Chapter XXIII

AIMÉ LÉVRIER, A MARTYR TO LIBERTY AND RIGHT AT THE CASTLE OF BONNE.

(MARCH 1524.)

There was one citizen in Geneva who greatly embarrassed the duke, and this was Lévrier. It was neither from pride, resentment, nor envy that he resisted the usurpations of the prince, but from an ardent love of justice and respect for the old charters of liberty. He had less spirit than Berthelier, but more gravity; less popularity, but severer manners; more prudence, and quite as much courage. He was not a declaimer; he did not, like the energetic Philibert or the impetuous Maison-Neuve, make his voice heard in the streets: it was in the councils where he calmly put forward his inflexible _veto_. The more violent huguenots reproached him with his moderation; they said that ‘when men are too stiff to yield to the breath of persuasion, we must strike them heavily with the hammer; and when flaming brands are kindling a conflagration everywhere, we must rush upon them like a torrent and extinguish them.’ But Lévrier, firm in regard to right, was mild in regard to men. An intrepid preserver of the law, he upheld it without clamour, but without hesitation or fear. Never has there lived, in ancient or in modern republics, a citizen of whom it could be better said than of him:

Non vultus instantis tyranni,
Mente quatit solida.[326]

The moment approached when Lévrier would say in Geneva for liberty what Luther had lately said in Worms for truth: ‘I can do no otherwise.’ But, less fortunate than the monk of Wittemberg, he will hardly have uttered these words before he will receive his death-blow. These martyrs of liberty at the foot of the Alps, who were to be followed in so many different places by the martyrs of the Gospel, lit up a new flame upon the earth. And hence it is that a grateful posterity, represented by the pious christians of the New World, places a triumphal garland on the humble tombs of Berthelier and of Lévrier, as well as of Luther and of Calvin.[327]

As the office of vidame belonged to the duke, it was always through the vidamy that the princes of Savoy interfered with the affairs of Geneva; and accordingly they nominated to this post only such men as were well known for the servility of their character. The duke had replaced the wretched Aymon Conseil by the Sieur de Salagine; and when the latter died, he nominated Verneau, sire of Rougemont and one of his chamberlains, in his place.[328] ‘Oh, oh!’ said the citizens, ‘the duke knows his men. If Conseil knew so well the sound of his tabor, this man knows it better still, and we shall have a pretty dance.’[329] Charles, dissatisfied with the inferior jurisdiction that belonged to him, proposed to make the conquest of Geneva, and to accomplish it in two movements. By the first, he would take possession of all the courts of law; by the second, of the sovereignty. And then his sojourn in Geneva would have attained its end.

By way of beginning, Charles desired that the vidame should make oath to him and not to the bishop--a pretension opposed to the constitution, for in Geneva the prince of Savoy was only an inferior officer of the bishop; and the duke in this way substituted himself for the prince of the city. They were nearly giving way, for the Marquis of St. Sorlin, the prelate’s brother, intrusted with the bishop’s temporal interests while he was in Italy, and even the episcopal council, desired to please the duke and grant something to so mighty a lord. But that vigilant sentinel Lévrier immediately placed himself in the breach. He represented to the episcopal council that the bishop was not free to sacrifice the rights of the state; that he was only the simple administrator, and had to render an account ‘to the empire, the chapter, the republic, and posterity.’ The vidame was forced to make oath to the bishop’s representatives, whereupon the irritated duke ordered his chamberlain to give an account of his office to none but him. Lévrier saw that Savoy was planting her batteries against Geneva--that the war was beginning; and determining to save the independence of his country, he resolved to oppose, even at the risk of his life, the criminal usurpations of the foreign prince.[330]

The struggle between the duke and the judge threatened to become terrible, and could only be ended by the death of one of the combatants or the expulsion of the other. Everything was favourable to the duke. ‘Who can hinder him,’ said his courtiers, ‘from becoming sovereign of Geneva?--The bishop? Although he may make a great fuss, he will easily be quieted, for he has benefices without number in his Highness’s states.--Pope Clement? The duke is in alliance with him.--The emperor? His marriage with the duchess’s sister is in progress.--The Swiss League? They are in great anxiety about the house of Austria, and they too are divided city against city on account of religion.--The people of Geneva? The court, by spending its money freely, has gained them.--Berthelier? He is dead.--The other huguenots? They were so roughly handled at the time of the former enterprise, that they are afraid of getting into hot water again.... What remains to prevent the duke from accomplishing his undertaking?’--‘There remains but God,’ said the patriots.[331]

