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.