CHAPTER VII.

The autumn had come, the snow already whitened the Alpine passes; soon the glittering mantle would lie thick on all the hills, and the whirling winds would form deep drifts, and the avalanches come thundering down, and the passage of the Alps would be dangerous exceedingly.

But the order came, imperious, unevadable--the Vaudois were to go.

They would rather trust themselves to their own mountains, to the ice and snow, than stay in those fated prisons; but disease had enfeebled them, imprisonment and bad air had poisoned those whom death had spared. It was a woeful company that set out upon that long and dangerous road.

One of their own historians[A] writes thus of that terrible journey:--

[A] Monastier. Translated from the French.

‘The Vaudois travelled in companies, escorted by the soldiers of the duke. They had been promised clothing, but only a small number of jackets and socks were served out to them. It was five o’clock

in the afternoon, at Christmas-tide, when their liberation was announced, with the addition that if they did not set out forthwith it would be out of their power to leave at all, for the order was to be revoked next day. Fearful of losing the chance of liberty, these unfortunate persons, wasted by sickness, set out on their march that very night. There were old men amongst them, worn down by sufferings as well as by years, besides women and children of the tenderest age. That night they marched three or four leagues through the snow, in the most intense frost.’

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This first march cost the lives of a hundred and fifty of them. Was it wonderful that these died?

A few days later on at Novalèse, at the foot of Mount Cenis, a troop of the prisoners noticed that a storm was rising on the mountain; they knew well what mountain snow-storms were, and they begged the officer who was in charge to let them stay at Novalèse for a while, out of pity for the weak that were to be found in their ranks. If their request caused delay, they said, they would not ask for food; there was less danger in going without food than in travelling in the face of the storm. The officer refused. The company was forced to proceed on its march, and eighty-six sank in the drifted snow; they were the aged, the worn out, women, and some little children. The bands that followed days after saw the bodies lying frozen on the snow, the mothers still pressing their children in their arms.

Henri Botta would never have survived that journey of toil and horror, had his son Gaspard’s arm been less strong and his heart less brave.

Gaspard devoted himself to his father with the whole force of his silent nature; it seemed as though his love for Rénée, pent up and baffled as it was, sought an outlet in this older, less selfish love, and touched it with an enthusiasm which was glorious to behold.

No fatigue seemed to weary the young elastic frame, no privation had power to damp the calm courage which was always ready to cheer and brighten the dark hours of trial.

He had made friends with one of the guards, a soldier whose people he had known in Turin, and from him he managed to get now and then an extra bit of bread, a blanket, and some handfuls of roasted chestnuts--poor and pitiful provision for such a weary way, but to Henri Botta it made, perhaps, the difference between life and death.

Down the steep hill-passes the Vaudois came, troops of gaunt and toil-worn men, large-eyed, weary women, and children who had already learnt the lesson, so strange for childhood--to suffer and be silent. Down on the shores of the Geneva lake, where the winter sun was shining on the ripples until they flashed again like liquid diamonds. Along the ancient roads where many an army had passed before them, but never one so disconsolate and poor; and up to the gates of the town, whence the citizens came hurrying with eager welcome.

They were generous in their kindness, these people of Geneva. Not only welcoming words, but help, food, rest, comfort were freely given to the outcast children of the Alps. Company after company came winding down the mountain sides, but instead of being frightened at such claims upon their charity, the Swiss contended among themselves for the honour of aiding these, their persecuted brethren.

Once more we translate from the Vaudois historian, for the simple statement is more eloquent than modern words can be:--

‘Two thousand six hundred Vaudois were received within the walls of Geneva, the feeble remnant of a population of from fourteen to sixteen thousand. Moreover, they were either sick or worn out with fatigue and anxiety, and but ill protected from the rigours of winter by the old garments they had worn in prison. Some there were whose lives ended the very moment their liberty began; these expired between the two gates of the city, too weak to bear the strange sense of joy. But in proportion as the wounds to be dressed were deep, the loving-kindness of the Genevese rose high. They contended with one another who should take home the most destitute; if the invalids and sufferers had any difficulty in walking, men carried them in their arms into their houses. The heavy charge to the state and the people was cheerfully accepted. From the time they had heard of the cruelty of Louis XIV., and of the edicts of the Duke of Savoy, the Swiss had been preparing to offer aid; and when they knew that the Vaudois were to be exiled, and coming to Switzerland, these preparations were redoubled. Five thousand ells of linen were made into garments, and an equal quantity of the woollen stuffs of Oberland. Hundreds of pairs of shoes were laid up in depots. The different cantons distributed the refugees amongst them in a fixed proportion, and the liberality and compassion knew no bounds.’

There was a letter written in July, 1688, signed in the name of the Vaudois by Daniel Forneron and Jean Jalla, a letter yet existing in the archives of Berne. ‘We have no language strong enough,’ it runs, ‘to express our gratitude for your favours; our hearts, penetrated with all your acts of kindness, will publish in distant parts the unbounded charity with which you have refreshed us and supplied all our need. We shall take care to inform our children and our children’s children, that all our posterity may know, that, next to God, whose tender mercies have preserved us from being entirely consumed, we are indebted to you alone for life and liberty.’

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In Geneva, in the early days of 1688, there were aching hearts as well as those that were joyous and thankful. It was delightful to be at rest, to see the sun rise and set, to feel the pure air, and to wander free beneath God’s sky. It was strangely sweet to meet together in the churches to sing the praises of the God who had helped and delivered, to hear His Word read in the tongue the people could understand, and know that at last they might worship Him without fear or hindrance.

But the pain that mingled with the gladness was very sharp.

Husbands searched through each arriving company for the wives they had been parted from in the days of the fighting in the valleys. Mothers sought for their sons with hopes that grew fainter with each day that brought refugees, indeed, but not the familiar faces they longed to see. Parents sorrowed for their little ones who had been torn from them and handed over to the Romish convents and schools--the children would grow up to despise them and their religion, and in the coming time, these, who were flesh of their flesh, would be ranked with their enemies.

And how many lay dead, away there beyond the white peaks rising like a giant’s rampart against the eastern sky! Dead, in the nameless prison-graves or beneath the winding-sheet of the Alpine snows.