It was Charles’s disposition to seek to triumph by stratagem rather than by force. In that age princes imagined that no one could resist them; he therefore attempted to win over Lévrier by means of those favours of which courtiers are so greedy. But in order to succeed, it was necessary to have a little private talk with him away from Geneva and the Genevans. ‘What glorious sunshine!’ said they one morning at the ducal court: ‘let us take advantage of this fine winter weather to visit the castle of Bonne and spend a few days at the foot of the soft and smiling slopes of the Voirons mountain.’ The duke, the duchess, and the court made their preparations, and, as a special mark of his good-will, Charles invited Lévrier to accompany him. Arrived at this charming retreat, surrounded by snow-clad mountains gilded by the bright sunshine, the duke led the worthy man aside, addressed him in friendly language, and as Lévrier answered with respect, Charles profited by what he thought to be a favourable moment, and said to him in an insinuating tone: ‘You know that I am sovereign lord of Geneva, and that you are my subject.’--‘No, my lord,’ immediately replied the judge, ‘I am not your subject, and you are not sovereign of Geneva.’ The duke dissembled his anger, but Lévrier seeming impatient to return to Geneva, Charles allowed him to depart, and as he saw that inflexible man disappear, he swore that he should pay dearly for his boldness ... at the foot of that very mountain, in that very castle where he had dared tell the Duke of Savoy that he was not his sovereign.[332]

The duke returned, and being resolved to put his hand to the task, he communicated to the episcopal council, with all suitable precautions, his firm intention to assume henceforward the rights of sovereignty. Charles knew the weakness, the venality even of the prince-bishop’s councillors, who were unwilling at any price to displease Savoy. As soon as the report of this demand was known in the city, everybody exclaimed against it; they said that the superior jurisdiction belonged only to the sovereign, and that if the duke should obtain it, he would have to take but one step more to be recognised as lord of Geneva. The weakest thought their independence lost. ‘Be easy,’ said wiser men, ‘there is a certain “child of Geneva” in the council, who will shut all their mouths.’ They were not deceived; determined to oppose an inflexible resistance to Charles’s demand, Lévrier began to strengthen the weak, to win over the cowards, and to intimidate the traitors. ‘Neither the duke nor the senate of Savoy,’ he said, ‘has any authority in Geneva. The jurisdiction belongs to the city and to its head, the bishop: the duke, when within our walls, is a vassal, and not a sovereign.’[333] These bold but true words made a deep impression; Gruet, the vicar-episcopal, resolved to join Lévrier in defending the rights of his master. The opposition was not less energetic among the citizens. It was the time for nominating syndics; the alarmed huguenots resolved to place one of the warmest friends of independence among the chief magistrates. They elected Claude Richardet, a man of steady principles and decided character, ‘tall, handsome, powerful, and very choleric,’ says a chronicle.

When Charles and his counsellors saw the episcopal and the popular authorities uniting against them, they did not lose heart, but preached openly in Geneva the system which the dukes of Savoy had long adopted--the necessity of separating Church and State. What did it matter if Lévrier, and even Gruet, the vicar-episcopal, made a show of defending the bishop’s temporal rights?--the duke believed that Pierre de la Baume would be found tractable. The most advanced huguenots desired to have a free church in a free state; but the duke wanted a church enslaved by the pope in a state enslaved by the duke. ‘Let the bishop keep his clerical authority,’ said the ducal officers, who were irritated by the opposition of the episcopal officers; ‘let him keep his amulets, chaplets, and all such wares; let his parishioners indulge, some in sensuality, others in mortifications; let them, with all the monks, black, white, and grey, debauchees, gamblers, inquisitors, mountebanks, flagellants, women of lewd life, and indulgence-sellers, go on a pilgrimage to Loretto, to St. James of Compostella, to Mecca if the bishop likes ... well and good ... that is the priests’ department, and we abandon it to them. But the civil power belongs to the laity; the courts of secular justice, the municipal liberties, and the command of the troops ought to be in the hands of a secular prince. Souls to the bishop, body and goods to my lord of Savoy!’ This great zeal for the separation of the religious from the political order had no other object than to satisfy the ambition of Savoy. But Geneva profited by these interested homilies, and emancipated herself even beyond Charles’s wishes. Yet a few more years, and this city will be enfranchised from both kinds of despotism. The temporal and spiritual power will be taken from the hands of the bishop nominated by Rome; and while the former will be restored to the hands of the citizens, the latter will be in the hands of the Head of the Church and of his Word of truth.

