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The duke hesitated no longer. Pacific and diplomatic means were exhausted; he must now draw the sword and with its trenchant edge hew down the pride of Geneva. Nevertheless, to save appearances, he desired that some influential body would declare against the alliance; for it would then seem as if he were supporting a Genevese party, and his intervention with an armed force would look less odious. To attain his end he turned his eyes on the chapter of St. Pierre, the bishop’s natural council, and in his absence representing the catholic church. Its members being all noble or graduates in law (which at that time amounted almost to nobility), this body might be considered as the house of lords in the Genevan constitution.205 The duke instructed his agents to work upon the canons, and they might have been seen going from door to door in the street that still bears their name. They advised the canons to be on their guard; that this alliance with the Swiss compromised everything, and particularly their functions and benefices. They were conjured to write to my lords of the League, stating that the chapter did not assent to the alliance in question. The canons, flattered by the importance which his Highness of Savoy attached to their opinion, hastily put on scapulary and amice and assembled in chapter. The success of this ducal manœuvre could not be doubtful. Only one canon was a native of Geneva; and this was Michael Navis, brother of him whom the bishop had murdered—a man as servile as his brother was independent. Two only were liberals: De Gingins, abbot of Bonmont, and Bonivard, prior of St. Victor, who was the youngest of the chapter, and who had no vote because he was not in holy orders. All the other canons were devoted to the duke—all worthy gentlemen, much impressed with their own dignity, like those canons of St. John of Lyons who, having produced their quarterings of nobility, demanded the privilege of not kneeling at the elevation of the host. The chapter opened their deliberations; and ‘the stout master-courtiers who had the right to speak first began to say amen.’ Bonivard, who saw these fat canons one after another bending low their bloated faces, grew alarmed at the turn matters were taking. What would be the consequence if the Church said No, while the people said Yes? What disorders at home, what weakness abroad! He saw that the opposition in the chapter fell to his share; he performed his duty valiantly and paid dearly for it. He had not been asked for his vote, and the secretary was preparing to commit the resolution to writing, when the prior rose and said: ‘Stop a little, Mr. Secretary, although I am not in sacris (in orders) and have no vote in the chapter, I have a duty here. Now it seems to me that before granting the illustrious duke his request, you should consider the purport of it a little better.206 It tends to break off that alliance with Friburg which the people of this city have so much at heart that they would lose their wives and children sooner than renounce it. Think of what you are doing.... Very reverend sirs, you cannot return an answer to the duke without that answer being known to our people with whom you have promised to live and die. What will they say of you? With your permission I will tell you. They will say that you are playing the scorpion’s trick—that you pretend to be friends in front, and behind you inflict a mortal wound with your tail.... Fear their anger. Rest assured that if they say nothing at the moment, they will bear you in mind another day.’ The ‘stout masters,’ who were far from brave, began to feel uneasy and to turn in their stalls. They were in an awkward dilemma. ‘There is one way of satisfying both parties,’ continued Bonivard; ‘that is, reply to my lord of Savoy, and to the people also, that your business does not extend to alliances and other like civil matters, but to spiritual things only; that it does not concern you to make or unmake treaties; and that your function is only to pray to God and to pray principally for peace among all men. If you do this, no one will have reason to be dissatisfied with you.’

Thus did Bonivard at the beginning of the sixteenth century lay down a categorical distinction between the spiritual and the temporal government, and maintain that the Church and the State had each its own sphere. The canons thought this theory very strange, and stranger still that a young man of twenty-five should presume to teach it them.

The Bishop of Maurienne, who fancied himself a great diplomatist, was seriously offended. ‘Do you think, M. de St. Victor,’ he said, ‘that we do not know how to write a letter?’ ... The Savoyard canons were exasperated that one of their countrymen should desire anything but what the duke wished. ‘The house of Savoy,’ said M. de Monthoux, ‘has conferred many favours on your predecessors, and is it thus you show your gratitude?’ ... ‘I would willingly render service to the duke,’ answered Bonivard, ‘but before all I will observe my oath to Geneva and the Church.’ At these words, which resembled a reproach, murmurs arose from all quarters. Bonivard was not intimidated. Upright in heart, noble in intention, wise in counsel, of extraordinary intelligence and superior talent, he was far above the anger of his venerable colleagues. ‘Very well, then, gentlemen,’ said he, ‘do as you please, but I protest that I do not agree.’ Then turning to the clerk, he said: ‘Write down that, Mr. Secretary,’ and left the chapter. The canons were too full of the sense of their own importance to heed the protest. Persuaded that it was their duty to check a political movement, which might besides lead to a religious revolution, these churchmen, desirous of displaying a courage similar to that of the Roman senators, peremptorily drew up their declaration against the Swiss alliance, without regard to the resistance of the people which Bonivard had predicted.

