THE OPPOSING PARTIES PREPARE FOR BATTLE.
(1516-1517.)
As a new and powerful opposition was forming in Geneva, it became
necessary for the duke and the bishop to unite more closely. About
this time an incident of little importance was nearly setting them at
variance, and thus accelerating the emancipation of the city.
One day as the gouty bastard, stretched on a couch, was suffering
cruelly from his disease, he heard a noise in the street. ‘What is the
matter?’ he asked.--‘They are taking a thief to be hanged,’ replied
the old woman that tended him, who added: ‘If your Lordship would but
pardon him, he would pray for your health all the days of his life.’
The bishop, carried away by that fancy of sick people which makes them
try everything in the hope that it will cure them, said: ‘Be it so,
let them set him at liberty.’ It was the custom--a strange custom--in
Geneva for the syndics to hand over to the vidame the men they had
condemned; the vidame transferred them to the governor of Gaillard in
Savoy, and the governor to the executioner. The executioner, attended
by the governor, was about to hang the man when the bishop’s officers
brought an order to release him. ‘I am the servant of my most dread
lord the Duke of Savoy,’ said the governor, ‘and I shall discharge
the duty intrusted to me.’ It was agreed, however, that the execution
should be put off, and the bishop called his council together to
examine whether he had not the right to pardon a malefactor even when
he was already in the hands of the officer empowered to execute him.
There was among the members of the episcopal council a man of noble
character destined to take a place in the history of Geneva by the
side of Berthelier and even above him. Aimé Lévrier, judge in the
criminal court, son of a former syndic, knew no rule but the law, and
had no motive but duty. Serious, calm, full of dignity, endowed with
the wisdom of a Nestor, he was decided and energetic in carrying the
laws into execution, and as soon as his conscience spoke, he obeyed
it in his humble sphere with the impetuosity of an Achilles, if one
may compare small things with great. The turbulence of the people and
the self-will of princes found him equally unbending. He saw in this
little incident the great question between the legitimate authority of
the bishop and the usurpations of the duke. ‘The prince of Geneva,’
he said, ‘has the right to pardon a criminal, even if he is on the
territory of Savoy and at the foot of the scaffold.’ And then, wishing
to seize the opportunity of showing that the duke was servant in
Geneva and not master, he left the hall, went up to the culprit, cut
his bonds, took him by the hand, and, leading him to the bishop, said
to the poor wretch: ‘Give thanks to God and my lord;’ and after that,
boldly set him at liberty. But the bishop, who had never imagined the
existence of such power, began to tremble already.
They had not indeed long to wait for the duke’s anger. If he had
given his cousin the diocese of Geneva, it was that he might himself
acquire the supreme power; and here was the bishop seized with a fit of
independence and going so far as to contest his rights as vidame, his
functions as executioner!... He would take advantage of this strange
boldness to put the bastard in his right place, get rid of Lévrier,
destroy the remnant of liberty still to be found in the city, and
establish the ducal authority therein. The seignior of La Val d’Isère,
attended by two other commissioners, arrived at Geneva in order to
execute his Highness’s pleasure. Striding haughtily into the bishop’s
palace, he addressed the bastard rudely on the part of the angry duke.
The bishop was lavish of salutations, attentions, and respect, but all
to no purpose. La Val d’Isère, who had learnt his lesson well, raised
his voice still higher: Wretched bastard! (he said) what did he want
with pardoning a man they were going to hang? The poor prelate was
on the rack and more dead than alive; at last the ducal envoy having
finished his severe reprimand, the bishop tremblingly excused himself,
‘like our father Adam when he threw the blame on Eve,’ says Bonivard.
‘It was one Lévrier, a judge and doctor of laws, who did it,’ said
he. The seignior of La Val d’Isère gave the bishop to understand that
instead of indulging any longings for independence, he ought to unite
with the duke in combating the spirit of liberty in Geneva.
To a certain extent, however, the ducal envoy admitted the prelate’s
excuse; he knew his weakness, and saw that another will than his own
had acted in this business. He informed the duke of Lévrier’s misdeed,
and from that hour this intrepid judge became odious to the court
of Turin, and was doomed to destruction. The Savoyards said that as
he had rescued the thief from the gallows, he ought to be hanged
in his place. The duke and his ministers were convinced that every
attempt to enslave Geneva would fail, so long as it contained such
an energetic defender of the law. The evening of the day when La Val
d’Isère had reprimanded the bishop, the ducal envoy, with one of his
colleagues and the vidame, supped at the priory of St. Victor: the
ambassador was Bonivard’s cousin, and had purposely gone to visit him.