The day after the election, the duke held a grand reception. The new syndics came to pay their respects to him; Gruet, the vicar, and other episcopal officers were present. Charles on a sudden unmasked his battery: ‘Mr. Vicar, I have heard that the episcopal officers of this city interfere in profane matters; I mean to reform this abuse; the State and the Church are two distinct spheres. Hitherto my officers, the vidames, have not had sufficient power.[334] Having recently nominated one of my chamberlains to this post, a man much esteemed and of good repute, the noble Hugh de Rougemont, I shall no longer permit the bishop to interfere in civil causes.’ The vicar, who had been prepared by Lévrier for this attack and remembered the lesson well, made answer: ‘Your Highness is aware that my lord of Geneva is both bishop and prince; he possesses the two jurisdictions in this city.’ The irascible duke, who did not expect any opposition from a vicar, grew angry: ‘I intend that it shall be so no longer,’ he continued; ‘and if the bishop pardons when my vidame has condemned, I will hang up with their letters of grace all to whom he grants them.’ Everybody trembled. The pusillanimous vicar held his tongue, while the syndics endeavoured to pacify the prince, although at the same time backing up Gruet’s remarks. Then the courtiers of Savoy came forward, and, playing the part that had been assigned them in this wretched comedy, magnified the favours which the duke would heap on the city. There would be signal advantages for commerce, merchandise at half price, great rejoicings, magnificent feasts, fête after fête for the ladies of the city,[335] graceful and friendly combats in presence of their highnesses, dances and tournaments.[336] Geneva would become a little paradise. The duke was such a good prince, what folly to reject him! Notwithstanding all this coaxing, the huguenots thought to themselves that the prince’s mule, be he ever so richly harnessed, none the less carries a saddle that galls him.

The duke took counsel again. He thought he had made an important step at the time of the syndics’ reception. He had now resided eight months in Geneva, as if he had no other capital; now or never he must realise the hereditary schemes of his family. He must hurry on the conclusion, and with that view get rid of the obstacle. That obstacle was Lévrier. This Mordecai, who refused to bow before him, thwarted the projects of Turin and exasperated the weak Charles and the haughty Beatrice. All the courtiers rose against him: they hesitated no longer. Sometimes bold strokes are necessary, and Machiavelli had taught the princes of Italy what was to be done in such cases. They thought that the annexation of Geneva to Savoy was of too great importance not to require the sacrifice of a victim. This man was as a rock in their path, obstructing their advance: it was necessary to remove it. Lévrier’s death was decided upon.

The bishop’s council, which was regarded by the episcopalians as the sovereign council, was summoned to appear before the duke; all the members, except Lévrier, attended. The episcopal councillors had hardly entered Charles’s presence, ‘when, unable to contain himself, he waxed very wroth.’ ‘Do you presume,’ he exclaimed, ‘to disobey my orders?’ Then by his gestures, indicating his cruel intentions, he addressed them in such savage language ‘as to put them in fear of their lives.’ The councillors, who were almost frightened to death, ‘then did like the stag, which (says a chronicle) casts his horns to the dogs in order to save himself.’[337] ‘My lord,’ they said, ‘it is not our fault; it is Lévrier that has done it all; he maintains stoutly that Monsieur of Savoy has no authority in Geneva.’ Whereupon the duke, pretending not to know him, exclaimed: ‘What! another Lévrier in my path! Why his father opposed the surrender of the artillery of Geneva to me in 1507! Bring the son here!’ The judge’s colleagues consented, provided the duke would engage on his side to do him no injury, which Charles promised.

