“For the vision, that was true, I wist,
True as that heaven and earth exist.”
Browning
As soon as Norbert had acquainted Master Lyne with the success of his mission, and given into his keeping the precious letter for Calvin, he went out again, and turned his steps towards the cathedral. Its grandeur and solemnity, its majestic space and silence, had impressed him greatly, and since he came to Lyons he had haunted it. But to-day he was not thinking of its glories. His soul was so full already of wonder and of awe that he had none to spare for stately arch or fretted roof, or painted window kindled by the sun into a mass of many colored jewels. He had seen greater things than these. He went to a quiet side chapel, perhaps the same where, long ago, in his gentle, hallowed old age, John Gerson — who had helped to slay John Huss for the testimony of the Lord they both loved — used to teach his little scholars to pray. Norbert knew nothing of this, nor if he had, would he have greatly cared: it belonged to the past, and for the struggling, agonizing heart of humanity the present is enough, the matter of a day in his day.” He threw himself on his knees on the steps of the altar; heeding the noble picture above it as little as the tawdry, artificial flowers, the guttering, half-burned wax candles upon it. It was the first time in his life that he, who had knelt so often, knelt before his God because he really wanted to be there, — because there seemed to him no other place to be.
“Then it is true — true — true!” his heart was saying within him. “The truest thing in heaven or on earth. There is, in that dungeon with Louis, something which is stronger than the whole world, something which neither pain, nor fear, nor death can conquer. Nor love even. Something which makes him not only strong, but glad, filling him with peace and joy, peace that passes understanding, joy unspeakable and full of glory. Something? No; some One. Some One, who is with him now in the dungeon, and will be with him by-and-by at the stake, in the fire. It is no dream — no pious talk of good men like my father and Master Calvin, because they are religious. It is real. He does come so-to some. I wish He would come to me!”
He looked up. The sun had caught a window above him, and sent down through the vast space a shaft of glory at his feet. “Let the light come to me,” he cried, even as it has come to him!” He said no more words, but, perhaps for the first time, he had prayed.
At length he became aware of someone who had entered the little chapel, and stood watching him. He rose, and confronted an elderly man, in the dress of a gentleman’s personal servant. He looked ill and sorrowful, but greeted Norbert with a respectful bow, which showed that he quite understood that his present dress was a mere disguise, since had he been really a tradesman’s apprentice, the valet would have considered him his own social inferior.
“Do you want me?” asked Norbert, surprised.
“Yes, sir, I do. I am the servant of M. Ambrose de Marsac.”
“Have you a message from him?”
“I have a message from his father, the Sieur de Marsac.”
Knowing what he did, Norbert felt rather alarmed.
“I cannot think what the Sieur de Marsac can have to say to me,” he answered coldly.
“Nothing to hurt you, sir, nor any one you care for,” said the man. “Were it so, I would do him no service in the matter. For, indeed, I am not his servant, but M. Ambrose’s, having been with him since his infancy.”
“Is your name Grillet?” asked Norbert, as a light began to break on him.
“Baptiste Grillet, to serve you, sir. I had the migraine on Saturday, and could not lift my head from the pillow, else would I not have left my master to the charity of a stranger for his guidance. Still, it was fortunate, since the stranger happened to be you.”
“Can I do anything for him now?” asked Norbert. “Say all that is in your mind, I know he trusts you.”
“You can do a great deal for him, monsieur, though at present he thinks not of it, nor desires it. M. de Marsac, heretofore so stern and wrathful, and so bitter against the heretics, has broken down utterly now. It has come upon him like a thunderbolt that his son, his firstborn, is to die. Hitherto he would not believe it, say what we might to move him into doing something for the poor young gentleman. He would have it always that when death came close to him, M. Henri would recant. He little knew him, though he was his son.” Here Grillet paused, probably to crush down emotions that would have disturbed the staid decorum of his demeanor. “Now he knows the truth,” resumed the valet, “he is in despair. He dreads the loss, not of one son, but of both, and as it were almost in a day; for M. Ambrose thinks as M. Henri does, and in his anguish at losing the brother he adores, is sure to betray himself somehow, and bring the priests upon us.”
“Surely,” said Norbert, “his infirmity would protect him.”