He desired to make his cousin a devoted agent of Savoy in Geneva, and
to employ him, by way of prelude, in the arrest of the recalcitrant
judge. After supper, La Val d’Isère took the prior aside, and began to
compliment him highly. ‘My dear cousin,’ said he, ‘the duke has not
in all his states a man better fitted than you to do him a service. I
know you; I observed you when you were studying beyond the mountains,
an intelligent fellow, a skilful swordsman, always ready to execute
any deed of daring if it would render your friends a service. Your
ancestors were loyal servants of the house of Savoy, and my lord
expects you will show yourself worthy of them.’ The astonished Bonivard
made no reply. Then La Val d’Isère explained to him how he could aid
the duke in his schemes against Geneva, adding that at this very moment
he might do him an important service. There was Aimé Lévrier, a
determined malcontent, a rebel like his father, whom it was necessary
to arrest.... La Val d’Isère communicated his plot to Bonivard. Aimé
Lévrier went ordinarily to pay his devotions at the church of Our
Lady of Grace, near the bridge of Arve. Bonivard would follow him,
seize him the moment he came near the church, and, holding him by the
throat, cross the bridge with him, and deliver him up to the ducal
soldiers, who would be on the other side ready to receive him. ‘This
will be an easy task for you, dear cousin,’ added the ambassador;
‘everybody knows your readiness and your prowess.’ ... La Val d’Isère
added that Bonivard would thus gain two advantages: first, he would be
revenged on the bishop whom he loved but little; and second, he would
receive a handsome reward from my lord of Savoy. It was a singular
idea to intrust this outrage to the prior of a monastery; yet it was
in accordance with the manners of the day. Bonivard’s interests and
family traditions would have induced him to serve Savoy; but he had an
enlightened understanding and an independent spirit. He belonged to
the new times. ‘Ever since I began to read history,’ he said, ‘I have
always preferred a republican to a monarchical state, and especially
to those where the throne is hereditary.’ The duke would have given
him honours and riches in abundance, whilst he received from the cause
which he embraced only poverty and a dungeon: still he never hesitated.
The love of liberty had taken possession of that distinguished man, and
he was always faithful to it: whatever may have been his weaknesses,
this is a glory which cannot be taken from him. Bonivard wished to
decline the proposal without however irritating the ambassador too
much. He pointed to his robes, his prayer-book, his monks, his priory,
and assigning these as a reason, he said: ‘Handling the sword is no
longer my business; I have changed it for the breviary.’ Upon this
La Val d’Isère in great disappointment became angry and said: ‘Well,
then, I swear I will go myself to-night and take Lévrier in his bed,
and carry him tied hand and foot into Savoy.’ Bonivard looked at him
with a smile: ‘Will you really make the attempt?’ he asked; ‘shake
hands then.’ The ambassador thinking he was won over gave him his hand.
‘Are you going to make preparation for the affair?’--‘No, cousin,’
replied Bonivard with a bow, ‘I know the people of Geneva; they are not
indulgent, I warn you, and I shall go and set aside thirty florins to
have a mass said for your soul to-morrow.’ The ambassador left him in
great anger.[92]
Bonivard perceived that Lévrier’s life was in danger. At that time
people supped early; the prior waited until nightfall, and then leaving
his monastery in disguise, he passed stealthily through the streets,
and entering the house of his friend the judge, told him everything.
Lévrier in his turn ran to Berthelier. ‘Oh, oh!’ said the latter, who
was captain of the city, ‘my lords of Savoy want to be masters here! we
will teach them it is not so easy.’
At this moment news was brought the syndics that some lansquenets
were at the Vengeron (half a league from the city on the right shore
of the lake) and preparing to enter the faubourg of St. Gervais:
it was clear that Savoy desired to carry off the judge. The syndics
ordered Berthelier to keep watch all night under arms. He assembled the
companies, and the men marched through the streets in close order with
drums beating, passing and repassing the house of the vidame, Aymon
Conseil, where the ambassadors were staying.
The seignior of La Val d’Isère, with his two colleagues the Sieur J. de
Crans and Peter Lambert, expected every moment to be attacked by these
armed men. They called to mind the mass for the dead of which Bonivard
had spoken, and altogether passed a horrible night. Towards the morning
the city grew calm, and it was scarcely light when the envoys of Savoy,
ordering their horses to be saddled, rode out by a secret door of which
the bishop had the key, and hastened to report to their master.[93]
Notwithstanding their precipitate retreat one of the objects of their
mission was attained. The deputies from Savoy did not quit Geneva
alone; the bastard was still more frightened than they; fear drove away
the gout, he left his bed, and taking with him the Count of Genevois,
the duke’s brother, he hurried over the mountains to Turin, in order
to pacify his terrible cousin. The latter was extremely irritated.
It was not enough to encroach on his rights, they also forced his
envoys to flee from Geneva. The bastard spared no means to justify
himself; he crouched at Charles’s feet. He was the most to be pitied,
he said; these Genevans frightened him day and night. ‘I will forget
everything,’ said the prince to him at last, ‘provided you assist me
in bringing these republicans to reason.’ It was what the prior of St.
