And when you”ve saved his bloomin” life, he
Chaws yer bloomin” arm.”
Rudyard Kipling.
“How dare you touch my dog?”
“How dare you call him by that name?”
“I shall call my own dog by what name I please. Come here, Cain, Cain!”
“You shall not get him. How dare you, I say?”
“You must be in love with the first murderer, if you resent my calling a brute after him.”
“You know as well as I that when you say “Cain” you mean” —
“Oh, very well! Then the tyke shall have his name, and the whole of it. Come here, Calvin!”
“Take that for yourself! And as for the cur, he shall have a long rope and a short shrift.”
This angry colloquy took place one Saturday afternoon on the great field called the Plain-palais, whither the Genevan youth resorted for the “Plays,” or contests in shooting at the mark and other manly sports and exercises in which they delighted, and all the more because there was not in their daily lives too much recreation or amusement. A group had gathered round the two disputants, a tall lad named Perrin, nephew to the noted Libertine, Ami Perrin, and a scholar of the academy who was vowing summary vengeance upon the ill-looking mongrel dog, to which the Libertine youth, after the custom of his party, had given the name of Calvin by way of insult and mockery. Holding the dog by the throat with one hand, he dealt Perrin with the other a stinging blow in the face; and this being speedily returned, and others joining in, there was the prospect of a very pretty fight. The Libertines were the weaker party; and for that reason only, young Norbert de Caulaincourt, who was present, must needs take their side. The luckless dog was the object of contention, and bid fair to be strangled or pulled to pieces in the fray. At last Norbert, always in the midst of things, flung himself over the creature, body, limbs and all, as an English boy in a football scrimmage would throw himself on the ball. It was a wonder boy and dog had not their lives crushed out of them. Norbert made sure that at least a dozen ill companions were on the top of him, squeezing the breath out of his body; while the wretched dog underneath, not knowing friend from foe, was making frantic efforts to get his head free and to bite him. He began to think his last moment had come.
All at once the weight grew less, seemed to be rolling away. He could breathe again. Presently he saw the light, as well as he could for the sparks that danced before his bewildered eyes. “Get up,” said a voice in his ear. Then a hand touched him, and helped him so effectually that he stood upon his feet, and tried to look about him, though he was still dazed and giddy.
He saw in his rescuer one of the foremost scholars of the academy, the same young Frenchman who, on his first coming, had given him timely warning of the penalties of disobedience. The tall fair-haired youth, with sunshine in his face, standing over the prostrate dog, reminded him of a picture he had seen somewhere of St. Michael and the Dragon.
“Thanks, De Marsac,” he panted. “Curse that dog! He has bit me,” putting his hand to his arm.
“He is dead,” said another voice, “or if he is not, he ought to be. Let us finish him.”
“What good will that do?” De Marsac interposed.
Because some silly fellow has given the beast a name too big for his nature, is that a reason for killing him? Let him be, or take him to his master, whom I see yonder. Caulaincourt, are you much hurt?”
“Nothing to signify,” Norbert said bravely. “The ungrateful brute! Next time they may hang him, for me,” he added, trying to laugh.
“Let me play the barber,” said De Marsac, producing a fair white kerchief.
Here the dog rose slowly and shook himself, after the manner of his kind. Perhaps he saw his master, who was coming towards them with a doubtful air, half hostile and half friendly. Louis de Marsac “clapped” to him politely.
“Here is your dog, Master Perrin,” he said. “It was no fault of his that his name gave umbrage to some of us. There are plenty of good names to choose from. One might call a dog Cæsar, now, or Alexander, without offense; but here in Geneva it were wise not to meddle with a greater name than these. Though at present there is no harm done, save that my friend here, who was trying to protect him, has had his arm bitten.”
“I am very sorry,” said Perrin. “And I thank him, and you. For one of the Regenerate you speak very fairly. If the rest were like you, we might get on better with them.”
He went off, his dog limping after him with a disconsolate air.
De Marsac turned his attention to Norbert, and very deftly bound up his wound, which was not serious.