Lévrier knew that his life was at stake, and everybody advised him to leave Geneva; but he resolved not to go out of his way. Two days after the first conference, the episcopal council, accompanied by Lévrier, appeared again before the duke, who had scarcely caught sight of him, when, fiercely scowling at them, he said: ‘There are some of you who say that I am not sovereign of Geneva.’ ... He stopped short, but finding that they all remained silent, he continued: ‘It is one Lévrier.’ ... Then fixing his angry eyes upon him, he called out with a threatening voice: ‘Is that fellow Lévrier here?’ Consternation fell upon all the spectators: ‘they huddled together, but said not a word.’ Charles, who knew Lévrier very well, observing that terror had so far answered, repeated in a still louder tone: ‘Is that fellow Lévrier here?’--The judge modestly stepped forward and said calmly: ‘Here I am, my lord.’ The duke, whom such calmness irritated still more, burst out: ‘Have you not said that I am not sovereign of Geneva?’--‘My lord,’ he answered, ‘if I have said anything, it was in the council, where every one has the right to speak freely. You ought not to know of it, and I ought not to be molested about it.’--‘Go,’ said the duke, not heeding this just remark, ‘prepare to prove to me within three days that what you say is true. Otherwise I will not answer for your life ... wherever I may be. Leave my presence!’[338] And they all went out.

‘Lévrier departed in great trouble,’ said Bonivard. The death with which he was threatened was inevitable. There were plenty of authentic acts, the _Franchises_ in particular, by which he could prove that the duke possessed no authority in Geneva; but many of these documents were in the hands of the canons, devoted to the duke; and the syndics refused to lay before the prince such as were in their care, for fear he should throw them into the fire. It is not improbable that such was Charles’s intention when he called for them.[339] ‘He has set a condition upon my life,’ said Lévrier, ‘which it is impossible to fulfil.... Do what I may, there is nothing left for me but to die.’

His friends wished to save him at all hazards. Bonivard, who was less courageous than Lévrier, and under similar circumstances had taken to flight, continually reverted to the subject: ‘There is no escape,’ he said, ‘except you leave the country.’ But Lévrier was not to be moved. Faithful preserver of the ancient customs, he was determined to oppose the usurpations of Savoy to the very last. According to the Genevese, St. Peter--they did not mean the pope--was the prince of their city. Had they not the key of this apostle in their escutcheon? Lévrier replied to the entreaties of his friends, and especially of Bonivard: ‘I would rather die for the liberty of the city and for the authority of St. Peter, than confess myself guilty by deserting my post.’ The prior of St. Victor was greatly distressed at the answer. He insisted, he conjured his friend, but all to no purpose. ‘Is it imprudence on his part?’ said he then. ‘Is it envy that urges him to be the rival of Berthelier? Is it that he desires to be a champion of the commonwealth at the price of his blood? I know not what motive impels him; but be it what it may, he will no longer confide in our advice.’ Lévrier, indeed, went about just as before, even after the term (three days) prescribed by the duke; he waited tranquilly for the blow to fall upon him.[340]

Charles the Good--such is the name he bears in the history of Savoy--was plotting the death of this just man. His steward and favourite, the Sieur de Bellegarde, was an enemy of Lévrier’s, and all the more violent because he had long been his friend. The prince and his steward deliberated over the means best calculated to make away with him. At Geneva it seemed impossible; and as a second edition of Berthelier’s death was out of the question, it became necessary to draw Lévrier into some lonely spot, where he might easily be put to death. Bellegarde undertook to carry him off, and the duke ordered him to be brought to the castle of Bonne, where Lévrier had dared to say him _No!_ Bellegarde came to an understanding with some Savoyard gentlemen, and being informed that on Saturday, the 12th of March, the judge would attend mass as usual in the cathedral of St. Pierre, the steward arranged with these infamous courtiers that they should lie in ambush near the church, and seize him as he came out.

Everything was prepared for the ambuscade. The person who should have prevented it, and the person who commanded it, both left the city. The cowardly Marquis of St. Sorlin, who, as representative of the bishop, ought to have defended Lévrier, having ‘smelt the wind,’ went out to Rumilly, where he amused himself with some ladies while men were preparing to kill the defender of his brother’s rights. Charles did pretty nearly the same. The appointed day having arrived (it was the eve of the Sunday before Easter 1524), this prince, poor in courage, trembling at the idea of the daring deed about to be attempted, fearing lest the people should rise and come to his residence and demand the just man about to be torn from them, stealthily quitted his apartments in the lower part of the city near the Rhone, ‘went out by a back door,’ crossed the lonely meadows which the Arve bathes with its swift waters, and ‘retired with his family to Our Lady of Grace, pretending that he was going there to hear mass.’ This church being near the bridge of Arve, the duke, in case a riot should break out, would only have to cross the bridge to be in his own territory. Having thus provided for his own safety, he waited in great agitation for the news of his victim.

