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Without delay Berthelier entered upon the work to which he had sworn to devote his life. Wishing to prepare it carefully, he invited the most ardent of the young Genevans to confer with him on the salvation of the country. He did not select for this meeting some lonely field, above the shores of the lake, as the Grütli: he had to deal with the inhabitants of a city and not with the children of the mountains. He therefore took a hall in the principal square of the city, la Place du Molard, then almost washed by the waters of the river, and appointed a time for the meeting when the streets were most thronged. About twilight one afternoon, probably in 1516 (it is difficult to fix precisely the date of this important meeting96), Berthelier, and then a few other patriots, set out for the Molard: they came from the Rue du Rhone, la Rive, and from the Cité; those who came from the upper part of the town passed down the Rue du Perron. As they walked, they conversed of the tyranny of the bishop and the plots of the princes of Savoy. One of those who appeared to have the most influence was Amadeus de Joye, the son of distinguished, upright, and honourable parents, who had brought him up virtuously. The public voice, while proclaiming him ‘a merry fellow,’ added that he was honest and straightforward, and connected with all the good men of the city: he exercised the honourable vocation of druggist and apothecary, and had always enjoyed a good reputation in his business. Not far from him was Andrew Navis: a change had taken place in the son of the procurator-fiscal. The cause of liberty had dawned upon his ardent soul in all its beauty: in it he fancied he had found the unknown good he had sought so eagerly; his imagination had been inflamed, his heart moved, and leaving the Savoyard party, of which his father was one of the chiefs, he rushed with all his natural impetuosity to the side of independence. One of his friends, John Biderman, surnamed Blanchet, had accompanied him, a young man about twenty-four years old. Full of natural wit, disliking work, very fond of fun, Blanchet ‘trotted up and down,’ picked up all the news, repeated it at random, and meddled in everybody’s business. He had, however, at bottom a sensitive heart, and the tyranny of the bishop provoked him. Berthelier, who was among the earliest arrivals, scanned attentively the young people and the earnest men who had joined them, and experienced a feeling of happiness at the sight. There was in him a being superior to the follies of banquets. The daily routine, the small passions, the vulgarity of mind, life such as he had hitherto known it, wearied him. At last he had before him an assembly brought together for the noble cause of independence; and for that reason he affectionately pressed the hand of all comers. At this moment the bell rang for vespers at Magdalen old church, and was distinctly heard at the Molard. There were present with Berthelier about fifty citizens—a small meeting, and yet more numerous than that of Walter Fürst and his friends. Besides, did not all noble hearts in Geneva beat in harmony with those of the fifty patriots?97

They gathered in a circle round Berthelier, and stood silent; the heroic citizen reminded them that from the most remote times Geneva had been free; but that for one or two centuries the princes of Savoy had been trying to enslave it, and that the duke only waited for the favourable opportunity to impose his usurped sovereignty upon their country. Then fixing his noble look upon his audience, he asked them if they wished to transmit to their children not liberty but ... slavery? The citizens answered No, and demanded anxiously how the liberties of the city could effectually be saved? ‘How!’ said Berthelier. ‘By being united, by forgetting our private quarrels, by opposing with one mind every violation of our rights. We have all the same franchises, let us all have the same heart. If the bishop’s officers lay hands on one of us, let all the others defend him with their swords, their nails, their teeth!’98 Then he exclaimed: ‘Who touches one, touches all.’ At these words they all raised their hands and said: ‘Yes, yes! one heart, one common cause! Who touches one, touches all!’—‘Good,’ resumed Berthelier, ‘let this motto be the name of our alliance, but let us be faithful to the noble device. If the bishop’s constables take one of us to prison, let us rescue him from their hands. If they indulge in criminal extortions, let us seek out the abominable plunder even in their houses.’ And then he repeated in a loud voice: ‘Who touches one, touches all!’ And yet in the midst of this enthusiasm, the marks of fear could be seen on some faces. One citizen asked with considerable uneasiness what they would do if my lord of Geneva, aided by his Highness, should attack the city with a strong army? ‘Fear nothing,’ answered Berthelier sharply, ‘we have good friends;’ and he added soon after: ‘I will go to the Swiss, I will bring back forces, and then ... I will settle accounts with our adversaries.’99

From that time the consultations and debates became more and more frequent: the discussions went on in private families, at St. Victor’s, in the houses of the principal citizens, sometimes even in the public places: men reminded each other of the customs and franchises of Geneva, and promised to be mutually faithful.