“I will walk home with you,” he said. “There are friends of mine who live next door to you in the Rue Cornavin, and I shall be very glad to visit them this holiday evening.”
Norbert was delighted. In spite of his hurt, he walked gaily along beside De Marsac, who chatted with him pleasantly.
“You will soon be done with school, will you not?” Norbert asked him.
“Yes, with the academy. But I have still to attend the theological school.”
“I suppose you will be glad to leave. I should be, I know.”
“I shall be glad, not for what I leave, but for what I go to,” and over his bright young face there passed a look that made it brighter still.
They had now reached the Porte Neuve, by which they entered the town, with many others who were returning from the Plain-palais. As they walked along the Corratorie they met Berthelier and Gabrielle, taking the air, as the afternoon was very fine for the season of the year.
Both the lads saluted; De Marsac with a flush and a beaming smile.
“I did not know you knew them,” said Norbert.
“Oh, yes; did I not tell you I was going to see them? Master Berthelier’s sister, Damoiselle Claudine, and I are fast friends. Some years ago, when I came here first, a mere child, I was one day in the market, looking about me and buying cherries or the like, when I saw this poor damoiselle being frightened half out of her senses by a group of angry, scolding fish women. That was before such good order was put in the market, and in all the town, thanks to Master Calvin. She had told them, quite truly, that they were trying to cheat her. I fought her battle with all my might, which in truth was not great, and at last brought her home in triumph. She was much more grateful than the occasion required, and has been my very good friend ever since. I — they — they are all good to me, though lately, being much occupied with my studies, I have seen them but seldom.”
“Do you not think the young damoiselle very pretty?” asked Norbert. “I do.”
“She is beautiful,” Louis answered quietly; and the subject dropped.
“De Marsac,” said Norbert, after a pause, “may I ask you a question?”
“Why, of course.”
“You said anon you were glad of that to which you go when you leave the school. You cannot mean those long lectures of Master Calvin. What is to come after?”
“I go back to my country — my France, to preach the Gospel there.”
Norbert stopped, and looked at him surprised.
“What makes you do it?” he asked at last.
“Why should I not?”
“Why should you, once safe out of the lions” den, thrust your head into it again?”
“Because I am on His errand who can shut the lions’ mouths.”
Norbert was silent. He felt a kind of awe. He had heard such things said before by Master Calvin, Master Bonna, or others of the ministers. But this lad, his own school-fellow, was going to prove them — a very different thing.
However, as they turned into the Rue Cornavin, he said —
“You will not want to go farther, having seen that your friends are out walking.”
“My friend is the Damoiselle Claudine, who is like to be at home. I will go and ask for her.” So he accompanied Norbert to his own door.
Thus began one of those boyish friendships, so delightful in youth, so helpful often for all the after-time. Perhaps the most perfect are those when one friend is just leaving childhood, and the other just entering manhood; for then there is added to the schoolboy’s sense of comradeship the almost adoring reverence of the younger, and the protecting tenderness of the elder. Norbert certainly adored Louis de Marsac; he copied his ways as far as he could; he even tried to learn his own lessons properly, that at next Promotions he might enter a higher class, and so stand a little nearer to his idol. Nay, he carried his affection so far as to try and listen with attention to the sermons of Master Calvin. He had many opportunities; on Sundays Calvin, with the other ministers, took it in turn to preach in the churches of the town, and thus he was often in St. Gervais, the parish church of the dwellers in the Rue Cornavin. Besides, every Wednesday all the scholars of the academy were obliged to attend his lectures in the cathedral. Norbert longed to discover the secret of the magic spell which could hold his high-spirited friend, brimming over with life and energy, in rapt, motionless attention, often for nearly two hours by the sand-glass. But he failed utterly; he held Master Calvin, as a man, in much respectful awe, but as a preacher he might almost as well, for Norbert de Caulaincourt, have spoken in Greek.
