“Till now thy soul hath been
All glad and gay,
Bid it awake and look
On grief to-day.”
“Béril, I will go. Father has no right to forbid it, this day of all days in the year—Good Friday, the holiest day of all. It would be sin. I have to listen to the voice of my director.”
“Greta, hush! You will not go.”
Greta's eyes flashed.
“I will not! and why, pray?”
“Because your father is away, and he trusted you," Béril said, gently.
Greta strove hard to retain her defiant attitude, then broke down suddenly and burst into tears.
“Oh, Béril, you do not know how wretched I am," she sobbed. “If only the Lutherans had never come to Geneva. Since then everyone has left me—father, the children, you. I cannot believe as you all believe, I cannot forget all I have been taught ever since I was a baby. And yet—and yet the more I pray and strive to be a good Christian the farther away peace and rest seem to go. Father Oliver says all will come right, but the waiting time, meanwhile, is very hard. And now this morning I had promised Marie Vernier to meet her at the Tour Perce and go with her to mass at the Cathedral, and now father, just ere he went out, summoned in haste to a patient, hath forbid me to go. If I obey him what must I needs do about Marie?”
“I will go and meet her instead, Greta," Béril said, eagerly. "I will tell her you cannot come. I shall just have time.”
“Wear this then," Greta said, throwing her own hooded cloak about the girl. "If you wait to go upstairs and dress you may miss her and be late.”
She sets herself, though with a sore feeling at her heart, to get the children's breakfast, and the infection of her own gloom made the meal a silent one.
All at once there came a violent knocking at the door. Ulric sprang up and opened it. There was a moment's whispered colloquy then the boy came back white to the very lips. Gerard was with him.
“Where is your father, mademoiselle?" he demanded. "When will he be back?”
“Not for some hours," Greta returned. "He has gone to a patient at a distance." The boy gave a gesture of despair.
“God help you! What are we to do?" he muttered. He looked at the children at the table, gazing at him open-eyed. "Are you all alone?”
“What do you mean?" Greta demanded. “What is the matter?”
“Mademoiselle, they are going to massacre all the Lutherans," he broke out. "Men, women, and children, not one will be spared. Indeed, the massacre has already begun, a young man has just been stabbed to the heart by the Bishop's secretary in the Cathedral itself. You must not stay here, Dr. Morand is too well known for this house to escape. For the little ones' sakes do not lose a moment, but escape while there is yet time.”
The girl gazing at him with horrified eyes. "It cannot be true," she muttered.
The boy grew desperate. "God is my witness it is all too true," he said. "Why should I say otherwise? If you delay, it will be too late. Come at once, mademoiselle. Can you not hear that the city is in turmoil?”
Indeed, the sound of rushing feet, hoarse shouts and excitement were only too audible.
“Hark! there is the alarm bell," Ulric put in.
An ominous sound rose above every other—the great alarm bell.
Greta doubted no longer. "But whither can we go?" she asked, despairingly.
“I know, Greta, to Baudichon's house," Ulric put in. "It is there, if anywhere, a stand will be made. He will shelter us if anyone can.”
Greta was no coward. The chance was a desperate one, but there was no other. She guessed, and guessed rightly, that the Huguenots would congregate there; that it would be her father's wish that she should go thither. Certainly their house was utterly defenseless. With fingers that only trembled a little she hastily wrapped up the children, then called deaf old Marthe, made her somehow understand what was happening, and stood ready to start.
“You have got the cabinet from father's study, Ulric?" she demanded. "That is right. Let us go—"she broke off with a sudden cry. "But where is Béril?" she panted. "Béril has never come back.”
The three young faces looked at each other despairingly.
“Where did she go?" Gerard asked, curtly.
“On an errand—for me—near to the Cathedral," Greta said. There was an agony of self-reproach in her face. "She has had time to go and return twice—thrice. Oh, why did I ever let her go!”
Louder and more threateningly the great alarm bell rang out its insistent message.
