by Gale Sears
Madeleine cut slices of bread and cheese, and wrapped them in a piece of cloth. “Of course you must have some bread. We want to make sure you have strength enough to work. Snow will be here soon and we must have wood to keep us warm until we move down to the valley for the winter months. A lot of wood. A huge pile of wood.”
This comment came just as the last piece of wood made its way onto the stack. “Now who’s the taskmaster?” he grumbled.
Madeleine held out the packet to him. “Man does not live by bread alone.”
Philippe gave his wife a serious look. “Mother, you must teach our little daughter not to be so bossy. If she keeps on in this manner, no young man will want to court her.”
“Ah, there is only a small problem with that, my dear Philippe.”
“And what is that?”
“Haven’t you noticed that she is no longer our little daughter? Womanhood has a hand on her shoulder.”
Madeleine felt a rush of color in her cheeks as her father took the package of bread and smiled at her.
Later that day, when her chores were finished and she was making her way down the winding trail to her friend’s home, Madeleine pondered the images of her dream. It was frustrating that while the images were clear, their meaning was not, and reflect as she might she could not grasp their full significance.
“Oh, stop being so serious,” she chided herself. “And no matter what Mother says, you’re only fourteen and you are far too serious for a young girl.” Her inattention to the path caused her to stumble, nearly sending her into a thicket of gorse bushes. She righted herself. “See there! Keep your mind on the here and now.” Keep your mind on the here and now. They were her mother’s words, but in this instance, she didn’t mind the counsel.
Madeleine adjusted her knapsack, deciding to pay attention to the footpath and the enchanting late summer afternoon. She would set aside the dream for another time—a time when the snow lay thick on the ground and the icy wind came howling down the mountain passes. Now a delightful breeze tousled her hair and the stream sang a playful song that captured her girlish fantasies. Swinging her arms broadly to encourage her nonchalance, she continued the journey to her friend’s house.
Notes
As a grown woman, Marie Madeline (Madeleine) Cardon Guild would include the dream of the evangelists in what she referred to as a brief sketch of her life. At the end of the telling she writes, “Now my dear children, I cannot doubt the faith and the principles which I have embraced; my whole soul is filled with joy and thankfulness to God for His regard for me and for you in thus manifesting to me the divinity of His great work in so remarkable a manner. How sincere is my prayer that you my children may realize how wonderful and yet how real and true is this, my life’s testimony to you.”
The Barba were itinerant Waldensian preachers, normally traveling in pairs. The word affectionately means “uncle.” At Pra del Torno, in the Angrogna Valley, there are extant buildings known as “The School of the Barba.”
The Waldensian faith was founded on the word of God, and they were the first people of Europe to obtain a translation of the holy scriptures. Hundreds of years before the Reformation, they possessed the Bible in their native tongue—French.
Chapter Four
Torre Pellice
May 1849
The three old friends sat on their favorite wooden bench, their backs and heads resting against the courtyard wall, eyes closed, faces tilted up towards the May sun. The priests who passed them on the garden path moderated their footfalls so as not to disturb the resting trio.
Andrew was with his uncle Jacques, wandering the halls of the Bibliothèque du Roi. He was eighteen again and he felt the power of his young body and the alertness of his mind. He saw the rows of books that rose above his head like the embellishments on the great Cathédrale de Notre Dame; he was breathing in the wondrous smell of parchment and leather, absently running his fingers over the spines of the books. Then came his uncle’s voice.
“Lucien! Lucien Anton, pay attention! I am sorry, monsieur. I am afraid he is lost when he is among books.”
“Much like myself.”
He turned and saw his uncle conversing with a tall man—a man in foreign dress, but speaking French as though his tongue had known it from birth. Lucien liked the look of him. He went to stand beside his uncle, looking directly into the face of the unknown gentleman.
