“I know thee, who has kept my path, and made
Light for me in the darkness, tempering sorrow
So that it reached me like a sudden joy.”
R. Browning
“Father,” Gabrielle asked the next day, “wilt thou give thy child a boon?” What could he refuse her now? The answer came promptly without pause or condition —
“Thou hast it.”
“Next Sunday is the day of the Holy Supper. I want to thank God for His martyr, who eats and drinks now in His Kingdom. Come with me, dear father.”
The old man bowed his head. “Child, I am not worthy,” he said.
“With Him there is no worthiness, save love. And you love.”
He thought a moment, then said: “But it is not possible. If “twere only confessing Him before the world,” and any one were free to do it — But the pastors have to be satisfied, and the consistory. I should be debarred, like my kinsfolk.”
“I do not think so, father. They know you now. Pastor Poupin, who esteems you, would speak for you.”
Sister Claudine was present, and, much to her brother’s astonishment, spoke out bravely “If I am allowed, I will bear you company. I may as well be really what I have been in seeming. Standing between two steps, with a foot on each, is neither safe nor pleasant. If I can save my soul in Geneva — and more and more I incline to think I can — it must be in the way of Geneva. So let us lose no time in sending for that pastor, whom we know for a devout and kindly person, and greeting him to shrive us, or whatever else you call the necessary preparation.”
“Norbert passes his door,” said Gabrielle, “on his way to school.”
Norbert went to school no longer now; the rest of his education he was to get in another way. But he had an errand of his own to the pastor. He had already, like others of his age, been under preparation for his first communion, but at Christmas, and again at Easter (for these great Christian festivals were observed in Calvin’s Geneva, and by his desire), he had been rejected as unfit. It appeared, however, from what followed, that now he was able at least to satisfy Pastor Poupin; who also took upon him, at Berthelier’s request, to answer for him and for his sister. He had paid him, since his illness, several visits, of which he reported his impressions to Master Calvin in these words —
“I believe he is a branch of the True Vine, though peradventure a branch running over the wall.”
The morning of the first Sunday in September rose clear and fair over the towers and houses of Geneva. Berthelier, Claudine, and Gabrielle set out betimes for their parish church of St. Gervais, and were joined, ere they had gone many steps, by De Caulaincourt and Norbert.
“The Calvin go to St. Peter’s, as is meet and right,” said De Caulaincourt. “But Norbert and I desire to come with you.”
In spite of the sorrow that weighed on every heart, there was in De Caulaincourt’s face a look of sweet peace and satisfied desire, and the tones in which he said, “Norbert and I,” were good to hear.
The pastor who preached in St. Gervais that day was no renowned champion of the Faith whose voice still echoes down the ages. He preached no grand “ historic sermon,” leaving tones that linger with us yet. He was only a simple, faithful Christian man, and a true pastor, who loved his work, his people, and above all, his Lord. Yet in his plain and quiet words there was something that drew every heart, and made it beat in unison with his own. And the secret of his power is not lost yet, nor ever will be, until the end shall come, and the last earthly lover of the Name of Jesus shall be gathered in, to be with Him where He is forever. Pastor Poupin spake of Him.” He made every one present feel that he, or she, “had in Him an ever-living, ever-loving Friend, who knew every thought, shared every sorrow, helped in every danger. This Friend had died for each — and would not each be willing joyfully to die for Him, as some, well-known to them all, had just now been called to do? Then let them draw near, and eat of His Bread and drink of His Cup, the Cup of fellowship with Him in His suffering and His glory, the Cup also of fellowship in Him with those who had gone before. Surely they might believe that these, their fellow-guests, were partaking with them now, even though they sat at another Table, and a veil, or curtain, concealed them from their view. Present here with us, as there with them, was the Master of the Feast. And her, as of old, would He make Himself known to each, “in the breaking of bread.”
The solemn service over, the congregation dispersed, all going quietly to their homes. But even the strict Genevan customs allowed, after the second prêche, which was at two o”clock, a pleasant afternoon walk on the Crets, or in the Plain-palais. Norbert and his father enjoyed it to the full, and talked much about many things. On their homeward way they visited Norbert’s blind friend, Ambrose de Marsac, who, with his servant Grillet, was domiciled in a printer’s family. M. de Maisonneuve had offered to receive him; but since, through his father’s liberality, he was well able to pay his own charges, it was judged best that the wealthy Maisonneuves should keep their hospitality for the many destitute who required it.
The Bertheliers stayed at home; and Claudine and Gabrielle told Marguerite all that passed, and condoled with her upon her absence.
“The only one of us wanting,” said Claudine.
“And,” said Marguerite, “the only Holy Supper I have missed since Master Calvin began to give it.”
“But I hope you will be with us next time,” Gabrielle added kindly.
After supper, Marguerite was helped to bed, and Berthelier, Claudine, and Gabrielle sat together. Berthelier had been very silent all day, but now he seemed inclined to talk. “Claudine,” he said, “ dost remember the old days, how on Sundays we used often to sup with M. Levrier?”
“Yes, indeed, I remember well. Some of your friends of that time, Ami, were what one might call mad-cap, or, to put it mildly, and use your own word, coquard. Do, you remember your Cousin Philibert’s song, which we used all of us to sing — in fact, every one sang it then, even the gamins in the streets?”
