Complete Works of Stanley J Weyman

by Stanley J Weyman

  At any rate, in some such colours as these, framed in such a halo, Claude Mercier saw the Free City as he walked its narrow streets that evening, seeking the “Bible and Hand”. In some such colours had his father, bred under Calvin to the ministry, depicted it: and the young man, half French, half Vaudois, sought nothing better, set nothing higher, than to form a part of its life, and eventually to contribute to its fame. Good intentions and honest hopes tumbled over one another in his brain as he walked. The ardour of a new life, to be begun this day, possessed him. He saw all things through the pure atmosphere of his own happy nature: and if it remained to him to discover how Geneva would stand the test of a closer intimacy, at this moment, the youth took the city to his heart with no jot of misgiving. To follow in the steps of Theodore Beza, a Frenchman like himself and gently bred, to devote himself, in these surroundings to the Bible and the Sword, and find in them salvation for himself and help for others — this seemed an end simple and sufficing: the end too, which all men in Geneva appeared to him to be pursuing that summer evening.

  By-and-by a grave citizen, a psalm-book in his hand, directed him to the inn in the Bourg du Four; a tall house turning the carved ends of two steep gables to the street. On either side of the porch a long low casement suggested the comfort that was to be found within; nor was the pledge unfulfilled. In a trice the student found himself seated at a shining table before a simple meal and a flagon of cool white wine with a sprig of green floating on the surface. His companions were two merchants of Lyons, a vintner of Dijon, and a taciturn, soberly clad professor. The four elders talked gravely of the late war, of the prevalence of drunkenness in Zurich, of a sad case of witchcraft at Basle, and of the state of trade in Lausanne and the Pays de Vaud; while the student, listening with respect, contrasted the quietude of this house, looking on the grey evening street, with the bustle and chatter and buffoonery of the inns at which he had lain on his way from Chatillon. He was in a mood to appraise at the highest all about him, from the demure maid who served them to the cloaked burghers who from time to time passed the window wrapped in meditation. From a house hard by the sound of the evening psalms came to his ears. There are moods and places in which to be good seems of the easiest; to err, a thing well-nigh impossible.

  The professor was the first to rise and retire; on which the two merchants drew up their seats to the table with an air of relief. The vintner looked after the retreating figure. “Of Lausanne, I should judge?” he said, with a jerk of the elbow.

  “Probably,” one of the others answered.

  “Is he not of Geneva, then?” our student asked. He had listened with interest to the professor’s talk and between whiles had wondered if it would be his lot to sit under him.

  “No, or he would not be here!” one of the merchants replied, shrugging his shoulders.

  “Why not, sir?”

  “Why not?” The merchant fixed the questioner with eyes of surprise. “Don’t you know, young man, that those who live in Geneva may not frequent Geneva taverns?”

  “Indeed?” Mercier answered, somewhat startled. “Is that so?”

  “It is very much so,” the other returned with something of a sneer.

  “And they do not!” quoth the vintner with a faint smile.

  “Well, professors do not!” the merchant answered with a grimace. “I say nothing of others. Let the Venerable Company of Pastors see to it. It is their business.”

  At this point the host brought in lights. After closing the shutters he was in the act of retiring when a door near at hand — on the farther side of the passage if the sound could be trusted — flew open with a clatter. Its opening let out a burst of laughter, nor was that the worst: alas, above the laughter rang an oath — the ribald word of some one who had caught his foot in the step.

  The landlord uttered an exclamation and went out hurriedly, closing the door behind him. A moment and his voice could be heard, scolding and persuading in the passage.

  “Umph!” the vintner muttered, looking from one to the other with a humorous eye. “It seems to me that the Venerable Company of Pastors have not yet expelled the old Adam.”

  Open flew the door and cut short the word. But it had been heard, “Pastors?” a raucous voice cried. “Passers and Flinchers is what I call them!” And a stout heavy man, whose small pointed grey beard did but emphasise the coarse virility of the face above it, appeared on the threshold, glaring at the four. “Pastors?” he repeated defiantly. “Passers and Flinchers, I say!”

