“The old order changeth, giving place to new.”
Meanwhile in Geneva time was passing, bringing with it growth and change. One change had taken place already in the household of Berthelier, which, though to outsiders seemingly of small importance, had caused great pain to a timid, tender spirit. Poor Claudine, whilst still clinging fondly in heart to her own creed, sorrowfully renounced her claims to the crown of martyrdom, and left the Church she loved. Not that actual martyrdom would have followed, even had she persisted in her refusal to conform; there is no record of such a fate befalling any zealous Roman Catholic in the city of Calvin; but she might have been fined and imprisoned, and if obstinate, obliged eventually to leave the town. But what weighed with her more than any fear of personal inconvenience, was the trouble she would have brought upon her brother.
Berthelier’s position was already precarious. It is true that a certain amount of indulgence was tacitly accorded to him, because of his sufferings in the cause of freedom. Still, the yearly domiciliary visit of the pastors to inquire into the faith and morals of the citizens was a terror on his account to Claudine and to Marguerite; though he himself seemed rather to enjoy perplexing and baffling their reverences. These pastors were nearly all good men, some of them really able men, though no doubt they suffered in the popular mind from their association with Calvin, a giant who made tall men look like pigmies. Berthelier’s favorite amongst them was one Abel Poupin, who, during a visitation of the plague some ten years before, had been appointed to minister to the stricken. He began well; but presently, overcome by the horrors of the pest-house, he prayed to be relieved. For this weakness, which he bitterly repented, he was atoning by a life of unremitting attention to duty, and of earnest, simple piety.
To him Berthelier explained that he had no wish to disturb the present order of things, that he would attend the preaching whenever his health permitted, and behave in all things as a loyal citizen. But as for believing unto salvation, did not Master Calvin himself teach that we could not do it without special grace, which was given only to the elect? If it was not given unto him, what was he to do?
“You could pray for it,” Poupin said.
“Not unless I had it already,” Berthelier retorted.
Very earnestly Poupin answered, “Master Berthelier, you are only fencing with me. You know very well that upon these questions any man may talk himself into a blind alley, but he who walks always finds the way out. Are you walking?”
Berthelier bowed his head and said gravely, “God knows.”
The pastor added solemn words about the shortness of time and the nearness of eternity; and Berthelier, as he saw him depart, said heartily —
“There goes a true man.”
A few days afterward Claudine and Gabrielle sat together sewing. The room was comfortably furnished, for Berthelier was careful that his sister should want for nothing, but it was quite devoid of any ornament or any touch of brightness or beauty. Save one, indeed-the young girl who sat on her footstool beside the chair of the elder woman, seemed to have gathered into her face, as into a cup, enough of brightness to have flooded a palace. Hers was the beauty of the South, hair of polished ebony, eyes that were “dark suns” veiled by long black lashes, complexion just tinged with brown, features of perfect, delicate loveliness. Just then the flower-like face was bending, in evident anxiety, over a difficult piece of embroidery.
Claudine had needlework of her own, but seemed to be thinking much more of Gabrielle’s. She looked frail and ill, her troubles of mind had told upon her health, never strong.
“I think the light begins to fail,” Gabrielle suggested, with a little sigh.
“Now that is foolish. My eyes are old, yet I have good daylight still. But you tire quickly of your needle. In the convent we always wrought on until vespers. I should like to know what would have happened if one of the novices had announced that she was tired, and would like to stop, as you often do, Gabrielle.”
“Ah, but in the convent you were slaves obeying the will of others. Now, we are free.”
“Free? If the apprentice were free of his master, how much of his craft would he learn, think you?”
“Of course,” Gabrielle said submissively, “I would obey you, ma tante, even though I were not, like an apprentice, learning from you.”
“Learning from me? ‘Tis long since thou past done that.” There was some pain in the tones of Claudine.
“I am learning this broidery from you. And I want to learn it.”