Long sermons were not perhaps the worst part of the general dullness of everything in this dull, sad Geneva; where every day he regretted the sports and the pleasures of “La belle France” — the gay dances, the masques, the merry-makings. Everything here was so cold, so colorless. How he hated the weary, monotonous round of lessons, preachings, admonitions! Scarcely less distasteful were the sober meals, where the conversation was sure to turn upon things he cared not for, or could not understand, and the fare, though always wholesome and sufficient, was certainly frugal. Along with other childish traits, the child’s taste for sweets and dainties remained with him still; and he could not hide his contempt and disgust when informed that the number of dishes people might have for dinner or supper was strictly regulated by law. Though this perhaps was rather from his disdain for bourgeois syndics and councilors, than from his love for pasties.
It was part of the same childishness that at school he was not only idle, but wayward and petulant, sometimes even rebellious. Here De Marsac’s influence came in most opportunely. His kindly help and frank, brotherly counsel saved Norbert from the consequences of some of his escapades, and kept him out of others, and worse ones.
Under this influence he began to grow; and as he grew he began to find that even in Geneva there were some pleasures to be had. It was good — but that had been always — to be with his father, to whom, indeed, even in his worst moods he was ever loyal and obedient. It was good to see De Marsac every day in school, to exchange words or looks with him whenever discipline allowed it, to go with him on Sundays for a quiet walk on the Crets or by the river, and on holiday afternoons to the sports on the Plain-palais, where he applauded his triumphs, and sometimes shared them.
There was something else which he found very good, perhaps better than all the rest. His father took him with him occasionally, when he went to sup with his friend Berthelier. Then Norbert enjoyed the supreme felicity of a seat at the table opposite pretty Gabrielle Berthelier. Occasionally he could serve her, though it might be only with bread or salt; he could even exchange a word or two with her. Often, too, they met in the street, when he “capped” to her, and got sometimes a word of greeting. No one guessed — he could not have borne that any one should guess, even his father or De Marsac — what these meetings were to him, and how he watched for them.
So time passed on, until the winter was nearly over; although the weather continued most severe, and the snow was deep on the ground.
The March night was at its very coldest, darkest, and dreariest when Norbert de Caulaincourt, lying on his truckle-bed beside his father, heard a cry go up from the street, La four chauffe” (the oven is hot). He had been fast asleep, but he had the valuable power of waking at will, when his will was strong enough, as in this case it certainly was. He had determined the night before exactly what to do. He started up — he had lain down half dressed — threw on his blouse and buckled it, took his shoes in his hand, and then, very cautiously, for fear of waking his father — usually a much lighter sleeper than himself — groped his way out of the room and downstairs.
He was not the only wakeful person in the house. Jeannette, the servant, was already in the kitchen, kindling a lantern at the embers of last night’s fire, which for the purpose she had stirred to a blaze. Before it was a goodly store of black bread in common use, which had been kneaded the night before, and left, as housewives say, to rise,” and this she proceeded to place carefully in a great wooden bowl, with a view to carrying it to the oven of the Quarter. “Each morning a certain number of households sent their bread (usually a fortnight’s supply) to this public bakery, summoned by the cry in the street, La four chauffe.”
“In heaven’s name, Master Norbert, what takes you out of your warm bed this freezing night? But since you are here, just help me with this, like a good lad.”
“This,” was the great, heavy bowl, which, tied securely with rope of twisted straw, had to be hoisted upon the back of the strong serving woman. Norbert set it there, and whispered in her ear “You told me the Bertheliers” Marguerite was ill, and that now, there being none else fit to do it, Damoiselle Gabrielle was to bring the bread to the oven.”
“So the wind blows that way! A child like thee! Well, well, young folk are young but once. Come along, then. Here, take the lantern, while I open the door.”
A blast, cold enough to chill them to the marrow, met them as they stepped out into the snowy street. But Norbert felt no cold, for just then the door of the next house had opened, and a slight, shrinking figure was coming timidly out. Gabrielle’s basket was not nearly so heavy as Jeannette’s, the household being so much smaller, she could easily hold it in her hands. She had no lantern, trusting probably to Jeannette’s.
