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

These rumours reached the ears of the bastard, who took his measures accordingly. Six hundred men-at-arms were drawn out, and all the mamelukes joined them. The vidame posted a detachment on the side of St. Gervais (right bank) to cut off the inhabitants of the faubourg from all access to the island; he stationed the greater part ‘under arms and in line of battle’ along the left bank, so as to occupy the bridge, the Rue du Rhone, and the cross streets. Among the Savoyard captains who gave the sanction of their presence to this legal murder was François de Ternier, seignior of Pontverre, a violent and energetic man and yet of a generous disposition. The blood of Berthelier, which was about to be shed, excited a thirst in his heart which the blood of the huguenots alone could quench; from that hour Pontverre was the deadliest enemy of Geneva and the Genevans. But (as pagan antiquity would have said) the terrible Nemesis, daughter of Jupiter and Night, goddess of vengeance and retribution, holding a sword in one hand and a torch in the other, was one day to overtake him, a few steps only from the spot where the blood of Berthelier was about to flow, and divine justice commissioned to punish crime would avenge this unjust death in his own blood. 269

All was ready. Desbois entered the prison with a confessor and the headsman. ‘I summon you a second time to answer,’ said he to Berthelier. The noble citizen refused. ‘I summon you a third time,’ repeated the ex-dentist, ‘under pain of losing your head.’ Berthelier answered not a word: he would reply only to his lawful judges, the syndics. He knew, besides, that these appeals were empty forms, that he was not a defendant but a victim. Then, without other formality, the provost pronounced sentence: ‘Philibert Berthelier, seeing that thou hast always been rebellious against our most dread lord and thine, we condemn thee to have thy head cut off to the separation of the soul from the body; thy body to be hung to the gibbet at Champel, thy head to be nailed to the gallows near the river Arve, and thy goods confiscated to the prince.’ The provost then introduced the confessor, ‘with whom Berthelier did not hold long discourse.’ After that the third personage, the headsman, came forward and pinioned him. 270

In every quarter of Geneva men’s eyes were fixed on the Château de l’Ile. Its old gates fell back, the guards marched out first, the provost came next, followed by the headsman holding Berthelier. The martyr’s countenance proclaimed the greatness of his soul. There was and still is, between the castle and the river, a narrow space so protected by the Rhone and the fortress, that fifty men could hold it against all the inhabitants of Geneva. The prince-bishop, so learned in the art of tyranny, was not ignorant that if the victim to be sacrificed is loved by the people, the death-blow must be given in prison, in a court-yard, on a narrow beach, or in a castle moat. Berthelier having advanced a few steps found himself between the château and the river. ‘Say thy prayers,’ said the provost. The hero knew he was about to be murdered: he made ‘a short prayer,’ and, rising from his knees, was preparing ‘to utter a few words before dying,’ to give a last testimony to the liberties of Geneva; but the provost would not permit him. Turning to the executioner, he said: ‘Make haste with your work.’—‘Kneel down,’ said the man to his victim. Then Berthelier, whether he desired to express his sorrow at the gloomy future of his fellow-citizens, or was moved at seeing himself sacrificed and none of his friends appearing to defend him, exclaimed as he fell on his knees: ‘Ah!... Messieurs of Geneva’ ... It was all he said; he had no sooner uttered the words ‘than the executioner cut off his head: it was the 23rd of August, 1519.’ The bishop had managed matters well. That cruel man was more like the wild beast that devours the flock than the shepherd who protects them; he had shown himself truly tremendæ velocitatis animal , ‘an animal of terrible swiftness,’ as Pliny says of the tiger; but unlike that animal, he was cowardly as well as cruel. The Genevans, whose father he should have been, turned from him with horror, and the avenging angel of the innocent prepared to visit him with a terrible retribution at his death. Vainly would the waters of the Rhone flow for ages over this narrow space—there are stains of blood that no waters can ever wash out. 271

The bishop intended, however, that Berthelier should be conveyed to the place of execution for criminals; he only found it more prudent to have him taken thither dead than alive, being sure that in this way the ‘youths of Geneva’ could not restore him to liberty. The lifeless body of the martyr was placed on a waggon; the executioner got in and stood beside it, holding the victim’s head in his hand. A universal horror fell upon the people, and many, heartbroken at being unable to save their friend, shut themselves up in their houses to veil their hatred and their shame. The long procession, starting from the castle, moved forward, preceded and closed by foreign soldiers; in the middle was the waggon bearing the dead body, and close behind followed many mamelukes, ‘not the least of their party, in great insolence, mocking at their own calamity; but good men dared not breathe, seeing that when force reigns, the good cause must keep still.’ 272A few huguenots, however, mournful and indignant, appeared in the streets or at their doors. Meanwhile the executioner, parading in his triumphal car, swung derisively to and fro the martyr’s bleeding head, and cried: ‘This is the head of the traitor Berthelier: let all take warning by it.’ The procession continued its march as far as Champel, where the executioner suspended the body of the father of Genevese liberty to the gibbet. Thence, by a singular refinement of cruelty, they proceeded to the bridge of Arve, and the head of the dead man, who had so often terrified the bishop, was fastened up in the place where those of Blanchet and Navis had hung so long. The prelate seemed to take pleasure in reviving the recollection of his former butcheries.

Thus that kind-hearted man whom everybody loved, that heroic citizen around whom were concentrated all the hopes of the friends of liberty, had been sacrificed by his bishop. That death so hurried, so illegal, so tragical, filled the Genevans with horror. The fate of his widow and children moved them; but that of Geneva moved them more profoundly still. Berthelier had fallen a victim to his passion for his country; and that passion, which made many other hearts beat high, drew tears even from the most selfish. The body hanging from the gibbet, the head nailed up near the bridge of Arve, the memory of that sad procession, did not speak to the senses only; men’s hearts were rent as if by a violent blow, and many refused all consolation. There were also some proud firm spirits who, unable to weep, gave vent to maledictions. They might be met silent and frowning in the streets, and their air, the tone of their voice, their gait, their ironical and bitter words, expressed an indescribable contempt for the murderers. They retraced in their minds that strange struggle, between cruel princes and a generous, simple-minded, poor but free man. On one side were the splendours of the throne, the majesty of the priesthood, armies, executioners, tortures, scaffolds, and all the terrors of power; on the other, a humble man, opposing his enemies by the nobleness of his character and the unshrinking firmness of his courage.... The combat was unequal, and the head of the great citizen had fallen. A bishop looked with an ecstasy of joy on the blood of one of his flock, in which he bathed his feet while impudently violating all the laws of the country. But—and it was the consolation of these proud citizens—the blood that had been shed would awaken a terrible voice. Outraged justice and bleeding liberty would utter a long and mournful cry, which would reach the ears of the Swiss League. Then would mountain and valley, castle and cottage, city and hamlet, and every echo of the Alps repeat it one to another, and thousands of arms would one day unite to defend that little city so unworthily oppressed. 273