Mass was over in the cathedral, the priest had elevated the host, the chants had ceased, and Lévrier quitted the church. He wore a long camlet robe, probably his judicial gown, and a beautiful velvet cassock. He had hardly set foot outside the cemetery (the site is now occupied by the hall of the Consistory) when Bellegarde and his friends, surrounding him with drawn swords, ‘laid their hands roughly upon him; and Bressieu, the most violent of them, struck him so severely on the head with the pommel of his sword,’ that he was stunned. There was not a moment to lose, lest the people should rise. Some of the gentlemen armed cap-à-pie went in front, others came behind, and they dragged the prisoner rapidly to Plainpalais, where all had been got ready to complete the abduction. Lévrier was put upon a wretched horse, his hands were tied behind his back, his legs were fastened below the belly of his steed; and the escort set off full gallop for the castle of Bonne, where he had formerly dared to deny that the duke was sovereign of Geneva.

On they went, the horsemen loading Lévrier with abuse: ‘Huguenot, rebel, traitor!’ But in the midst of these insults the judge, pinioned like a murderer, remained calm and firm, and endured their indignities without uttering a word. He was grieved at the injustice of his enemies, but as he thought of the cause for which he suffered, joy prevailed over sorrow. He had been accustomed all his life to struggle with affliction, and now that ‘the cross was laid on his shoulders,’ it was easier for him to bear it. ‘To give his life for right and liberty,’ said a contemporary, ‘afforded him such great matter for joy as to counterbalance all sadness.’ The ferocious, cruel, and passionate Bellegarde, who hated this just man more than he had loved him when both were young, kept his eyes fixed on him: an obstacle appeared, his horse reared, and Bellegarde fell; it was thought that he had broken his leg. There was great confusion; they all stopped. Some men-at-arms alighted, picked up the steward, and placing him on his horse, the escort continued their way, but at a foot-pace. They still went on, and as they advanced, the magnificent amphitheatre formed to the south by the Alps spread out more grandly before them. To the left eastward the graceful slopes of the Voirons extended as far as Bonne; a little further on was seen the opening of the valley of Boëge, and further still the Aiguille Verte and other glaciers, and then much nearer the Mole proudly raised its pyramidal form; immediately after, but in the distance, Mont Blanc rose majestically above the clouds, and the mountains of the Bornes, running towards the west, completed the picture. Lévrier’s escort, after descending into a valley, came in sight of the castle of Bonne, seated on a lofty crest and commanding the landscape; they climbed the steep road leading to it, and drew near the castle, leaving below them a narrow ravine, at the bottom of which rolls the torrent of Menoge. At last the old gates were thrown back, they entered the court, and Lévrier was handed over to the governor, who shut him up in a dark cell. As soon as Charles learnt that all had passed off well, he quitted his retreat and returned joyful to his lodging. He was confident that no human power could now deprive him of his victim.[341]

During this time the city was in great agitation. Men described with consternation the kidnapping of the heroic defender of Genevese independence, and all good citizens gave vent to their indignation. The deed was an insult to the laws of the state--it was an act of brigandage; and hence two sentiments equally strong--love for Lévrier and respect for right--moved them to their inmost souls. The council assembled immediately. ‘About an hour ago,’ said Syndic La Fontaine, a zealous mameluke, ‘Aimé Lévrier was seized by the duke’s orders, and carried to Plainpalais.’ ‘Yes,’ exclaimed several patriots, ‘the duke is keeping him in the Dominican convent; but we know how to get him out of that den.’ ‘Resolved,’ say the Minutes, ‘to consider what steps are best to be taken under the circumstances.’ When they heard that Lévrier had been carried from Plainpalais to Savoy, the syndics went in a body to the bishop’s vicar, and required him to convene the episcopal council, and to lay before it this unprecedented act of violence. Nobody doubted that the duke would yield to the remonstrances made to him. Gruet promptly summoned the members of the bishop’s council; but these venal men, devoted to the duke, refused to appear. The next day, the syndics made another attempt. ‘Since your colleagues forsake you,’ said they to the vicar-episcopal, ‘go to his Highness yourself, and make him understand that he is trampling under foot both the sovereignty of the bishop and the liberties of the citizens.’ Gruet was timid, and to appear alone before this powerful noble terrified him; he applied to two of his colleagues, De Veigy and Grossi, begging them to accompany him; but they refused. ‘I will not go alone,’ exclaimed the frightened man, ‘no ... not at any price! The duke would kidnap me like Lévrier.’ Charles’s violent proceeding struck terror into all those who enjoyed the privilege of free access to him. Nevertheless Geneva was in danger. If the most respected of its citizens were put to death and no one took up their defence, there would be nothing sacred from the Savoyard tyrant. Lévrier’s death might be the death of the republic. What was to be done? They remembered one person, the bishop of Maurienne, who was both a friend of the city and a friend of the duke. The cold La Fontaine and the impetuous Richardet hastened to him: ‘Save Lévrier, or we are all lost!’ they said. The prelate, who was fond of mediating, and knew very well that he had nothing to fear, immediately waited upon his Highness.[342]