“Monsieur Jefferson, may I present my nephew Lucien Anton Guy. Lucien, this is Monsieur Jefferson. Monsieur Thomas Jefferson, the statesman from the Americas. Do you know who—”
“Of course! Of course I know you!” Lucien said, putting out his hand. “I have read your declaration.” He felt again his emotion as Monsieur Jefferson took his hand. He thought of this very hand holding the quill and penning inspired words that would change the world. His throat constricted. “I . . . I am honored, sir.”
“So, you have read our Declaration of Independence?”
As Lucien stood mute, his uncle nodded. “Oh indeed, sir, Lucien read the entire declaration when he was ten. It had been translated into French, of course.”
“Translated for all the world to read,” Lucien said with reverence.
A bleating of sheep and Andrew jerked awake, blinking several times to focus his eyes.
“We are three old badgers lying in the sun,” Jean Cardon said, laughing.
Andrew turned his head to see his friend rubbing his face into wakefulness.
“Sorry, old fathers!” the young shepherd called. He tapped the sheep into order on the narrow path.
Andrew understood the young man’s diligence in keeping the sheep in line. Indeed, it would be a bad business if the noisy sheep trampled the tender plants of the monastery garden.
“I see you have the spring shearing done already,” the third companion, John Malan, called out to the boy.
“Yes, sir, I am taking them into the mountains. Up into the beautiful Angrogna Valley.”
Andrew glared at the wooden collars hanging around the neck of every sheep, each fixed with a clattering, gonging bell. “Well, hurry them along before you bring the dead from their graves.”
Jean Cardon laughed loudly. “Someone does not wake up well.”
Father Andrew sat forward, grumbling. “I was just having a nice dream.”
“So was I,” John Malan concurred. “I was shaking the hand of King Carlo Alberto. Thanking him for the freedoms to the Waldenese.”
“And I was shaking the hand of Thomas Jefferson at the Bibliothèque du Roi,” Andrew said.
Jean Cardon wagged his head. “Well, well, well. You two are among the high and mighty, aren’t you?”
Andrew grunted. “Except mine is a remembrance, whereas his is purely a dream.”
John laughed good-naturedly. “Yes, and when did that meeting of yours take place? A hundred years ago?”
“1785. When I was eighteen, in Paris with my uncle. Monsieur Jefferson was in France as a trade representative from the new country.”
“And what? You just happened to bump into him at the bibliothèque?” Jean questioned.
John Malan spoke up. “It is not so impossible to imagine. Jefferson was a man of learning. Perhaps he liked to spend his time among books.”
Andrew grunted. “Thank you, my friend.”
Jean thumped Andrew on the shoulder. “Perhaps. Perhaps. But that was a long time ago. It is a wonder, old friend, that the memory has not slid from your brain.”
“Oh, I remember the past things well. It is where I have left my spectacles now—that is my frustration.”
The other two nodded their heads in agreement.
Quiet descended, and the three sat contentedly, surveying the landscape and listening to birdsong.
“Ah, it’s nice to sit in the sun after the terrible winter,” Jean Cardon said.
J
ohn Malan raised his fist in the air. “Bah! Bah to the winter of 1848, I say! I am glad it is 1849 and the spring has come again.”
Father Andrew laughed at his friend, but had to agree. The winter had been long and bitter cold. He did not know how any of the Waldenese living in the high valleys had managed to survive. He decided to change the subject. “I was sorry to hear of the death of John Combe,” he said in a sympathetic tone that brought them back to quietude. “He was your daughter-in-law’s father, isn’t that right, John?”
John Malan’s head bobbed several times. “Yes. Yes. My daughter-in-law’s father. But he went peacefully with prayers and the reading of the Bible.”
“And tell Father Andrew about his prophecy,” Jean Cardon said candidly, as though such things were to be expected.
“Prophecy?” Andrew questioned.
“Not long before he died, the man called his granddaughter Marie Catherine to his side. There were many of us holding vigil with him, but he must have seen the girl because she was standing near, or perhaps it was because—”
Jean cut across him. “Do not wander, my friend. Stick to the point.”