“We cannot go without her," she said, in a low voice. "I cannot, at least. Take the others, Ulric. I will wait for her here.”
But neither Ulric not Gerard would hear of this.
“You could do her no good by staying," the latter said. “Whatever has happened has happened now. If she has not come back, it means she cannot. But there is still time to save the little ones".
He drew her, unresisting, outside the house, and forced little Aimee into her arms. He knew those little arms clasping her neck would be a stronger argument than anything he could say. He himself caught up Irene, and Peter followed close at Ulric's heels.
Noiselessly they made their way along the most deserted streets, hiding in a doorway or passage whenever a strange figure came in sight.
But as they neared Baudichon's house they met other fugitives on the same errand as themselves. The children were recognized, the Doctor's whereabouts demanded, their destination approved. "All the women and children are taking refuge there." Fragments of news were exchanged, faces were very grave, but there was no panic.
“You will stay here?" Greta said to Gerard, as he put Irene down at her side when they reached the door.
Gerard shook his head. "I am going back," he said, quietly; "I am going to find mademoiselle.”
“Oh, Gerard, let me come with you," Greta cried, springing forward. But even as she spoke the folly of her words overwhelmed her. Strong arms drew her inside, the massive door was closed and barred. Gerard had vanished. The children were clinging to her, tearful and frightened. They must be comforted. Her work was here, not outside.
The Huguenots were all gathered in or around Baudichon's house. As she soothed and amused the children Greta heard the news brought by one and another. The whole Roman Catholic army had assembled at the Cathedral and sallied forth with crosses and banners. The magistrates followed protesting, but powerless to interfere.
Three other bands were on their way from different parts of the city and its environs. They were to join at the Molard, and then the work of slaughter was to begin. Even the women and children were to have their share in "the holy work.”
“There were at least seven hundred children, from twelve to fifteen years of age,” says a Catholic chronicle of the day, "who carried little swords and hatchets, and filled with stones their hats and caps and skirts, that they, too, might slaughter the heretic children. The women carried stones in their aprons. ‘Let us go too,’ they said to one another, ‘and make war against the heretic women, that we may get rid of the whole race.’”
And somewhere out in that frantic priest-driven angry crowd the little French girl was struggling— alone.
“And it was I that sent her," Greta reproached herself. "I have sent her to her death. She will never know how I loved her. Oh! Béril, if only I had gone instead.”
She gave not a thought to their own danger. True, for the moment, they seemed safe, but Baudichon's house was certain to be the first object of attack. Could it possibly resist a combined attack? Would it be really a refuge, or only a death trap? At any other time this question would have been uppermost in her mind, but now the thought of Béril's danger outweighed every other.
Later in the day her father returned and joined them, and to him she poured out the whole story.
“Oh, father, is there any hope?" she sobbed. "Is it possible we may yet find her?”
But Dr. Morand was silent, horror-stricken. What hope could there be for the fragile defenseless girl alone in that maddened crowd? Yet the look in Greta's face silenced any reproach he might have uttered.
“With God all things are possible," he said, at length. "She had been with me often to the meetings. She may have met some of our people, and taken refuge with them. Most, if not all, would know her. There are many refugees in this house. Art sure she is not among them?”
But Greta had scanned every face and watched every new arrival far too closely to be mistaken.
“Cannot we go and search for her?" she questioned.
The Doctor shook her head. That was clearly impossible. Every available man was needed for the defense of their dear ones. He owed a duty to the whole community, before which personal affairs must bow. But it was no less hard for him than for Greta.
And still that numbing, unnerving waiting continued.
News came in that one band on its way to the Molard had been met and overthrown by a Magistrate with an armed force on the Rhone Bridge.
Then came news that sent a thrill of horror even through that heroic little band. A second body had reached the Molard triumphantly and joined forces with the army, while a third, under Canon Veigy, was marching upon Baudichon's house, to surround it with his troops and burn it and all within it.
Fire! Was it any wonder if for a moment their hearts failed.