‘Tis worth it. Our lady abbess learned it from a near kinswoman, who was taught by one of the ladies of the late Duchess of Savoy, God rest her soul! That was in the good old times when our lord the duke used to visit us, and the prince-bishop used to come and dwell in the Eveche, and there would be great stir and joyance in the town.”
“But now,” said Gabrielle, “we have got rid of the Savoyards. And we thank God for it.”
“It is easy to talk of getting rid of the Savoyards, but not so easy to do it. Knowest thou how many of our best families are of Savoyard blood and race? Knowest thou not, moreover — ah, but I believe thou dost not, and I ought not to have spoken.”
“What meanest thou, dear aunt? “asked Gabrielle. “What know I not?”
“Oh, nothing — nothing of the slightest importance.”
“Is it that any of our friends have come of Savoyard blood, as thou sayest, aunt? Indeed, already I know they have. But what does it matter, if they are good and true, like the Rosets, the Vandels, the Auberts? And you know the French exiles are the best, the very best, among us.”
Why did not Claudine accept this way of escape from a perilous subject, instead of returning on its traces? It was surely some fatality that made her say” Savoyard blood is good, I like it better than French blood. And there is that among us. Nay, even — but I do not think I ought to say more.”
“Why not, Aunt Claudine? What harm is in it? Now I am a child of Geneva, what should I care, if I heard that my great-great-grandfather had been a Savoyard?”
“Wouldest thou care, child, if it came nearer to thee? After all,” thought Claudine, “she will have to know the truth some day, and Ami never forbade me to tell her.”
Yet still she paused, as in doubt.
“What mean you, ma tante? Speak, I pray of you,” said Gabrielle, with the curiosity the “I could and I would” manner never fails to awaken.
Thou are my brother’s adopted child, and he has ever been to thee a father indeed. I think he cares not to be reminded, nor to have thee reminded, that thou art not his own. Yet he is fond of saying we ought to know, and speak, all things that are true, though they tend not either to pleasure or to edification. But men are ever inconsistent.”
“I do not want any father or any friends, save those God has given me. Never child had better,” said Gabrielle warmly.
Has it never come into thine head to think upon thine own parents, and wonder who they were? “Never,” Gabrielle answered promptly. “What does it matter? Though I suppose,” she added, “they were peasants, “Gray-feet” as they call them, from the country, or at least from the suburbs destroyed at that time for fear of the enemy. My father took them in for the love of God -and they died. That is all I know, or want to know. I am a child of Geneva.”
“Do you know, my dear, I am almost sure you are a child of Savoy?”
Gabrielle started, “Oh no, no!” she cried, “that cannot be! I am no Savoyard, I am of Geneva — I! I will not be a Savoyard. They are, cruel, wicked. They rob and slay the innocent, and they torture and burn the martyrs of God!”
“Dost thou not think God made Savoyards as well as Genevans? And have no cruel or wicked things ever been done by children of Geneva? But be that as it may, thou cant not help thy birth. And there are two sides to every matter. Take the satisfaction of knowing it was gentler than thou wottest of. Gentler? Nay, as noble as the best. The poor people who died here, Marguerite tells me, were but thy foster-parents. From things they said, and from something — a scrap of paper, wrapped in silk and put round thy baby-neck as a charm — it was gathered thou wert of Savoy, and of noble birth.”
Gabrielle looked up, amazed and wondering, but certainly far more pained than pleased. She asked very naturally Aunt, where is this scrap of paper? I should like to see it.”
“That canst thou not, and more the pity! Thy father (thou knowest his way) told me, when I asked for it, that he had burned it by mistake. Like a man’s carelessness! Perchance thereby he hath lost thee some fair inheritance.”
“Nay,” said Gabrielle, with energy. “He hath done me a good turn, and I thank him. With Savoy have. I nothing to do — nor will I.”
“That knowest thou not yet. I was thinking of all this yester eve, when M. de Caulaincourt supped with us, and talked of going forth into Savoy.”