One day Berthelier, Blanchet, and several other citizens meeting at Mugnier’s to discourse round the table about the common interest, unfortunately brought with them a vile and corrupt fellow, a creature of the bishop’s, named Carmentrant. They sat down, the wine circulated, and their heads soon became heated: ‘The bishop,’ said one of them, ‘has sold Geneva to the duke!’—‘If he breaks his oath,’ said another, ‘his treason does not free us from ours. When princes trample the law under foot, the citizens ought to uphold it at any cost.’—‘We must let the bishop know,’ added Berthelier, ‘the resolution we have adopted to defend our independence.’—‘That is not easy,’ observed one; ‘how can we approach my lord and dare tell him all the truth?’—‘Let us mask ourselves,’ returned he; ‘we may say hard things under our masks.... Let us make a momon at the palace.’ The momon was a bet made by maskers when playing at dice. Pécolat did not seem convinced. ‘Leave that to me,’ said Berthelier, ‘I shall find a way of speaking to the prelate.’ Carmentrant listened in silence; he engraved in his memory every word of the great patriot, ready to add to them his private interpretations. He asserted afterwards that Berthelier proposed attacking the prelate’s life; but the contrary was proved, and even the farce of the momon was never carried out. That mattered not; the smallest joke at that time was metamorphosed into the crime of high treason.100

Berthelier was not the only person the bishop caused to be watched; Bonivard, ever sparkling with wit, gave opportunities to informers. He had at that time a difference with the bishop about the right of fishing in the Rhone. One day when walking with Berthelier and other friends, he complained of the prelate’s avarice; and then indulging in a joke, he said laughingly: ‘If ever I meet him near my fishery, one or other of us will catch an ugly fish.’ This was made a principal charge against him: he wished to drown the bishop. They were mistaken: Bonivard was not a violent character; but he was ambitious, and, without wishing the bishop any harm, he secretly aspired to the bishopric. ‘I will go to Rome,’ said he to one of his intimate friends, ‘and will not have my beard shaved until I am bishop of Geneva.’

The court of Turin had not forgotten the famous decision of the cardinals. A few light words were not enough to prove to the sacred college that the people of Geneva were in revolt; an émeute (as the Savoyards called it) furnished this party with the arms they sought.

On the 5th of June, 1517, the only talk throughout the city was about Messire Gros’ mule, which was dead. This mule was well known, for the judge rode it whenever he went on his judicial investigations. People seriously discussed in the streets and at table the cause of the death of this famous beast. ‘It is Adrian of Malvenda,’ said some, ‘that Spaniard whose father came from Valence la Grande, who, having had a quarrel with the judge at a dinner party, has hamstrung the beast.’ ‘No,’ said others, ‘some young Genevans meeting the judge on his mule and wishing to frighten him, shouted out and drew their swords: his servants drew also, and one of them awkwardly wounded the mule, so that it died.’101

Messire Claude Gros or Grossi, judge of the three castles (Peney, Thiez, and Jussy) was one of those harsh magistrates who are hated by a whole people. They coupled him in this respect with the procurator-fiscal Peter Navis; and Berthelier, De Lunes, and De la Thoy had often threatened both of them with the vengeance of the patriots. Their hatred against these two magistrates was such that even Andrew Navis suffered from it. In vain had he given himself up heart and soul to the party of liberty; he was regarded with distrust; and men asked if any good could come from the house of the procurator-fiscal. Quite recently Andrew had had a dispute with John Conod on this subject. The two young people were, however, reconciled, and the very evening of the day when the mule died, Conod gave a supper to Navis and thirty ‘children of Geneva.’ This was the name they gave to the young men of age to bear arms. That evening, however, some citizens of riper years joined them: among whom were Berthelier, J. de Lunes, E. de la Mare, J. de la Porte, J. de la Thoy, and J. Pécolat. ‘Gentlemen,’ said Berthelier after supper, ‘it is a long time since this merry company has had any fun.’ They were all agreed. Berthelier delighted in setting his enemies at defiance without any regard for the consequences. ‘The mule of the respectable Claude Grossi is dead,’ he continued; ‘that judge is a wretch continually beating after us and our friends. Let us play him a trick: let us sell his mule’s skin by auction to the highest bidder.’ The proposal was adopted by acclamation. Two or three, however, appeared to wish to withdraw: ‘Let every one follow the drum on pain of being fined a gold crown,’ said Berthelier. ‘Agreed, agreed!’ cried the giddiest of the company. At every Court and even in the houses of many noblemen it was the custom to keep fools who had the privilege of telling the boldest truths with impunity. The Abbot of Bonmont had one named Master Littlejohn Smallfoot. Berthelier, desirous of carrying out the practical joke to the uttermost, sent for Littlejohn. ‘Here,’ said he, ‘here’s a proclamation for you to cry through the streets. Forward!’ All marched out with drawn swords, and, with the drummer at their head, began to traverse the streets, stopping at every place where the ordinary publications were made. After a roll of the drum, Master Littlejohn blew a horn and cried with his squeaking voice: ‘O yes, this is to give notice that whoever wishes to buy the skin of a beast, of the grossest ass in Geneva, and will call at the house situate between the keeper’s and the Hôtel de Ville, it will be sold to the highest bidder.’ ‘Is not that where Judge Gros lives?’ asked a bystander. ‘Yes, it’s he that is the gross ass,’ replied another. A general burst of laughter followed this proclamation. Andrew Navis in particular indulged in the most noisy demonstrations; he was bent on showing that he was as good a patriot as the rest.