  “In Heaven’s name, Messer Grio!” the landlord protested, hovering at his shoulder, “these are strangers — —”

  “Strangers? Ay, and flinchers, they too!” the intruder retorted, heedless of the remonstrance. And he lurched into the room, a bulky, reeling figure in stained green and tarnished lace. “Four flinchers! But I’ll make them drink a cup with me or I’ll prick their hides! Do you think we shed blood for you and are to be stinted of our liquor!”

  “Messer Grio! Messer Grio!” the landlord cried, wringing his hands. “You will be my ruin!”

  “No fear!”

  “But I do fear!” the host retorted sharply, going so far as to lay a hand on his shoulder. “I do fear.” Behind the man in green his boon-fellows, flushed with drink, had gathered, and were staring half curious, half in alarm into the room. The landlord turned and appealed to them. “For Heaven’s sake get him away quietly!” he muttered. “I shall lose my living if this be known. And you will suffer too! Gentlemen,” he turned to the party at the table, “this is a quiet house, a quiet house in general, but — —”

  “Tut-tut!” said the vintner good-naturedly. “We’ll drink a cup with the gentleman if he wishes it!”

  “You’ll drink or be pricked!” quoth Messer Grio; he was one of those who grow offensive in their cups. And while his friends laughed, he swished out a sword of huge length, and flourished it. “Ça! Ça! Now let me see any man refuse his liquor!”

  The landlord groaned, but thinking apparently that soonest broken was soonest mended, he vanished, to return in a marvellously short space of time with four tall glasses and a flask of Neuchatel. “’Tis good wine,” he muttered anxiously. “Good wine, gentlemen, I warrant you. And Messer Grio here has served the State, so that some little indulgence — —”

  “What art muttering?” cried the bully, who spoke French with an accent new and strange in the student’s ears. “Let be! Let be, I say! Let them drink, or be pricked!”

  The merchants and the vintner took their glasses without demur: and, perhaps, though they shrugged their shoulders, were as willing as they looked. The young man hesitated, took with a curling lip the glass which was presented to him, and then, a blush rising to his eyes, pushed it from him.

  “’Tis good wine,” the landlord repeated. “And no charge. Drink, young sir, and — —”

  “I drink not on compulsion!” the student answered.

  Messer Grio stared. “What?” he roared. “You — —”

  “I drink not on compulsion,” the young man repeated, and this time he spoke clearly and firmly. “Had the gentleman asked me courteously to drink with him, that were another matter. But — —”

  “Sho!” the vintner muttered, nudging him in pure kindness. “Drink, man, and a fico for his courtesy so the wine be old! When the drink is in, the sense is out, and,” lowering his voice, “he’ll let you blood to a certainty, if you will not humour him.”

  But the grinning faces in the doorway hardened the student in his resolution. “I drink not on compulsion,” he repeated stubbornly. And he rose from his seat.

  “You drink not?” Grio exclaimed. “You drink not? Then by the living — —”

  “For Heaven’s sake!” the landlord cried, and threw himself between them. “Messer Grio! Gentlemen!”

  But the bully, drunk and wilful, twitched him aside. “Under compulsion, eh!” he sneered. “You drink not under compulsion, don’t you, my lad? Let me tell you,” he continued with ferocity, “y
ou will drink when I please, and where I please, and as often as I please, and as much as I please, you meal-worm! You half-weaned puppy! Take that glass, d’you hear, and say after me, Devil take — —”

  “Messer Grio!” cried the horrified landlord.

  “Devil take” — for a moment a hiccough gave him pause— “all flinchers! Take the glass, young man. That is well! I see you will come to it! Now say after me, Devil take — —”

  “That!” the student retorted, and flung the wine in the bully’s face.

  The landlord shrieked; the other guests rose hurriedly from their seats, and got aside. Fortunately the wine blinded the man for a moment, and he recoiled, spitting curses and darting his sword hither and thither in impotent rage. By the time he had cleared his eyes the youth had got to his bundle, and, freeing his blade, placed himself in a posture of defence. His face was pale, but with the pallor of excitement rather than of fear; and the firm set of his mouth and the smouldering fire in his eyes as he confronted the drunken bravo, no less than the manner in which he handled his weapon, showed him as ready to pursue as he had been hardy to undertake the quarrel.