Grillet shook his head. “Nothing protects the heretic,” he said, lowering his voice cautiously at the fateful word.
“But how does M. de Marsac think I can help him?” asked Norbert.
“By taking M. Ambrose with you to Geneva,” said Grillet, drawing nearer, and still speaking in an undertone.
“Would he come?”
“M. Ambrose? Next to following in his, brother’s footsteps, which is the thing he would like best, he would like to go to that nest of heretics-forgive me the word, monsieur.”
“I thought, perhaps, you were of your master’s way of thinking,” said Norbert.
“I don’t know what to think; and truly, in my place as a servant, I have no right to think at all, but to do as my betters tell me.”
“Everyone has a right to think,” said the child of Geneva.
“On the whole,” continued Grillet, “I incline to take my chance in the next world, as I do in this, with M. Ambrose. I have served him since he left his nurse’s arms; and if the good God seemed to do a hard thing in sending him into the world without his eyesight, at least He did His best to make it up to him by the good heart and the fine wit He gave him.”
“Then, if he comes to Geneva, you will come too?”
“Certainly, monsieur. What else? But it is there we want your help. You can answer for my master, that he is truly one of your sort; and for me, that at least I am no enemy. They need not go about to burn me for a — a — what is it, monsieur, that your people call Catholics?”
“A Papist. But we do not burn Papists in Geneva. It is true, however, that we do not let them come into the town — when we can help it, which is not always. You need not fear any violence, Grillet. But you will have to do without Mass and Confession, and the rest.”
“I dare say I shall manage,” Grillet said drily. “Well then, M. Norbert (I think that is your honorable name?), in return for your good word in Geneva, and your good company for his son by the way, my master will be at all charges, and do his utmost to secure your safety and comfort. Of course he will provide handsomely for M. Ambrose in Geneva, so that we shall not be burdensome to those who receive us there. I make no doubt there will be good hostelries, or lodgments, to be had for hire or purchase?”
“Certainly,” said Norbert. “But I ought to tell you, that if you and your master came to us friendless and penniless, as did my father and I, and many another, still every house in Geneva would be open to receive you, and every citizen would be ready to give you food and shelter, as good as he had for himself and his own children.”
“You are strange people, monsieur. And I quite see,” he added, with extraordinary candor, “the falsehood of all the popular reports about you. I do not for a moment believe — not I! — that you worship the devil, or practice horrible vices in secret, or-but forgive me, monsieur, for naming such things” He broke off, warned by the look on Norbert’s young face, though the thought of Louis kept him patient. “When do you wish to go?” he asked at last, quietly enough.
“M. de Marsac would fain send us off at once, in his terror lest M. Ambrose should compromise himself; but I know that no power on earth will prevail on M. Ambrose to stir until all is over.”
“Nor will I,” Norbert said briefly.
“But that will be — next Saturday,” Grillet added sorrowfully.
Norbert started. “Are you sure?” he asked in a breathless whisper.
Grillet bowed his head, and there was silence between them.
The servant broke in. “We can start on Sunday, he said. Or better, on Monday,” said the child of Geneva, where the day of rest was kept far more strictly than in Romanist, or even in other Protestant communities.
But Grillet objected, “Sunday were the better day, when folk are keeping holiday, and we could go forth as if to visit friends in the country. Moreover, every day is an added danger, and M. de Marsac will grow impatient.” If there be sufficient reason for going on Sunday, we may go,” Norbert agreed. But on all the details of our plan we must consult Master. Lyre, for to him was I recommended, that he should guide me in all things.”
“And to none better could you have been sent, M. Norbert. What we would have done without him, in all this trouble, assuredly I know not. He has wonderful influence with the jailor, and with all his underlings. No doubt he has paid well for it.”
“Come this evening, and hear what he says,” said Norbert. They had come out of the side chapel, and were walking down the nave, conversing in low tones, when the great voice of the organ, rising suddenly to heaven, filled their ears and silenced their lips.
Grillet paused. “Some function is beginning,” he said. “I will stay for it. M. Ambrose will not want me yet.”
“So will not I,” said Norbert, parting from him, and walking on resolutely to the great door, out from the tempered gloom into the free sunshine of heaven. “I am done with all that,” he said to himself. “It can never tempt me more. Its spell was broken forever in the dungeon of Louis.”