. But go on.”
I was still standing there, hidden, I suppose, by the tapestry that curtained the window, when he came in. I looked round, but he did not see me, and presently turned his back, seeking somewhat amongst the papers on the table. I stood still, not knowing what to do, and fearing to disturb him.
“Thou shouldest have waited till he made a pause, or lifted his head, and then coughed discreetly, to attract his attention.”
But he made no pause, father, nor ever lifted his head. Till at last, methinks, he found what he sought, under a pile of papers. It was an unopened letter —
“Ah! Overlooked perhaps last night, and to-day someone may have told him of its coming.”
I dare say. He cut the string with his girdle-knife, broke the seals and began to read. “Then, father, then” — Norbert’s voice faltered — ” the strangest thing I ever saw — ”
“What?”
“He said, as if unwittingly, “De Marsac — Peloquin!” and a moment after, “My God!” But,” added the young Frenchman, accustomed to the careless use of the great Name, not as other men say it. Rather as if he cried out in agony, and cried to One who hears. And his face — it was gray with pain, and there were tears — real tears. “Father, I know now that Master Calvin cares.”
But I thought of Louis, and — I suppose I must have made moan or cried out — for he looked up, with those eyes of his that go through you like a sword. And then a sort of mask semed to fall over his face, as when a soldier drops his vizor for the fight. He looked as he always does in the pulpit or the school, and he asked quite calmly, “Who art thou, boy, and how camest here?”
“Sir,” I made answer, “I am Norbert de Caulaincourt, and I come at your own command.”
“Go,” he said, “and return to-morrow at the same hour.”
But not for Master Calvin himself could I do that, with the sound of that “De Marsac!” in my ears. I said to him, “Sir, I crave your forgiveness; but Louis de Marsac was a brother to me. Tell me, I pray of you, what has befallen him.” He looked at me a moment in silence, then said, “Wait.” I waited while he read the letter, scarcely breathing, my eyes upon his face. At last he spoke. “Louis de Marsac and Denis Peloquin are in prison in Lyons, for the Word of God and the testimony of Jesus Christ. They are full of faith and courage, trusting in God. De Marsac has written. Tell his friends.” I thought he meant me to go, so I made my reverence and turned to do it. But he called me back. “As for thy matters, Norbert de Caulaincourt — ”
“Well, Norbert?” his father questioned, for Norbert had come to a full stop.
“I can’t get back his words — not as he said them,” faltered he. “But the sense was, that I had been indiscreet, and — I know not what else, but I promise you I felt it all.”
“And what is to be done?”
“Nothing. As for the prisoner’s ransom, the city will pay it. Only, I was to remember that we are not sent into the world to serve ourselves, or even to serve our friends after our own pleasure, but to do the Will of God — like Louis de Marsac. He bade me pray for him, and follow his example, that if — if suffering came, or death — oh, father, you know.”
“Was that all?”
“Yes — no — ”he laid his hand on my head — ”and I shall never say again that Master Calvin does not feel.”
De Caulaincourt sighed. “Whose, think you, is the hardest part in the campaign, the general’s or the soldier’s?” he asked. “Norbert, these are heavy tidings — very heavy.” Then, after a pause, “Methinks Louis hath no relations in the town.”
“No; but — there is Gabrielle.” Norbert’s voice sank very low as he said the name.
De Caulaincourt did not immediately understand; for there had been no formal betrothal. But Norbert understood only too well. In that very place had Louis given him the charge that changed his life. His father saw that in his face which made him say, after a pause —
“Ah, there are matters wherein the young know each other better than the old can do.”
“Father, you must tell them. Perhaps Master Berthelier, ill though he is, had better know the first. He will tell her.”
“Meeter it seems to me that thou shouldest thyself deliver the message Master Calvin gave thee.”
“Oh, but I cannot! It is Louis, my friend, my brother! “Here quite suddenly and to his own amazement the boy broke down, and wept and sobbed aloud. Happily, there was no one within sight or hearing; the cathedral court was deserted, as it was the hour of the evening meal. De Caulaincourt laid his hand kindly on his son’s shoulder, but did not seek to check his tears. Norbert, however, soon recovered himself. We must go home,” he said. “And you will tell the Bertheliers.”
Moved by his distress, De Caulaincourt made no further objection, and they went home together in silence.
As they trod the familiar streets, young Norbert’s soul, moved to its depths by what he had heard and seen, caught upon its troubled waters a gleam of light. Cold, strong, passionless, like a dead man’s clasp,” had seemed to him the will of John Calvin, when he sent forth his father, Louis de Marsac, Denis Peloquin and a hundred others to suffer and to die. But now Norbert knew — for he had seen the anguish of his soul — knew well that the strong man felt and suffered, ay, in proportion to his very strength. Never would he think again it was easy for Master Calvin — never would he doubt again that it was harder far for him in his safe Geneva than for them in the dungeon or at the stake.
He raised his head, and looked up at the cloudless evening sky. All that strong, earnest life which since his coming to Geneva he had perforce been breathing in, was saturated with intense belief in One who dwelt above that sky and did as He willed in the heavens and on the earth. There was no resisting His will. He slew, and He saved alive; He had mercy on whom He would have mercy, and Whom He would He dealt with according to his transgressions. He sat silent in His heaven while everything went wrong upon earth, while men, even good men who trusted Him — like Louis — were imprisoned, tortured, burned. But perhaps, after all, and if one only understood all, He felt, He cared, He loved. Like Master Calvin — only infinitely more. And then there was Christ, and the cross, and the “love of Christ” men talked about. He thought of a verse somewhere that said, In all their afflictions He was afflicted.” Oh, if it might be true!
Not that Norbert’s dim and groping thoughts framed themselves into such words as these. Rather, the moment’s illumination that came to him meant just simply, “I know now that the man I thought hard as adamant, feels, loves, suffers. Perhaps some time I shall know that One far greater feels, loves — dare one say suffers? Only so much the more, in that He is far greater.”
The flash faded, but the thought remained, never wholly, so long as he lived, to leave him again.