At the dawn of the canonical institution, when the scattered priests of a church were assembled by the bishop into one body, these priests or canons led at first a life so regular and so strict that the people were enraptured with them. But that did not last long, and the lives of these ecclesiastics too often became so disorderly that the laity turned away from them with disgust and hatred. It had been so at Geneva. The decision of the canons was soon known in the city, and the people immediately assembled in great numbers in the Place Molard. They described the scene in the chapter, of which Bonivard may perhaps have given some hints; and complained that lazy priests should dare to declare their opinions on public matters and take side with the enemies of Geneva. They said that churchmen were always wanting to meddle with politics, and striving, by flattering authority, to gratify their avarice and increase their power. It was proposed to pay these reverend men a visit, and request them to mind their own affairs and leave state matters alone. In fact, the patriots were stirring, and ready, says Bonivard, ‘to proceed in great rage to assault the canons.’ Aimé de Gingins, abbot of Bonmont and episcopal vicar, who lived with his colleagues in the street still known as the Rue des Chanoines,207 sent in all haste for his friend the prior of St. Victor, that he might stop the people. Would he consent? As the canons had rejected his advice, might he not leave them to get out as they could from the evil strait into which they had fallen? Bonivard in truth hated despotism, and was one of the most honestly liberal men of the sixteenth century. ‘Monarchical princes are always enemies of the liberty of the people,’ he said, ‘and the servants whom they keep are the same, because they can live in greater licence under king than under law. This nearly caused the ruin of Rome, when the young men conspired to restore the kings, as Livy bears witness in his second book.’208

But if Bonivard was opposed to the despotism of princes, he was equally so to the disorders of the people. Accordingly he did not hesitate, but hurried to the episcopal vicar’s. De Gingins, who was waiting for the return of his messenger in the keenest anxiety, flew to meet the prior, exclaiming: ‘Ah, St. Victor, if you do not give orders, some disaster will happen to the canons. Our folks have done a foolish thing, and the people have heard of it: see if you can quiet them.’209

Bonivard hastily lighted a torch (for it was night) and ran to meet the people. He found them at the top of the Perron, a steep street, which opens between the cathedral and the Rue des Chanoines. Berthelier and the ex-syndic Hugues ‘were in front,’ he tells us. The former of the two, seeing his friend Bonivard at the top of the street, with a furred amice upon his head, holding a torch in one hand, and with the other making eager signs for them to stop, exclaimed with an oath: ‘Ah! you Bouche-Coppons, you make a fair show in front with treachery behind.’—‘Bouche-Coppon (or hooded friar) was a name they gave us,’ says the prior, ‘because we carried the amice on our heads in winter.’210

The moment was critical: the trembling canons expected to see the people fall upon them; some of their servants, peering anxiously down the Perron, from the top of the street watched the movements of the crowd, and of a sudden shrank back with terror on hearing the shouts of the advancing huguenots. In fact the people were exasperated and demanded that the priests should be brought to account for meddling with politics. Bonivard did not flinch: ‘Gently, good sirs,’ he said to the citizens, ‘do not be vexed at trifles; there is not so much harm done as you think.’ Then ascribing to the canons his own ideas, he continued: ‘These reverend gentlemen have written, that they will not live under other protection than that of God and St. Peter, and that as for the alliance with Friburg, they do not mean either to accept or refuse it.... The letter is not sent yet ... you shall see it!’ Upon this Besançon Hugues motioned the people to halt, and the crowd obeyed a magistrate so respected. On his side Bonivard hastily despatched a messenger to the Bishop of Maurienne, the most intelligent of the canons, instructing him to ‘change promptly the purport of the letter.’ Maurienne privately sent for the secretary and dictated to him a new despatch such as Bonivard required. Berthelier, Hugues, and Pécolat, deputed by the people, arrived shortly after, conducted by Bonivard, when Maurienne showed them the new document. They suspected the trick. ‘Oh no! the ink is still quite wet,’ they said. However, as the contents satisfied them, they would not examine the letter too narrowly, and the people, unwilling to make a disturbance to no purpose, were satisfied also. ‘Let the business be settled this once,’ they said; ‘but let us keep a kick in store for the other courtiers.’ They meant, no doubt, that having given a smart lesson to the canons, they reserved the honour of giving another to the mamelukes. ‘I have inserted this,’ says Bonivard, concluding his account of this incident, ‘to caution all republics never to give credit or authority to people bred in the courts of princes.’211