The oldest of the patriots were however uneasy: the elder Lévrier thought they were going too fast. ‘Ah,’ said he, ‘these young folks will play us a pretty game!’ ‘Certes,’ added others spitefully, ‘this Berthelier has a singular talent for stirring up quarrels.’102 The joke was continued through great part of the night.

The next day the judge of the three castles hastened to lay his complaint before the vidame and the episcopal council. The vidame called for the arrest of the guilty parties, who disappeared. Being summoned by sound of trumpet to appear at the Château de l’Ile under pain of being fined a hundred crowns, they came out of their hiding-places, and Berthelier brought an action against the vidame for having threatened him and his friends with a fine that was not authorised by the law. The partisans of Savoy were still more exasperated. ‘There is a conspiracy against my lord the bishop-prince of Geneva,’ they exclaimed; ‘he alone has the right of making proclamations.’ They wrote letter after letter to Turin, and metamorphosed a fool’s jest into the crime of high treason.103

The princes of Savoy thought that this was a disorder by which they might profit. Charles had the reputation in his hereditary states of being irresolute in deciding and feeble in executing; but whenever Geneva was concerned, he ventured upon daring measures. He gave the order of departure to his court; took with him one of the most learned diplomatists of the age, Claude de Seyssel, whom he thought he should require in the great matters that were to be transacted, and arrived in Geneva. The vidame, still irritated by the story of the mule, immediately presented his homage to the duke, and described the situation in the gloomiest of colours. ‘You see,’ said Charles to his councillors, ‘the citizens of Geneva are in revolt: it needs a stronger shepherd than a bishop to bring them back to their duty.’ But Seyssel was a man of great judgment; he was no novice either in government or in history; he had studied Thucydides, Appian, Diodorus, and Xenophon, and even rendered them into French. He inquired more particularly into the matter, learned that the notice had been cried by the Abbot of Bonmont’s fool, and that it was the same fellow who sang habitually in the streets all the comic songs produced by the satiric vein of the Genevans. The diplomatist smiled. ‘This business of the mule is a mere practical joke,’ he said to the duke; ‘fools, you know, have the privilege of saying and doing everything; and as for the band of wags who surrounded the buffoon, do not let us make these young men into Cethegi and Catilines. The cardinals will never consent to give us the temporal sovereignty of Geneva for such foolery. It would be too much, my lord, for the first stroke; we must mount to the pinnacle of sovereignty by shorter steps. This story will not however be quite useless to us; we will employ it to sow dissension among our enemies.’ In fine, the able Seyssel having come to an understanding with the bishop, the latter summoned to his presence those of ‘the band,’ that is to say, of the children of Geneva, whom he thought most pliable. ‘You will gain nothing,’ said Claude de Seyssel to them, ‘by following a lot of rioters and rebels. In making this proclamation you committed a wrongful action, and you might justly receive corporal punishment; but the bishop is a good prince, inclined to mercy; he will pardon all of you except Berthelier and his accomplices. He will even give you office, places, and pensions ... only do not consort any more with seditious people.’ Many, delighted at getting out of the scrape, thanked Seyssel heartily, and promised that they should be seen no more among the disaffected.104 The bastard showed himself more difficult with regard to the son of his procurator-fiscal: the bravadoes of Andrew Navis, at the time of the proclamation about the mule, had aroused all the prelate’s anger. It would seem that the poor father dared not intercede for his prodigal son; one of his friends obtained his pardon, but only after Navis had promised to reform. He returned to his father’s office and might be seen constantly poring over the laws and acts of the exchequer.

This manœuvre having succeeded, and the party of the independents being thus weakened, the bishop, the duke, and their friends thought that its head should be removed: that head was Berthelier. It was not easy, however, to get rid of him: he was a member of council, much looked up to in Geneva, and possessed a skill and energy that baffled all their attempts. ‘To catch this big partridge,’ said the bishop, ‘we must first trap a little decoy-bird.’ The advice appeared excellent. The prince determined accordingly to catch some friend of Berthelier’s, less formidable than himself, who by his depositions (for the question would not be spared) would compromise the best citizens in Geneva. The decoy would by his song draw the large birds into the nets spread to catch them.105