“Vivent ces Huguenots gentils,
Frisques, prompts à tout faire.
Its soot coquards et beaux-fils,
Chaqu’un d’eux est pour nous plaire.”
“Ah, well! — now we sing psalms and hymns, which no doubt are better, especially for the young. Brother, do you know that a few days ago, in clearing out that old painted chest in your chamber, I found your cock’s feather, laid carefully aside, and wrapped in a piece of silk?”
“Ah, the badge of liberty! Well, I never shrank from wearing it, even in the face of tyrants. Nor did Philibert. He was a great man — was Philibert Berthelier — something like Master Calvin in his power over the people, though a strange contrast in other things. Both were born to rule. Prithee, sister, indulge my folly, and bring me hither that old adornment of my cap.”
She brought it to him. He took it, looked at it lovingly, and passed his fingers over it with a caressing touch.
After a pause he spoke, but dreamily, as if to himself.
“All my youth is in it. It tells me of lost hopes, lost dreams, lost causes. But most of all it minds me whose fingers touched it, whose hand placed it in my cap. A dearer hand than thine, Claudine, and,” — he added, with a kindly look at her — ” that is much to say.”
She answered the look. “I know,” she said gently. “Yolande. But, Ami, I never heard what became of her? “When the noble Levrier was foully slain by cruel tyrants, she lost a dear father by adoption, and a home. And two years later, God called her to Himself from a world she did not love. That is all I know, or have ever known. But of late I have sometimes thought — we may meet yet. Eternity is a great word. It is not time, and certainly it is not space, yet I always think of it as a vast pillared hall, of which no man can come to the end, nor even see it, though he go on and on for a thousand years. But, as he goes, old well-known faces, faces he loves, may peradventure look at him from between the pillars.”
“But I,” said Gabrielle, softly, “I think of Eternity as Home.”
Here Norbert came, to ask after Master Berthelier, and to hope the fatigue of the long service had not hurt him.
Berthelier said he had not felt so well since his illness, adding, as he looked at the tall, handsome lad standing in the doorway “How you are grown, Norbert! You are a man now. But come in, and sit down with us.”
Norbert was nothing lath, and Berthelier went on, “Twere time, methinks, thou didst choose an honest calling for thyself, especially as thy heart, so far as I can tell, goes not much with the schools.”
“I have chosen,” said Norbert, in a low voice. “Or rather, my calling has chosen me.”
It was Gabrielle who spoke next, with a flush on her pale face, and an animation in her tone that surprised everyone.
“Are you going to preach the Gospel? Oh, Norbert — ”
“No. I could not preach. I have no words, nor skill, nor learning. But I can serve those who preach.” After a pause, he added, I am ambitious, yet not so greatly as to want God’s best. That is for “the noble army of martyrs.” I will content me with the second best — to spend my life as the servant and the friend of the martyrs.”
“This a grand calling,” said Berthelier.
“I am vowed,” Norbert went on, the feeling the day’s services had evoked overcoming all his reserve. “In the Cathedral of Lyons, after — after I had been in that prison — I took my oath in God’s sight. And you know there is work that wants doing. There are always some of ours in peril or in prison. Master Calvin cares for them — oh, he cares — but there needs someone — a link between him and them-to bring letters and do errands. That link means me.”
“And your father. Have you told him?” the question was Berthelier’s.
“I have; and he is glad beyond words.” Then, turning to Gabrielle, and speaking with sudden hesitation and timidity, “Damoiselle, you approve?”
“With all my heart. May you comfort in his need many another servant of God.” Then she added softly, “God bless you.”
“Take my blessing too,” said Berthelier.
When Norbert was gone, Berthelier still sat musing, the feather in his hand.
“Yes,” he said, looking at it, “it has brought back the old life. That old life had good in it, for perhaps the new Geneva would not have been possible without it. And yet I say not, “the old is better.” No! For I, even I, have come to drink of the new wine at last, and I bear witness that it is good. The Geneva of Master Calvin is not the Geneva of the Huguenots, of Philibert Berthelier, of Ami Levrier, of gay Prior Bonivard, it is not the Geneva of which we dreamed in our hat, passionate youth. But it is more. It is the Geneva of the new Faith, the new World, the new Life. It is the home of truth and constancy, of strong, high thought and brave doing. It is the shelter of the unfortunate, the refuge of the oppressed from every land under heaven. God hath spoken, “Let Mine outcasts dwell with thee, Geneva,” and she hath answered, “Yes.” Therefore He will bless her. And I — I also — I bless her, yea, and she shall be blessed!”
“Bless God for all, brother!” said Claudine. “That must be the best thing always.”
The words of a psalm, which had been read during the services of the day, came to the lips of Berthelier. He rose slowly, leaning on his staff, and spoke with upraised, kindling eyes —
“Blessed be His holy Name forever and ever: and let the whole earth be filled with His glory; Amen, and Amen.”
Then he went to rest. And that night he rested well. So well, that when Gabrielle came to his side in the morning it was plain even to her young eyes that someone else — a King, yet no King of Terrors — had been there before her, and had set upon the quiet face his royal seal, the inscription upon which is “Peace.”