J. H. Merle D'Aubigné - History of the Reformation in Europe in the Time of Calvin (Vol. 1-8)

Had Berthelier taken the right course? Could the independence of Geneva be established on such a foundation? Certainly not; true liberty cannot exist without justice, and consequently without a moral change that comes from God. So long as ‘young Geneva’ loved diversion above everything, the bishop and the duke might yet lay hands upon her. Such was the love of pleasure in the majority of these youths, that they would seize the bait with eager impetuosity if it were only dropped with sufficient skill. ‘They felt that the hook was killing them,’ said a writer of the sixteenth century; but they had not strength to pull it out. This strength was to come from on high. The human mind, so inconstant and so weak, found in God’s Word the power it needed, and which the light of the fifteenth century could never have given them. The Reformation was necessary to liberty, because it was necessary to morality. When the protestant idea declined in some countries, as in France for instance, the human mind lost its energy also, profligacy once more overran society; and that highly endowed nation, after having caught a glimpse of a magnificent dawn, fell back into the thick night of the traditional power of Rome and the despotism of the Valois and Bourbons. Liberty has never been firmly established except among a people where the Word of God reigns. 91

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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