Was what they had thought a shelter to prove but a death-trap after all? Men looked upon their wives, their little ones, dearer to them than life, and a stern resolve grew in every face.
There was a hurried consultation in low, grave tones. Then a unanimous decision. They had resolved if possible to avoid all bloodshed, they knew the weapons of their warfare were not carnal, yet they felt the time had come for them to take their stand against the enemy.
Gravely, and in solemn silence, the men formed up, and left the house to face the enemy outside. "There is not a spark of help for us," they said, "but in God—in God alone.”
So the farewells were spoken, for aught they knew the last farewells. Afterward Greta remembered often how calm these people—these heretics—were. Tears might rise to the surface as those tender words were spoken, but there was no outcry, no panic; no frenzy of rage against the enemy, no protest even against the cruelty of their fate.
Calmly, but resolutely, the men went forth to fight if need be, but only if driven to it—on no account to strike the first blow.
The women remained—to pray. Prayers such as Greta had never heard rose from that crowded room. The girl at first had stood proudly aloof, but ere long she was kneeling with the others, a strange, wild questioning in her heart.
The Church was right, that she could not doubt; these people were heretics, yet they had something she had never known.
What is it?
But where was Béril meanwhile?
She had reached the rendezvous quickly enough, then she glanced round, but in vain, for Greta's friend. She was nowhere to be seen. It was strange she thought, for she had seen Marie's note and knew how earnestly she had besought Greta to let nothing keep her from the appointment. Already she was a few minutes late. Yes, it was strange.
She lingered a moment, uncertainly, and suddenly a low voice behind her said, "You are waiting for Mademoiselle Vernier?”
Béril assented, and next instant a shawl was flung across her face and she felt herself seized by strong hands and hurried whither she knew not.
She tried to resist, to call aloud for help, but she was helpless in the powerful grip of her captors.
“You have nothing to fear," the same low voice said in her ear. "Keep but your face covered, and utter no sound, and you will be safe. We are not enemies, but friends.”
The words did not bring much consolation or confidence to poor Béril. Breathless and dazed she could only stumble along, realizing: presently that they had left the street and entered a house. Then they climbed some stairs, a door shut behind them, and Béril was released.
The girl threw off the shawl, and sank trembling on to a chair. What the meaning of the outrage was she could form no idea. The room in which she found herself was entirely strange, so were the two young men confronting her.
“You will understand all in a moment," one said in a rough attempt to comfort her. "You will thank us, mademoiselle, for the rest of your life.”
A lighter step was heard outside, the door opened and a girl's voice said gently, "You have really brought her? Ah! splendid, you have done well. Where is she?" A hand touched her shoulder. "Greta, were you in great fear?" the voice asked.
Béril rose shakily and confronted Marie Vernier.
The girl's face turned white, the laughter, died from her eyes, they grew wide and horrified.
“You fools," she flashed out angrily turning upon the two men. "Fools! what have you done? This is not Greta.”
“Not—but she was waiting for you at the rendezvous," her brother protested.
Marie turned from him disdainfully.
“Where is Greta?" she demanded.
“She could not come," Béril explained. “I came in her stead to tell you. Will you let me go back now, please.”
The girl took no notice of her words. Béril saw that she was included with the young men in her anger.
“Oh, it is too bad," she said hotly. "I thought she was safe, and now—now—it is too late, I can do nothing to save her.”
She turned, and without another glance at Béril, went out of the room. The young men followed her and the door closed. The girl within heard a key turn in the lock.
Hardly knowing what to do, Béril went to the door too. The little room in which she was evidently opened out of a larger one, in which the others still remained. She could hear their voices in consultation—every now and then a fragment of the conversation reached her.
“It is too late to do anything more.—Better release her. —No, no, she is one of the Lutherans herself—she would betray everything, and we should be blamed.”
Béril tapped upon the panel with a hand that was not quite steady.
“I pray you open the door," she said. "I would fain go home.”
But there was no response. Voices and footsteps died away in the distance. Béril was left alone.