Charles was not a hero; the emotion of the people disturbed him, the energy of the patriots startled him. He determined to make an advantageous use of his perfidy by proposing an exchange: he would spare Lévrier’s blood, but Geneva must yield up her liberties. ‘Go,’ he said to Maurienne, ‘and tell the syndics and councillors of Geneva that, full of clemency towards them, I ask for one thing only: let them acknowledge themselves my subjects, and I will give up Lévrier.’[343] The Savoyard bishop carried this answer to the syndics, the syndics laid it before the council, and Charles calmly awaited the result of his Machiavellian plot.

The deliberations were opened in the council of Geneva. When there are two dangers, it is generally the nearest that affects us most: every day has its work, and the work of the day was to save Lévrier. The ducal courtiers flattered themselves with the success of this well-laid plot. But the citizens, in this supreme hour, saw nothing but their country. They loved Charles’s victim, but they loved liberty more; they would have given their lives for Lévrier, but they could not give Geneva. ‘What! acknowledge ourselves the duke’s subjects!’ they exclaimed; ‘if we do so, the duke will destroy our liberties for ever.[344] Lévrier himself would reject the proposal with horror.’--‘To save the life of a man,’ they said one to another in the council, ‘we cannot sacrifice the rights of a people.’ They remembered how Curtius, to save his country, had leapt into the gulf; how Berthelier, to maintain the rights of Geneva, had given his life on the banks of the Rhone; and one of the citizens, quoting the words of Scripture, exclaimed in Latin: ‘_Expedit ut unus moriatur homo pro populo, et non tota gens pereat._’[345] ‘The duke calls for blood,’ they added: ‘let him have it; but that blood will cry out for vengeance before God, and Charles will pay for his crime.’ The council resolved to represent to the duke, that by laying hands on Lévrier he robbed the citizens of their franchises and the prince of his attributes. Maurienne carried this answer to his Highness, who persisted in his cruel decision: ‘I must have the liberties of Geneva or Lévrier’s life.’

During these official proceedings, certain noble-hearted women were greatly agitated. They said to themselves that when it is necessary to touch the heart, the weaker sex is the stronger. It was well known that the haughty Beatrice governed her husband; that she loved the city, its lake and mountains; that everything delighted her in this ‘_buena posada_.’ The ladies who had danced at her balls, and found her all condescension, went on Sunday morning to the ducal residence, and, with tears in their eyes, said to her: ‘Appease his Highness’s wrath, Madam, and save this good man.’ But the Portuguese princess, faithful to her policy as to her pride, refused her mediation. She had hardly done so, when her conscience reproached her; after that refusal, Beatrice found no pleasure in Geneva; and before long, leaving the duke behind her, she went all alone ‘beyond the mountains.’[346]

Moreover it would have been too late. On Sunday morning, the 11th of March, three men were in consultation at the castle of Bonne, and preparing to despatch Lévrier. They were Bellegarde, sufficiently recovered from his fall to discharge his commission and simulate a trial; a confessor intrusted to set the accused at peace with the Church; and the executioner commissioned to cut off his head. His Highness’s steward, who had received instructions to have it over ‘in a few hours,’ ordered the prisoner to suffer the cord--‘nine stripes,’ says Michel Roset: ‘not so much from the necessity of questioning him,’ adds Bonivard, ‘as from revenge.’ This ducal groom (we mean Bellegarde) felt a certain pleasure in treating unworthily a magistrate the very representative of justice. ‘Have you no accomplices who conspired with you against my lord’s authority?’ said he to Lévrier, after the scourging. ‘There are no accomplices where there is no crime,’ replied the noble citizen with simplicity. Thereupon the Savoyard provost condemned him to be beheaded, ‘not because he had committed any offence,’ say the judicial documents, but because he was ‘a lettered and learned man, able to prevent the success of the enterprise of Savoy.’[347] After delivering the sentence, Bellegarde left Lévrier alone.