“I thought he only meant to go amongst the country-folk round about,” said Gabrielle. I hope he will not venture beyond the Liberties. That were “too dangerous.” Belike he thinks as little of danger as that poor young De Marsac, over whom I could weep,” said Claudine. Child — Gabrielle, what ails thee? “For she saw the girl’s hands were trembling, and her color came and went. With quickened instinct she went on, speaking slowly and deliberately, as one who forced herself to the task. “M. de Marsac is a very amiable young man, and I esteem him highly — as a friend. But we are not of his kin, nor has he any here, parent or guardian, to restrain his actions. So we need not speak of him further. I marvel how M. de Caulaincourt, being a Frenchman, is so well acquaint with the tongue of Savoy. He must find it very convenient here, where that patois is used so commonly.”
“Norbert told me — ”
“Speak up, my dear, for I cannot hear thee. What ails thy voice? Norbert told thee what?”
“That his father, in his youth, was a prisoner in Savoy,” said Gabrielle with an effort, her face bent low over her work, which she was doing very badly.
“I knew he would soon tire of printing and bookbinding, which are handicrafts not fit for gentlemen. And he would tire still more of doing nothing. So for sheer lack of occupation he must needs go about the country, like a wandering friar (save that he is a heretic), spreading the doctrines of Master Calvin. It is all strange to me. But then, everything is strange here; everything is changed.”
“Not strange — no,” Gabrielle said falteringly.
“Not to thee, child; for thou too hast forsaken the old paths, which were good enough for our fathers, and our fathers’ fathers, who sleep in God. It is hard — for me.”
“Because, I taught thee, I love thee — ”
“You love me,” Gabrielle said gently, putting her hands in hers.
“Yes, child, I love thee. Therefore I grieve to see the change in thee. I used to hope thou wouldest be to me as a dear daughter, my joy and consolation in this new, cold, faithless world. But now thou wilt learn no more from me. Thou dost prefer, forsooth, the teaching of an old serving-woman, thy nurse and mine. A good nurse, I am bound to say, and a faithful servant. But an ignorant, presumptuous, high-minded intruder into things not seen, vainly puffed up of her fleshy mind, as saith the Holy Scripture. I should like to have seen our lady superior — no, not her, she was too gentle — our prioress — take old Marguerite in hand.”
“Dear aunt, I have not learned from Marguerite, but — from you.”
“That is folly, child. Thou hast cast my teaching to the winds.”
“Not willingly. Indeed, for long I was perplexed and sorrowful. I knew not what to think.”
“Why not think as all good men and women thought before us?”
“So I said to myself. And I tried — oh, how earnestly! to say all the prayers you taught me, and to believe just as you did.”
“As I do, and I care not who hears me say it. Though I have lived so long in this heretic city, and have been forced to conform to the ways of it, and to forego the sacraments of the Church, for the avoidance of greater evils.”
“Marguerite, I acknowledge, did one thing for me,” Gabrielle said in a low voice. “She gave me the New Testament; and she bade me read it with prayer — she, who cannot read herself. But you did more, for you taught me to love Him of whom it speaks.”
A change, not sorrowful, passed over Claudine’s sorrowful face. Gabrielle had touched a chord that thrilled in response. She crossed herself in silence.
“Then the Book made me love Him more,” Gabrielle said. “It showed me He was all I wanted. That day when the priest came to us, disguised in the butcher’s smock and apron, and you wanted me to confess to him — how could I? My heart was just full of the peace and the pardon of our Lord Himself, and I needed no other. So I went away to St. Gervais, where there was a service. And you were sad for me, and troubled. I have wanted ever since to tell you how it was.”
“You speak well, child,” said Claudine. “But then you are not learned, nor am I. There are other commands of our Lord which are not written in the Book. But I am only an ignorant woman, and know not what they are. The priests used to teach us. Now I — I know nothing. Only I know I am right.”
