One beautiful June morning Pierre Cavier had a rare opportunity. He had expected he’d have to go to the vineyard again to tie up the vines. It was the time of the year for doing that, and he had been helping his father for days already. Dad said that this was just the job for Pierre. With his thin, nimble twelve-year-old fingers, he could hold the vines much better than his father, Jean, whose fingers had become stiff from years of hard work.
Jean Cavier was a winegrower. He lived in St. Victor, a suburb of Paris, and with his vineyard he earned a good living for his wife and children. Pierre was the oldest child, followed by a girl and then two more boys. But instead of going to tie vines on this pleasant summer morning, Pierre was going to Paris with his father. It was not a long trip, but for Pierre it was a big outing. He had been to that large city only a few times, and he was very eager to go there again. Paris, with its huge houses, churches, stores, and also those lovely bridges over the river Seine, was such a beautiful city. Yes, it was a special opportunity.
After breakfast father and son left on their trip. Mother Madeleine stood in the doorway and called to them, “Be careful, Pierre, and stay with your father.” He answered her with a wave of his arm.
Jean Cavier was on his way to see a wine merchant who purchased a large quantity of wine from him each year. It was his habit to visit his customers early in the summer already to take their orders. “We have to have our affairs in order,” he always said. “That is what the Holy Scriptures clearly tell us.” Two years before (in 1523), the French translation of the New Testament had come out. That was the work of Mr. Le Fèvre. Jean Cavier had saved and saved until he was able to purchase one, and now he read to his family out of it every day.
When they reached Paris, the fun finally began for Pierre. There was so much to see, and he kept asking his father all kinds of questions. When they came to the Notre Dame Cathedral, Jean had to stop, whether he wanted to or not, because Pierre wanted to take a good look at the magnificent church.
Things went extremely well with the wine merchant. The men sat and talked for a long time about the condition of the grapes, and then they made calculations regarding the prices. Pierre didn’t understand much of it, but the result was that Jean left with a good order. Things were going well—a few more orders and the whole harvest would be sold.
“Come on, Pierre, it’s time to go,” said Jean, and they cheerfully began their journey homeward. “Don’t forget that we have to stop by Milon, who lives on Rue St. Honoré, and pick up my boots. He has had two weeks already to repair them. We might as well pick them up today since we are in the city anyway. He should be finished with them by now.”
Suddenly Jean Cavier stood still.
“The bells are beginning to chime,” Pierre said.
“Those are the bells of Notre Dame. We are very close to them.”
“Aren’t they beautiful, Father? Don’t you think so?”
“Yes, certainly, they are very nice,” the winegrower answered, “but I am afraid that the reason they are pealing is not so nice. Wait a minute while I go find out.” He walked a little further and entered a nearby store. A few moments later he returned with a somber look on his face.
Meanwhile the boy had waited under the awning. “Pierre,” he said, “I will show you how to get to Rue St. Honoré, and then you go to Milon. I will pick you up later. Bartho will probably play a song for you on his violin. He is very good.” Pierre was not happy that he was going to be separated from his father so suddenly. “What is going on, Father?” he asked.
“I have to go to the Notre Dame Square for a moment, Pierre. I will be at Milon’s in half an hour. Ask him if my boots are finished. They probably aren’t yet, so he’ll have time to repair them before I get there.”
Pierre didn’t ask any more questions. He realized that his father was not going to tell him why he had to go to Notre Dame Square, but he could tell that it was something serious. That could be clearly seen on his father’s face.
“Look, Pierre, you go down this street, turn left, and then you take the second street on your right. That is Rue St. Honoré. Do you think that you can find Milon? There is a boot hanging next to the door.”
“Yes, Father, I know where it is.” The boy quickly started in the direction that his father had pointed out to him.
Jean Cavier soon arrived at Notre Dame Square. It was crowded with people already, and still the cathedral bells kept ringing.
“Make room!” someone called suddenly.
The crowd moved out of the way.
A division of soldiers appeared, and in front of them walked Jean Guibert, the hermit of Livry, with his hands shackled.
“There is the heretic! Look, here they come! Oh, my, they have stripped him down to his underwear,” someone called.
Jean Guibert looked pale and malnourished. For months he had sat in the dungeon, and his trial had lasted all that time. Still, his eyes spoke of determination and courage. Calmly he walked to the stake which had been prepared in front of the church. Before long he stood at the stake, tightly bound to the pole.
“There stands the heretic,” a rough blacksmith standing in front of Jean Cavier said to his neighbor. “They finally caught up with him.”
“What kind of a man is he?” Jean heard someone ask.
“A hermit who lived in the Livry forest,” was the reply. “The devout man went around to the different villages to collect alms, but that was not the real problem. He handed out heretical literature, and when he had the chance, he gave heretical speeches.”
A drum began beating. Suddenly everything was silent.
A monk climbed up on a platform and informed the gathered people that a dangerous heretic would be burned that day to the glory of God and to the welfare of the church. As punishment he would be given over to suffer in hell. In spite of all the accusations that were thrown at him, John Guibert remained calm and resigned. At times a smile could be seen on his face. When the monk was finished speaking, the wood under the stake was lit, and soon the flames curled upwards around him.
“Isn’t that dreadful?” asked a young man standing next to Jean Cavier. “A terrible scene. Why did that man go against the rules of the church?”
The winegrower looked at the speaker. He was a tall, skinny young man with a pale face, but clear, piercing brown eyes.
“He is already the second child of God whose life has been taken this way, young man,” the winegrower said gravely.
“The second heretic, you mean? Who was the first one?”
“The first one was Jacques Pauvin. He was burned at the stake a few months ago at the Place de Gréve. Didn’t you know that?”
“No,” the young man said, “I hadn’t heard of it. I have been too busy with my studies. But today I just happened to come this way and so am a spectator of this terrible scene.”
“You are not from Paris. I can hear that!”
“How is that?”
“Well, I can hear it in your speech. Tell me; aren’t you from Picardië, young man?”
“You have guessed correctly. I was born in Noyon, and now I am studying here.”
“May I ask your name?” asked the winegrower.
“Why, certainly, but the name won’t mean much. My name is John Calvin.”
“Well, no, I’ve never heard of it before. But at any rate, my young friend, you spoke of a heretic. I will tell you that the hermit of Livry was not a heretic but an upright Christian, and I thank God that He has given him the courage to withstand the flames of fire.” They walked a little way together, the winegrower and the young student, but then they stopped because Calvin had to go a different direction from Jean Cavier.
“Do you know the New Testament of Le Fèvre, young man?” the winegrower asked.
“I have a copy.”
“Well, then, read it often. Then you will come to realize that the hermit was not a heretic and that our king, Frances I, has no right to burn his subjects because they worship God in a different manner from His Majesty. Now I will say goodbye. Farewell.”
The pale young man stared after the winegrower for a few moments, shaking his head. “That man is bold,” he said under his breath. Then he continued on his way.
~Excerpt from The Frenchman from Geneva, by P. deZeeuw