He had long been looking death in the face. He did not despise life, like Berthelier; he would have liked to consecrate his strength to the defence of right in Geneva; but he was ready to seal with his blood the cause he had defended. ‘Death will do me no evil,’ he said. He called Berthelier to mind, and the lines written on that martyr of liberty being engraved in his memory, Lévrier repeated them aloud in his gloomy dungeon, and then approaching the wall, he wrote with a firm hand:

Quid mihi mors nocuit?...

‘Yes,’ said he, ‘death will kill my body and stretch it lifeless on the ground; but I shall live again; and the life that awaits me beyond the grave cannot be taken from me by the sword of the cruellest tyrant.’ He finished the inscription he had begun, and wrote on the prison wall:

... Virtus post fata virescit;
Nec cruce nec sævi gladio perit illa tyranni.

But he thought not of himself alone; he thought upon Geneva; he reflected that the death of the defenders of liberty secured its victory, and that it was by this means the holiest causes triumphed,

Et qu’un sang précieux, par martyre espandu,
A la cause de Dieu servira de semence.

Shortly after Bellegarde’s departure the confessor entered, discharged his duty mechanically, uttered the sentence: _Ego te absolvo_--and withdrew, showing no more sympathy for his victim than the provost had done. Then appeared a man with a cord: it was the executioner. It was then ten o’clock at night. The inhabitants of the little town and of the adjacent country were sleeping soundly, and no one dreamt of the cruel deed that was about to cut short the life of a man who might have shone in the first rank in a great monarchy. Bellegarde had no cause to fear that he would be disturbed in the accomplishment of his crime; still he dreaded the light; there was in his hardened conscience a certain uneasiness which alarmed him. The headsman bound the noble Lévrier, armed men surrounded him, and the martyr of law was conducted slowly to the castle yard. All nature was dumb, nothing broke the silence of that funereal procession; Charles’s agents moved like shadows beneath the ancient walls of the castle. The moon, which had not reached its first quarter, was near setting, and shed only a feeble gleam. It was too dark to distinguish the beautiful mountains in the midst of which stood the towers whence they had dragged their victim; the trees and houses of Bonne were scarcely visible; one or two torches, carried by the provost’s men, alone threw light upon this cruel scene. On reaching the middle of the castle yard, the headsman stopped and the victim also. The ducal satellites silently formed a circle round them, and the executioner prepared to discharge his office. Lévrier was calm: the peace of a good conscience supported him in this dread hour. He thought of God, of law, of duty, of Geneva, of liberty, and of the legitimate authority of St. Peter, whom, in the simplicity of his heart, he regarded as the sovereign of the city. It was really the prince-bishop whom he thus designated, but not wishing to utter the name of a prelate whom he despised, he substituted that of the apostle. Alone in the night, in those sublime regions of the Alps, surrounded by the barbarous figures of the Savoyard mercenaries, standing in that feudal court-yard, which the torches illumined with a sinister glare, the heroic champion of the law raised his eyes to heaven and said: ‘By God’s grace I die without anxiety, for the liberty of my country and the authority of St. Peter.’ The grace of God, liberty, authority--these main principles of the greatness of nations were his last confession. The words had hardly been uttered when the executioner swung round his sword, and the head of the citizen rolled in the castle yard. Immediately, as if struck with fear, the murderers respectfully gathered up his remains, and placed them in a coffin. ‘And his body was laid in earth in the parish church of Bonne, with the head separate.’ At that moment the moon set, and black darkness hid the stains of blood which Lévrier had left on the pavement of the court-yard.[348] ‘Calamitous death,’ exclaims the old _Citadin de Genève_, ‘which cost upwards of a million of Savoyard lives in the cruel wars that followed, in which no one received quarter, because the unjust death of Lévrier was always brought forward.’[349] There is considerable exaggeration in the number of Savoyards who, according to this writer, expiated Lévrier’s murder by their death. The crime had other consequences--and nobler ones.