Victor had foreseen. ‘Just as Herod and Pilate agreed in their dark
designs,’ he said, ‘so do the duke and the bishop agree for the ruin of
Geneva.’--‘Cousin,’ continued the duke, ‘let us understand one another:
in your fold there are certain _dogs_ that bark very loudly and defend
your sheep very stoutly; you must get rid of them.... I don’t mean
only Lévrier the son--there is Lévrier the father and Berthelier also,
against whom you must sharpen your teeth.’--‘The elder Lévrier,’
answered the bastard, ‘is a sly and cunning fox, who knows how to
keep himself out of the trap; as for Berthelier, he is hot, choleric,
and says outright what he thinks: we shall have a far better chance
of catching him; and when he is done for, it will be an easy matter
with the others.’ In this way the princes of Savoy, meeting in the
duke’s cabinet in the palace of Turin, conspired the ruin of Geneva,
and plotted the death of its best citizens. Charles the _Good_ was
the cruellest and most obstinate of the three. ‘Let us play the game
seriously,’ he repeated; ‘we must have them dead or alive.’ The duke,
the count, and the bishop arranged their parts, and then the _wolves_
(it was the name Bonivard gave them) waited a good opportunity for
falling on the _dogs_.[94]
While they were making these preparations at Turin to crush liberty,
others were preparing at Geneva to fight and to die for her. Both
parties took up arms: the contest could not fail to be severe, and the
issue important to Geneva and to society. Two friends especially did
not lose sight of the approaching struggle. Berthelier inclined to
the revival of Geneva from democratic motives; Bonivard, from a love
of learning, philosophy, and light. Seated opposite each other in the
priory of St. Victor, with the mild sparkling wine of the country on
the table, they discoursed about the new times. Bonivard possessed an
indescribable attraction for Berthelier. The young prior whose mind was
full of grace, simplicity, poetry, imagination, and also of humour,
was waking up with the sixteenth century, and casting an animated
glance upon nature and the world. His style indicates his character: he
always found the strongest, the most biting expressions, without either
the shades of delicacy or the circuitousness of subtlety. There were
however elevated parts in him: he could be enthusiastic for an idea.
A thought passing through his mind would call up high aspirations in
his soul and bring accents of eloquence to his lips. But, generally,
men displeased him. A well-bred gentleman, a keen and graceful wit,
a man of the world, he found the townspeople about him vulgar, and
did not spare them the sting of his satire. When Berthelier, in the
midst of the uproar of a tavern, shook the youths of Geneva warmly by
the hand, and enlisted them for the great campaign of independence,
Bonivard would draw back with embarrassment and put on his gloves.
‘These petty folks,’ he said with some contempt, ‘only like justice in
others; and as for the rich tradesmen, they prefer the feasts and the
money of the Savoyard nobles to the charms of independence.’ He was
inclined to suspect evil: this was one of the disagreeable features
in his character. Even Besançon Hugues was, in his eyes, nothing but
pride, hidden under the mask of a citizen. Bonivard, like Erasmus,
laughed at everybody and everything, except two: like him he was fond
of letters, and still more fond of liberty. At Geneva he was the man of
the Renaissance, as Calvin was the man of the Reformation. He overcame
his antipathies, sat down at table with the young Genevans, scattered
brilliant thoughts in their conversations, and kindled in their
understanding a light that was never to be extinguished. Frivolous
and grave, amiable and affectionate, studious and trifling, Bonivard
attacked the old society, but he did not love the new. He scourged the
enormities of the monks, but he was alarmed at the severe doctrines of
the Reformation. He desired to bury the past joyously, but he did not
know what future to set up in its place.
Berthelier, who fancied he knew, explained his plans to his friends
in their familiar colloquies. The liberty of the Italian republics--a
selfish liberty, full of discord and faction--had come to an end; a
more noble, more vital, more durable liberty was destined to appear.
But neither the politic Berthelier nor the æsthetic Bonivard thought
of the new element which in new times was to give life to modern
liberties: this element was a strong faith, it was the authority of
God, held up on high, that was destined to consolidate society after
the great earthquake it would have to go through. After Berthelier the
republican, after Bonivard the classic, another man was to appear,
_tertium genus_, a third kind, as they said at the time when paganism
and Judaism disappeared before the Gospel. A Christian hero, boldly
standing erect above the volcano of popular passions, was called in the
midst of the convulsions of popery to lay in Geneva the foundations of
enlightened society, inflexible morality, unyielding faith, and thus
to save the cause of liberty. The work of Calvin, thus coming after
that of Berthelier and Bonivard, no doubt presents a very strange
juxtaposition; but three centuries have shown its necessity. The
Reformation is indispensable to the emancipation of nations.
Berthelier, Bonivard, and their friends turned their eyes in another
direction. ‘Have done with banquets and dances,’ said Berthelier to
his friend; ‘we must organise young Geneva into a defensive league.’
‘Yes, let us march onwards,’ replied Bonivard, ‘and God will give a
good issue to our bold enterprise!’ ... Berthelier stretched out his
hand. ‘Comrade,’ he said, ‘your hand.’[95] Then, as he held Bonivard’s
hand in his, he was touched with deep emotion: a cloud passed over his
face, and he added: ‘But know that for the liberty of Geneva, you will
lose your benefice, and I ... I shall lose my head.’ ‘He told me that a
hundred times,’ added the prior of St. Victor, who has handed down this
conversation to us. The gloomy foreboding was but too amply fulfilled.