  He gave proof of forethought, too. “Witness all, he drew first!” he cried; and his glance quitting Grio for the briefest instant sought to meet the merchants’ eyes. “I am on my defence. I call all here to witness that he has thrust this quarrel upon me!”

  The landlord wrung his hands. “Oh dear! oh dear!” he cried. “In Heaven’s name, gentlemen, put up! put up! Stop them! Will no one stop them!” And in despair, seeing no one move to arrest them, he made as if he would stand between them.

  But the bully flourished his blade about his ears, and with a cry the goodman saved himself “Out, skinker!” Grio cried grimly. “And you, say your prayers, puppy. Before you are five minutes older I will spit you like a partridge though I cross the frontier for it. You have basted me with wine! I will baste you after another fashion! On guard! On guard, and — —”

  “What is this?”

  The voice stayed Grio’s tongue and checked his foot in the very instant of assault. The student, watching his blade and awaiting the attack, was surprised to see his point waver and drop. Was it a trick, he wondered? A stratagem? No, for a silence fell on the room, while those who held the floor hastened to efface themselves against the wall, as if they at any rate had nothing to do with the fracas. And next moment Grio shrugged his shoulders, and with a half-stifled curse stood back.

  “What is this?”

  The same question in the same tone. This time the student saw whose voice it was had stayed Grio’s arm. Within the door a pace in front of two or three attendants, who had displaced the roisterers on the threshold, appeared a spare dry-looking man of middle height, wearing his hat, and displaying a gold chain of office across the breast of his black velvet cloak. In age about sixty, he had nothing that at a first glance seemed to call for a second: his small pinched features, and the downward curl of the lip, which his moustache and clipped beard failed to hide, indicated a nature peevish and severe rather than powerful. On nearer observation the restless eyes, keen and piercing, asserted themselves and redeemed the face from insignificance. When, as on this occasion, their glances were supported by the terrors of the State, it was not difficult to understand why Messer Blondel, the Syndic, though no great man to look upon, had both weight with the masses, and a hold not to be denied over his colleagues in the Council.

  No one took on himself to answer the question he had put, and in a voice thin and querulous, but with a lurking venom in its tone, “What is this?” the great man repeated, looking from one to another. “Are we in Geneva, or in Venice? Under the skirts of the scarlet woman, or where the magistrates bear not the sword in vain? Good Mr. Landlord, are these your professions? Your bailmen should sleep ill to-night, for they are likely to answer roundly for this! And whom have we sparking it here? Brawling and swearing and turning into a profligate’s tavern a place that should be for the sober entertainment of travellers? Whom have we here — eh! Let me see them! Ah!”

  He paused rather suddenly, as his eyes met Grio’s: and a little of his dignity fell from him with the pause. His manner underwent a subtle change from the judicial to the paternal. When he resumed, he wagged his head tolerantly, and a modicum of sorrow mingled with his anger. “Ah, Messer Grio! Messer Grio!” he said, “it is you, is it? For shame! For shame! This is sad, this is lamentable! Some indulgence, it is true” — he coughed— “may be due after late events, and to certain who have borne part in them. But this goes too far! Too far by a long way!”

  “It was not I began it!” the bully muttered sullenly, a mixture of bravado and apology in his bearing. He sheathed his blade, and thrust the long scabbard behind him. “He threw a glass of wine in my face, Syndic — that is the truth. Is an old soldier who has shed blood for Geneva to swallow that, and give God thanks?”

  The Syndic turned to the student, and licked his lips, his features more pinched than usual. “Are these your manners?” he said. “If so, they are not the manners of Geneva! Your name, young man, and your dwelling place?”

  “My name is Claude Mercier, last from Chatillon in Burgundy,” the young man answered firmly. “For the rest, I did no otherwise than you, sir, must have done in my case!”

  The magistrate snorted. “I!”

  “Being treated as I was!” the young man protested. “He would have me drink whether I would or no! And in terms no man of honour could bear.”