“Oh! Sorry. Sorry,” John said without offense. “You are right, his words are the meaningful thing. So, anyway, he called to her. He told her that she must heed his words and remember them. He said that the old may not, but the young and rising generation would see the day when the gospel would be restored in its purity and powers.” The storyteller’s eyes grew misty. “Then he patted his granddaughter’s hand and said, ‘In that day, remember me. Remember me.’ It was not long after that he died.”
Father Andrew sat pondering for several moments. “In that day, remember me,” he quoted back. “What did he mean by that?”
“I don’t know,” John answered. “But he seemed clear of mind at the time, and very insistent.”
“The gospel restored in its purity and powers?” Father Andrew grinned at his companions. “Do we not believe that we are already the stewards of the gospel? You from the tendrils of the primitive church, us from Peter?”
Jean Cardon pointed his finger at Andrew. “Ah, you are not going to get us into a religious discussion today, old friend. The grass is too green and the breeze is too pleasant.”
Andrew winked and sat back against the warm wall. He sighed contentedly. “So, another spring has come.”
“Yes, and my son Philippe will begin to fix the slate roofs damaged by the snow,” Jean Cardon said.
John Malan yawned. “And my son John will go back into the mountains to run the cows and start up the dairy.”
“It is good your families can come down out of the high valleys when the merciless winter comes,” Father Andrew said.
“Oh, yes. Yes, indeed,” Jean Cardon said.
“My heart aches for those who are too poor to come down,” John Malan said, shaking his head. He glanced up to the high mountain peaks still covered in snow. “I am just grateful that my son John and his family can be here with me in the winter.”
Father Andrew leaned forward, looking around Jean Cardon to his other friend. “You are not very imaginative when it comes to picking names, are you?”
“What do you mean by that?”
“You are John Malan, your son is John Malan, your grandson is John Malan, and your father is John Malan.”
“If it is a good name, why change it?” John answered with a shrug.
Father Andrew laughed. “If it’s a good name, why change it!” he said, sputtering. He sobered abruptly when he noticed Father Pious coming into the garden.
The priest in his shiny black cassock passed by the three men. He carried a Bible and a look of contempt for the men of the mountains.
Jean Cardon waved at him. “He therefore that despiseth, despiseth not man, but God, who hath also given unto us his Holy Spirit.”
The priest lifted his chin and moved quickly around the corner of the garden wall, while Father Andrew stifled a laugh.
Jean raised his eyebrows. “First Thessalonians 4:8. What? He thinks we don’t study the word of God?”
Father Andrew laughed outright. “Father Pious is new to the monastery from Verona. I am sure he has no idea of the learning of the Waldensian people.”
“From a young age it is school and Bible reading,” John Malan interjected. “School, school, school! Learning, learning, learning. I am sure the ‘critical one’ has no idea that the shepherd boy who passed earlier can quote entire passages from the holy word. Entire passages! It is our lifeblood.”
Jean Cardon nodded. “And my granddaughter Madeleine speaks beautiful French and Italian, as well as the dialects of the mountain people.”
Father Andrew noted that he said it simply and without presumption. “I know your granddaughter,” he said. “She is friends with my Albertina.”
“Ah yes, the two little songbirds,” Jean answered. He pulled his hat forward to block some of the late afternoon sun. “Madeleine says that Albertina is very respectful of our people.”
Father Andrew smiled. “My nephew Rene has taught his son and daughter the lesson of respect for others.”
John Malan snorted. “Are you sure his little boy Joseph is learning? What? He is only three or four?”
Father Andrew gave his friend a reproachful look. “Joseph is very bright for his age. Very bright. Besides, it is never too early to teach good lessons.”
“Indeed,” Jean stated. “And I am sure Rene received some of that schooling from you, my friend. You have seen much in your life.”