“Please you, damoiselle,” began Norbert, drawing near. But he got no farther. To his unspeakable disgust, a tall figure stepped out of the shadow, and, almost without a word, relieved her of the basket.
This was intolerable. Stung to sudden fury, Norbert sprang upon his supplanter, and struck him violently in the face.
“Begone, rascal! “cried the person assailed, attempting no reprisal, but keeping fast hold of the basket. ‘Tis a thief,” thought he, who would make me let go, that he may run off with the bread.”
But Norbert recognized the voice of Louis de Marsac. Louis, his hero, his friend, his Jonathan — nay, his royal David, for the higher name, the greater glory, were his unquestioned — Louis to supplant him thus! Et to Brute!
“Oh, Louis! “he cried aloud, in a tone of keen reproach. “And you knew I meant to do it!”
“Nay,” said the other, amazed and perplexed. “Nay, how could I know? Only yesterday, after the lecture, I heard of the servant’s illness.”
“Come on, come on! “Jeannette cried impatiently. “Gabrielle, you will lose your place at the oven, and Master Berthelier’s bread will go unbaked.”
“Damoiselle,” said Louis, quietly, “please to say which of us you will have to accompany you, and to carry your basket.”
Gabrielle hesitated, but only for a moment. Then she spoke.
“M. de Marsac has walked all across the town from the Rue de Rive, while M. de Caulaincourt lives next door. Therefore, if he will, M. de Marsac shall come with me, and carry the basket. M. de Caulaincourt, it is so very cold, you ought to go back at once to bed.”
Garbielle was not the first of her sex, nor the last, to spoil a tactful speech by just a word too much. Louis had come a very long way, there was reason in the plea, which Norbert could acknowledge — but then — to be sent back to bed out of the cold, like a child!
With a bow — as he flattered himself, of manly dignity — quite lost in the dark, he withdrew, re-entered the silent house, and regained his bed, his strong young frame chilled to the bone, but his heart hot within him. He was angry with all the world — very angry with Louis; for what precise reason he would have found it hard to say; angry with Gabrielle also — and yet — and yet — amongst his confused medley of feelings the predominant one towards her was certainly not anger. As he lay in the cold and dark, for perhaps the first time in his life unable to sleep, one thought came slowly out from the confusion, and stood before him clear and plain. It was a thought so great that it seemed to hide, or to swallow up, all the rest. “When I am a man,” Norbert de Caulaincourt said to himself, “I will not stay in this dull, cold Geneva. I will go out into the world and fight, and win fame and glory. I will be a soldier of fortune. There is plenty of demand for such, and fine opportunity every day for a good sword in a brave hand. Then I will come back, and marry Gabrielle Berthelier.”
There was much comfort in this resolve, so he tried to make it as solemn as he could. “I shall very soon be a man,” he continued. “Then I shall have my will. I swear it!” He slipped his cold hand within his shirt, and pulled out a little gold crucifix given him by his step-mother, which, unknown to his father and little thought of by himself, he still kept with him. “I swear it upon this,” he said, “and all men know that what is sworn upon the cross must needs be done, and come to pass.”
With this happy certainty sleep overtook him; and the next thing he saw was his father standing over him, telling him the morning soup was growing cold, and asking if he meant to sleep all day.
Meanwhile, Louis de Marsac was thinking with some penitence that he had not dealt quite generously with his boy friend. “And he has so little,” he thought, “while I have so much.” For his own heart knew — oh, so well! — what the result of the appeal to Gabrielle would be. It was scarcely fair of him, and too hard on poor Norbert! Though, of course,” his thoughts ran on, “being but a boy — indeed, a mere child — he would not feel it like another, nor understand. Still, it was hard on him. And I might have been kinder. I ought — when I have so very much.”
When they met that day in school, he was frankly and sweetly kind. Norbert, on his part, felt conscious that he had made rather a fool of himself, and was only too glad to be taken on the old terms. Thus the little wound in their friendship was quickly healed, and it left no scar behind.