  “Honour?” the Syndic retorted, and on the word exploded in great wrath. “Honour, say you? Then I know who is in fault. When men of your race talk of honour ’tis easy to saddle the horse. I will teach you that we know naught of honour in Geneva, but only of service! And naught of punctilios but much of modest behaviour! It is such hot blood as yours that is at the root of brawlings and disorders and such-like, to the scandal of the community: and to cool it I will commit you to the town jail until to-morrow! Convey him thither,” he continued, turning sharply to his followers, “and see him safely bestowed in the stocks. To-morrow I will hear if he be penitent, and perhaps, if he be in a cooler temper — —”

  But the young man, aghast at this sudden disgrace, could be silent no longer. “But, sir,” he broke in passionately, “I had no choice. It was no quarrel of my beginning. I did but refuse to drink, and when he — —”

  “Silence, sirrah!” the Syndic cried, and cut him short. “You will do well to be quiet!” And he was turning to bid his people bear their prisoner out without more ado when one of the merchants ventured to put in a word.

  “May I say,” he interposed timidly, “that until this happened, Messer Blondel, the young man’s conduct was all that could be desired?”

  “Are you of his company?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Then best keep out of it!” the magistrate retorted sharply.

  “And you,” to his followers, “did you hear me? Away with him!”

  But as the men advanced to execute the order, the young man stepped forward. “One moment!” he said. “A moment only, sir. I caught the name of Blondel. Am I speaking to Messer Philibert Blondel?”

  The Syndic nodded ungraciously. “Yes,” he said, “I am he. What of it?”

  “Only this, that I have a letter for him,” the student answered, groping with trembling fingers in his pouch. “From my uncle, the Sieur de Beauvais of Nocle, by Dijon.”

  “The Sieur de Beauvais?”

  “Yes.”

  “He is your uncle?”

  “Yes.”

  “So! Well, I remember now,” Blondel continued, nodding. “His name was Mercier. Certainly, it was. Well, give me the letter.” His tone was still harsh, but it was not the same; and when he had broken the seal and read the letter — with a look half contemptuous, half uneasy — his brow cleared a little. “It were well young people knew better what became them,” he cried, peevishly shrugging his shoulders. “It would save us all a great deal. However, for this time as y
ou are a stranger and well credited, I find, you may go. But let it be a lesson to you, do you hear? Let it be a lesson to you, young man. Geneva,” pompously, “is no place for brawling, and if you come hither for that, you will quickly find yourself behind bars. See that you go to a fit lodging to-morrow, and do you, Mr. Landlord, have a care that he leaves you.”

  The young man’s heart was full, but he had the wisdom to keep his temper and to say no more. The Syndic on his part was glad, on second thoughts, to be free of the matter. He was turning to go when it seemed to strike him that he owed something more to the bearer of the letter. He turned back. “Yes,” he said, “I had forgotten. This week I am busy. But next week, on some convenient day, come to me, young sir, and I may be able to give you a word of advice. In the forenoon will be best. Until then — see to your behaviour!”

  The young man bowed and waited, standing where he was, until the bustle attending the Syndic’s departure had quite died away. Then he turned. “Now, Messer Grio,” he said briskly, “for my part I am ready.”

  But Messer Grio had slipped away some minutes before.

  CHAPTER II.

  THE HOUSE ON THE RAMPARTS.

  The affair at the inn which had threatened to turn out so unpleasantly for our hero, should have gone some way towards destroying the illusions with which he had entered Geneva. But faith is strong in the young, and hope stronger. The traditions of his boyhood and his fireside, and the stories, animate with affection for the cradle of the faith, to which he had listened at his father’s knee, were not to be over-ridden by the shadow of an injustice, which in the end had not fallen. When the young man went abroad next morning and viewed the tall towers of St. Peter, of which his father had spoken — when, from those walls which had defied through so many months the daily and nightly threats of an ever-present enemy, he looked on the sites of conflicts still famous and on farmsteads but half risen from their ruins — when, above all, he remembered for what those walls stood, and that here, on the borders of the blue lake, and within sight of the glittering peaks which charmed his eyes — if in any one place in Europe — the battle of knowledge and freedom had been fought, and the rule of the monk and the Inquisitor cast down, his old enthusiasm revived. He thirsted for fresh conflicts, for new occasions: and it is to be feared dreamt more of the Sword than of the sacred Book, which he had come to study, and which, in Geneva, went hand in hand with it.