Ken Follett - A Column of Fire

‘No, that’s the marchioness, Louise.’

‘She’s young.’

‘Twenty. She’s his second wife.’

The Mauriac family were there, Luc and Jeanne and their son, Georges, Sylvie’s admirer. Sylvie noticed Georges staring at Pierre with surprise and envy. She saw by his face that he knew he could not compete with Pierre. She permitted herself a sinful moment of pride. Pierre was so much more desirable than Georges.

They began by singing a psalm. Pierre whispered: ‘No choir?’

‘We are the choir.’ Sylvie loved being able to sing hymns in French at the top of her voice. It was one of the joys of being a follower of the true gospel. In normal churches she felt like a spectator at a performance, but here she was a participant.

Pierre said: ‘You have a beautiful voice.’

It was true, she knew; in fact, it was so good that she was frequently in danger of the sin of pride on that account.

Prayers and Bible readings followed, all in French; then communion. Here the bread and wine were not actually flesh and blood, just symbols, which seemed so much more sensible. Finally, Guillaume preached a fiery sermon about the wickedness of Pope Paul IV. Eighty-one years old, Paul was an intolerant conservative who had beefed up the Inquisition and forced Jews in Rome to wear yellow hats. He was hated by Catholics as well as Protestants.

When the service was over, the chairs were moved into a rough circle, and a different kind of meeting began. ‘This part is called fellowship,’ Sylvie explained to Pierre. ‘We exchange news and discuss all sorts of things. Women are allowed to speak.’

It began with Guillaume making an announcement that surprised Sylvie and everyone else: he was leaving Paris.

He was pleased, he said, that he had been able to help Pastor Bernard and the elders to restructure the congregation along the lines laid down by John Calvin in Geneva. The remarkable spread of Protestantism in France in the last few years was in part due to tight organization and discipline in Calvinist communities such as this one in the Paris suburb of St Jacques. Guillaume was especially thrilled that they had had the confidence to discuss holding the first national Protestant synod the following year.

But he had an itinerant mission, and other congregations needed him. He would be gone by next Sunday.

They had not expected him to stay for ever, but this was abrupt. He had not talked about his departure at all until now. Sylvie could not help thinking that the reason for his sudden decision might be her engagement. She told herself she was veering dangerously close to vanity, and she said a quick prayer for more humility.

Luc Mauriac introduced a note of conflict. ‘I’m sorry you’re leaving us so soon, Guillaume, because there is an important matter that we haven’t yet discussed: the question of heresy within our movement.’ Luc had the chin-up pugnaciousness of many small men, but in fact he was an advocate of tolerance. He went on: ‘Many of us in this congregation were shocked when Calvin ordered that Michel Servet should be burned at the stake.’

Sylvie knew what he was talking about, as did everyone else in the room. Servet was a Protestant intellectual who had clashed with Calvin over the doctrine of the Trinity. He had been executed in Geneva, to the dismay of Protestants such as Luc Mauriac, who had believed it was only Catholics who would kill those who disagreed with them.

Guillaume said impatiently: ‘That happened five years ago.’

‘But the question remains unresolved.’

Sylvie nodded vigorously. She felt passionately about this. Protestants demanded tolerance from kings and bishops who disagreed with them: how could they then persecute others? Yet there were many who wanted to be as harsh as the Catholics, or worse.

Guillaume waved a dismissive hand. ‘There must be discipline within our movement.’ He clearly did not want to have this argument.

His glib tone infuriated Sylvie, and she said loudly: ‘But we should not kill one another.’ She did not normally say anything during fellowship. Although women could speak, youngsters were not encouraged to voice their opinions. But Sylvie was almost a married woman now and, anyway, she could not remain silent while this issue was the topic. She went on: ‘When Servet fought with reason and writing, he should have been repulsed by reason and writing — not violence!’

Luc Mauriac nodded enthusiastic agreement, pleased to be supported so energetically; though some of the older women looked disapproving.

Guillaume said disdainfully: ‘Those words are not yours: you’re quoting Castellio — another heretic.’

He was right: Sylvie was repeating a sentence from Sebastian Castellio’s pamphlet Should Heretics be Persecuted? , but she had other resources. She read the books her father printed, and she knew as much as Guillaume about the works of Protestant theologians. ‘I’ll quote Calvin, if you like,’ she said. ‘Calvin wrote: “It is unchristian to use arms against those who have been expelled from the Church.” Of course, that was when he himself was being persecuted as a heretic.’

She saw several people frown censoriously, and she realized she had gone a little too far, in implying hypocrisy on the part of the great John Calvin.

Guillaume said: ‘You’re too young to understand.’

‘Too young?’ Sylvie was outraged. ‘You never said I was too young to risk my life selling copies of the books you bring from Geneva!’

Several people began speaking at once, and Pastor Bernard stood up to appeal for calm. ‘We’re not going to resolve this issue in one afternoon,’ he said. ‘Let us ask Guillaume to communicate our concerns to John Calvin when he returns to Geneva.’

Luc Mauriac was dissatisfied with that, and said: ‘But will Calvin answer us?’

‘Of course he will,’ Bernard said, without giving any reason why he felt so confident. ‘And now let us close our fellowship with a final prayer.’ He shut his eyes, tilted his face up to heaven, and began to pray extempore.

In the quietness, Sylvie calmed down. She remembered how much she had looked forward to introducing Pierre to everyone, and hearing herself say the words: my fiancé .

After the final amen, the congregation began to talk among themselves. Sylvie led Pierre around the room. She was bursting with pride to have such an attractive man, and she tried hard not to look overly pleased with herself, but it was difficult: she was too happy.

Pierre was as engaging as ever. He spoke respectfully to the men, flirted harmlessly with the older women, and charmed the girls. He paid close attention to Sylvie’s introductions, concentrating on remembering all the names, and taking a polite interest in the details of where they lived and what work they did. The Protestants were always pleased by a new convert, and they made him feel welcome.

Things went wrong only when Sylvie introduced Pierre to Louise, the marchioness of Nîmes. She was the daughter of a prosperous wine merchant in Champagne. She was attractive, with a big bust, which was probably what had caught the attention of the middle-aged marquess. She was a tense girl, and had a haughty manner that she had adopted, Sylvie guessed, because she was not an aristocrat by birth, and felt unsure in her role as marchioness. But she could be witheringly sarcastic if crossed.

Pierre made the mistake of amiably treating her as a compatriot. ‘I’m from Champagne too,’ he said; then, with a smile, he added: ‘We’re country bumpkins in the city, you and I.’

He did not mean it, of course. There was nothing unsophisticated about him or Louise. His remark was a facetious pleasantry. But he had chosen the wrong subject for a joke. He could hardly have known it, but Sylvie understood that Louise’s greatest fear was that she would strike people as a country bumpkin.