Moral victories secure success more than material victories. Over the corpses of Berthelier and Lévrier we might give a christian turn to the celebrated saying: ‘It is the defeated cause that is pleasing to God.’ The triumph of brute force in the castle of Bonne and in front of Cæsar’s tower agitated, scandalised, and terrified men’s minds. Tears were everywhere shed over these two murders.... But patience! These bloody ‘stations’ will be found glorious ‘stations’ leading to the summit of right and liberty. A book has been written telling the history of the founders of religious liberty. I may be deceived, but it appears to me that the narrative of the struggles of the first huguenots might be entitled: _History of the founders of modern liberty_. My consolation when I find myself called upon to describe events hitherto unknown, relating to persons unnoticed until this hour, and taking place in a little city or obscure castle, is, that these facts have, in my opinion, a European, a universal interest, and belong to the fundamental principles of existing civilisation. Berthelier, Lévrier, and others have hitherto been only Genevese heroes; they are worthy of being placed on a loftier pedestal, and of being hailed by society as heroes of the human race.

The haste with which the victim had been sacrificed, the remote theatre of the crime, the hour of night that had been chosen, all show that Charles had an uneasy conscience. He soon discovered that he had not been mistaken in his fears. The indignation was general. The men of independence took advantage of the crime that had been committed to magnify the price of liberty. ‘A fine return,’ they said, ‘for the honours we have paid Monsieur of Savoy and his wife!’ Though their anger broke out against the duke, the bishop had his share of their contempt. The reflection that he had permitted his friends to be sacrificed on one side of the Alps while he was amusing himself on the other, shocked these upright souls. ‘A pretty shepherd,’ they said, ‘who not only abandons his flock to the wolves, but the faithful dogs also that watch over it!’ They were disgusted with priestly government: some citizens even went so far as to say: ‘We had better grant Monsieur of Savoy his request, than let ourselves be murdered for a prelate who gives us no credit for it. If the duke takes away certain things, he will at least guarantee the rest; while the bishop devours us on one side and lets us be devoured on the other.’[350] They concluded that ecclesiastical principalities only served to ruin their subjects--at Geneva as well as at Rome. Liberals and ducals held almost the same language. The temporal power of the bishop was a worm-eaten building that would tumble down at the first shock.

When the news of the murder at Bonne was heard among the young worldlings who frequented the court, they were aghast, and a change came over them. All that the duke had done to win them, the splendid entertainments, the graces of the duchess, the charms of her ladies, were forgotten. In the ball-room they could see nothing but Death leaning on his scythe and with hollow eyes looking round for some new victim. Their past pleasures seemed a mockery to them. A brilliant representation had taken place: on a sudden the curtain fell, the lights were extinguished, and the most enthusiastic spectators, seized with terror, hastened to escape far from a place which appeared to run with blood. That murder, ‘in the night by torchlight, put all the city in great alarm,’ says a chronicler.

Amid all these cries of indignation, of contempt, of terror, there was a small group of firm men who saw the dawn of liberty piercing through the darkness of crime. The generous spirits who had received the Divine Word from France--Porral, Maison-Neuve, Vandel, Bernard, even Bonivard--took courage in their tears. ‘One single obstacle will check the duke,’ they said, ‘and that obstacle is God! God desires by means of the duke to chastise Geneva, not destroy it. The stripes that he inflicts are not for its death, but for its improvement. Yes! God, after punishing us with the rod of a father, will rise with the sword in his hand against those whose crimes he appears to permit.’[351]

Charles, perceiving the effect produced by the outrage he had committed, felt ill at ease at Geneva. Nor was that all; for, learning that a numerous French army was entering his states on one side, while the imperial army was advancing on the other, and that a terrible meeting might ensue, he alleged this motive for returning to Turin. Wishing, however, to secure his authority in Geneva, he sent for Hugues, whose patriotism he feared, reminded him of the scene just enacted at Bonne, and required him to promise, upon oath, that he would not take part in the affairs of the city. Hugues entered into the required engagement.[352] Then Charles hastened to depart, and Bonivard said, with a meaning smile: ‘The duchess having crossed the Alps, the duke hastens after her--like a good little canary.’[353]

The Genevans breathed at last: the city was without either duke or bishop. Lévrier’s martyrdom, which had at first crushed them, now inflamed their courage. As a steel blade long bent returns back with a spring, so Geneva, suffering under a blow that seemed as if it would destroy her, rose up with energy. More than this; the empty place was soon filled. Help would come from heaven. The ancient imperial and episcopal city, not content with having set aside bishops and dukes, would within a few years place on the throne Him who exalteth nations. Then, ‘dwelling in the shadow of the Almighty,’ and sitting tranquilly at the foot of her beautiful mountains, Geneva will raise her head, crowned with a twofold liberty.[354]