Andrew was silent. He closed his eyes and passed through events in his life that had blessed him with temperance of judgment. As a young man, he had been vain and arrogant. At twenty his blood had boiled with the fever of France’s revolution, and he’d mingled with the writers who stirred up thought and discontent. During those years of terror and anarchy, he had known Jean-Paul Marat and Georges Jacques Danton. Indeed, had he not been in the square when King Louis XVI was introduced to the guillotine? Did he not hear the colossal and coarse Danton yell out, “The kings of Europe would dare challenge us? We throw them the head of a king!” Andrew’s conscience berated. Arrogance. A few years later, Danton would lose his own head to the sharp blade. To the compassionless crowd he yelled bitter words against Robespierre and the chaos that would ensue without his—Danton’s—masterful presence. But the final words of the man that most often came to Andrew’s memory were not the words of pomp and power, but words of regret. “Ah, better to be a poor fisherman than to meddle with the government of men.”
Danton had gone back to his faith, his thoughts not on the crowd, or honor, or glory, but on Peter, the Lord’s fisherman. A small but powerful lesson was on display that day, but it was a lesson that twenty-five-year-old Lucien Anton Guy did not learn. He had turned from the macabre spectacle of the chopping block to pursue the temptations of the world. He had flaunted his brilliance, and, for a time, his brilliance served him well. He craved the accolades of accomplishment and the praise of men. Women found him attractive, and princes paid him handsomely for his writing and translating skills. He ate, and drank, and gambled to excess. His path was in the wilderness, and slowly his soul began to wither in the cruel sun of sophistry. It was here the Lord found him. Broken and miserable, Lucien Anton Guy had climbed the steps to the Cathédrale Saint-Jean-Baptiste de Lyon. The glow of the stained-glass window bathed him in rose-colored light as he prostrated himself in the Chapel of the Cross and poured out his sin and sorrow to God. And God heard him. He gave Lucien a new life and a new name—Andrew. God had also given him new eyes to discern the struggles of men, and a new heart of compassion to serve. Andrew would still use his gifts, but now the world would diminish, and the sacred cross would dictate his usefulness.
Andrew slowly opened his eyes and looked across the meadowland spreading out behind the monastery garden, the colors of a few wildflowers wi
nking from the greening grass. He squinted to make out the clump of chestnut trees at the foot of the mountain, their pale new leaves quivering in the slight breeze. New life. The words of Saint Francis floated into his mind. Dear Mother Earth, who day by day unfoldest blessings on our way. He had written out the saint’s words many times over the years. Words of beauty and peace. Words of life.
Next to him Jean Cardon was struggling to his feet. “Ah! Ah! I have been sitting too long. My legs are charlatans!”
“Be careful, old friend,” John Malan warned. “I will help you.”
“You help me? Tchet! We would fall down together.”
Father Andrew looked with fondness at his old friends as they steadied themselves and reached to secure their canes.
“Are you going in now?” Jean asked.
“Soon. I will wait for Father Nathanael to shepherd me.”
“Well, you are the oldest of us,” John Malan said, grinning. “I suppose it is only right for you to have a young one to hold you up.”
“Ha!” Andrew bellowed. “I have walked over these mountains more times than both of you put together!” His two friends laughed raucously. “Oh, off with you now! At your pace it will take you hours to get home and you will miss your supper.”
“Perhaps we will see you tomorrow,” Jean Cardon called back, as the two made their way along the path.
“Yes! We can sit on our bench and watch the grass grow,” John Malan added with a laugh.
Father Andrew shook his head, and watched them go. He thought of the wisdom of his friends, of the sheep heading for the mountain valleys, and of the faces of the two young girls, the two songbirds. But mostly in his ears he heard the resonating words of prophecy from a dying man. “The gospel will be restored in its purity and powers. In that day, remember me.”
Notes
Thomas Jefferson served as an ambassador to France from 1784 to 1789. He was a trade representative appointed by the Continental Congress to replace the aging statesman Benjamin Franklin. Thomas Jefferson was thirty-three years old when he wrote the Declaration of Independence.