“And I too know I am right,” Gabrielle would have made instant answer, but that would have been disrespectful, and the maiden of the sixteenth century was nothing if not respectful to her elders. She kept silence, thinking, however, of something Louis de Marsac had once said in her hearing. Unconsciously, all her thoughts were taking color from Louis de Marsac’s — especially her best and highest thoughts. Her own faith at this time owed no little of its joy and brightness to her contact with one whose inner life was “all sunshine.” Half unaware she spoke out, “I am minded of something Louis said — ”
“Who said?” her aunt asked sharply.
“M. de Marsac,” Gabrielle corrected herself, blushing.
“One night here, at supper; he and my father differed on some matter, and he said, “Sir, you know there are people on the other side of the world whose night is our day, and whose day is our night, yet for all that we all see the same sun.” Then my father made answer, with that quiet smile of his: “M. de Marsac, if you understand your own parable, and go where it leads you, you will be a far wiser man than Master Calvin.”
“Certainly I do not understand. But, Gabrielle, I understand too well that M. de Marsac should not come here so often. Nor, if he does, should you and he talk together, as of late you have fallen into the habit of doing. You are no more a child now, but a young maiden, who must be wise and circumspect.”
“I am trying to be wise,” said Gabrielle with a trembling lip.
“I know it, my child. Thou hast grown vastly in prudence and in thoughtfulness. No one would know thee now for the froward child I found thee, when I used to put thee “in penitence” for playing with the bookbinder’s boys.”
Gabrielle thought there was a vast difference between talking with Louis — who was good and wise, and from whom she always learned so much — and playing with rough boys, as she used to do long ago, when she was a child. What could her aunt mean? With the question a thrill came to her, unfelt before. In the purple twilight under the sea of conscious thought, something was stirring within her, she knew not what.
“I am grown up now,” she said. And she felt it.
“Not quite; but thou art growing fast. And I would have thee know that there are snares in the young maiden’s path more dangerous than those which beset the child. Moreover,” she added, with a touch of bitterness, your new religion has swept away the safe refuges of other days for the tried, the tempted, or the broken-hearted maiden.”
“Aunt, did you become a nun of St. Claire because you were broken in heart?” Gabrielle asked suddenly; thus, by a bold stroke, carrying the war into the enemy’s country.
“I was broken-hearted for my brother’s sake, to whom all my life was devoted. Besides, I had nowhere else to go.”
“I thought,” Gabriel hazarded, that there might have been — some one — ”
“Certainly not!” Claudine said, with emphasis, as if repelling some injurious accusation. “I am the bride of Christ. That is, I was,” she added, with a deep sigh. She went on presently in an altered tone: “What I am now, He only knows. And whether He can forgive me, He knows also.”
“He is faithful and just to forgive us our sins,” Gabrielle ventured to whisper.
“I do not doubt it. What I doubt is, that He will forgive me. No, do not speak to me. It is but a little while until all these dark things shall be made clear before me. I shall be glad, even though I go, not to peace, but to pain. There — I know what you would say; you have got rid, along with other things, of the cleansing fires of purgatory. So also you have got rid of the vidame, who used to act for the bishop and punish your offenses. But you know the vidame is gone, and cannot return. Who has risen from the dead, to tell you the fires of purgatory are gone too?”
“Christ has risen, for our justification,” Gabrielle said softly. To the justified there is no more suffering for sin. “Let that be as He will,” Claudine answered. “As for thee, Gabrielle, thy father may need, in the days to come, thy loving ministrations. Thou wilt not fail him?”
“I? Do I not love him more than — as much as child ever loved father?”
“Then stand by him, and help and cheer him as long as thou cant. Not that I am saying to thee, “Do not wed.” These are things we women cannot arrange after our own will and pleasure. But, whatever thy lot may be, see thou do not leave him desolate. Remember, he saved thy life; and all thou hast thou owest unto him. But I hear his foot upon the stair. Put up they work, Gabrielle, and go and help Marguerite to serve the supper.”