THE priests had triumphed! They had got rid of Farel—and now, three months later of Anthony Froment.
Thus the Lord’s servants, one after another had been driven from Geneva. But when God has set the door open, no man can shut it. The preachers were gone, but they left behind them a multitude, to whom their words had been the message of life.
On the 4th of May the priests determined to make a great display of their power. That day was the feast of the Holy Winding-sheet. If you had wished to know what was the Holy Winding-sheet, the priests would tell you as follows. When the Lord Jesus was buried, the print of His face remained upon the linen cloth in which He was wrapped, and now, fifteen hundred years later, was still there. Moreover, this Winding-sheet had by some means found its way to Geneva, and was shown once a year with great pomp.
The stout canon, Peter Wernli, was to perform the service. He dressed himself in his finest robes, and sang loudly. Meanwhile his thoughts were far away from the sepulcher in Judea, and from the Saviour who was laid in it. He had scarcely finished the service, when he hurried off to the vicar’s house—that house, where twice before the priests had met in council. This time they were again met to form a fresh plan for murdering all the Huguenots. Meanwhile some of the Catholics had gone down to the Molard, and were stirring up any they could find to attack the Huguenots at once. Several times the Huguenots who were passing by were challenged to fight. But they desired peace, and refused to strike a blow.
At last, our hotheaded friend, Ami Perrin, being attacked by a Catholic, rushed upon him, and nearly killed him. Some Catholics ran straightway to the vicar’s house, shouting loudly, “Help! help! they are killing all good Christians!”
Peter Wernli sprang to his feet. He armed himself on the spot, seized his sword and halberd, which he had brought with him, and, “burning with the love of God,” he called to the priests to follow him to the Molard. “And this good knight... being very expert, was armed at once, and, not having patience to wait for the other gentlemen of the church, he went out first in his ardent courage, and ran to the Molard, where he thought to find the Christians gathered. And he cried in his fervor, ‘Courage, good Christians, do not spare those rascals!’ But, alas! he found himself amongst his enemies.” Thus writes Sister Jane, the nun of S. Claire.
The truth was, that a riotous crowd were now gathered in the Molard. The night was dark. Shouts and threats were heard on every side, and Peter Wernli knew not whom to attack. He stood in the square, swearing coarse oaths in his stentorian voice, and at least succeeded in urging on some of the Catholics to fight.
Wernli could not see where his enemies were, and knew not in which direction to strike. He therefore dealt his blows to right and left, till a Huguenot snatched his halberd, and broke it in pieces. The canon then drew his two-handed sword, and flew upon the Huguenots around. He was so well defended by his heavy armor that no blow could touch him.
As he was thus hewing down his enemies, a poor carman came up, and determined to put an end to the fight. He looked for a weak point in the priest’s armor, thrust in his sword, and Peter Wernli, having staggered to the entrance of a house, fell dead upon the stairs.
Peter Wernli had belonged to a family at Friborg. The city of Friborg called upon the council of Geneva to avenge the death of their old townsman. As the council had not been able to convict anyone of the murder of Peter, nobody had been punished for it. And now the council of Friborg, backed by the priests of Geneva, turned to their runaway bishop, who was at this time at his castle in France, where he had been “enjoying himself,” he said, having his pinks and gilly-flowers, and being “much better fed than at Geneva.” But the Fribourgers and the priests insisted upon his return to his forsaken diocese. They looked to the bishop as the last hope of saving the cause of the tottering church. On the first of July, with great pomp and splendor, the bishop rode into the city.
The town council was then called together. The bishop rose up, and asked the assembled magistrates and people whether they owned him for their prince and lord. If they said no, they would declare themselves as rebels. But they well knew if they said yes, it was all up with their liberty—more than that, there would be an end to the gospel in Geneva.
They replied that they owned the bishop as their prince, due regard being given to their ancient laws and liberties; and sent some of their number to a vaulted chamber, where the old parchments and charters of their liberty had been preserved. They looked out the most important of these ancient rolls, and carried them forthwith to the bishop’s palace, whither he had returned.
The bishop looked with scorn and disgust at these unwelcome parchments. He gave no answer to their remarks. Calling together the priests, and the chief of the Catholics, he desired them at once to make a list of all the heretics and Huguenots who were to be seized as accomplices in the murder. The list was speedily made. The chief Huguenot, Baudichon, was away, he had started for Berne.
“How were they to be caught?” was the next question. The bishop resolved to send them a friendly invitation to his house. The next day this invitation was sent out. Some of them had suspicions, some were surprised at the bishop’s amiable conduct—all were perplexed as to what it might mean.
Scarcely had they reached the bishop’s antechamber, when they were loaded with heavy chains, and carried down to the dark dungeons below. There they were left, their feet fast in the stocks, their hands manacled. Meanwhile the magistrates had heard of the arrest of their fellow-citizens. They called the council together. What was to be done? Should they submit to the awful tyranny of the bishop? The bishop was waiting his opportunity to remove them from his dungeons at Geneva. The council again demanded that they should be brought to trial before the judge, according to the laws of Geneva. But the bishop replied, “No, I shall judge them myself.” In vain was one message after another sent to the bishop, to warn him that he was setting at defiance all the laws and customs of the city. He still only replied, “I shall judge them myself.”
Greater and greater became the wrath of the magistrates. The great council of sixty was called. Fresh messages were sent. The oldest magistrates and citizens went in procession to the palace, and told the bishop he was trampling upon their ancient liberties.
Then the great council of two hundred was called. They decided, as before, not to yield to the bishop. And the bishop decided, as before, not to yield to them.
Meanwhile the prisoners remained in their dungeons, and strange rumors filled the town as to what the bishop meant to do with them.
Baudichon returned home. He had been out in the harvest fields from the early morning. As he came home after dark, he met a party of armed men at the city gate. He asked them what was the matter. They replied the bishop was going to carry off the prisoners. A sudden thought came into Baudichon’s mind. He called together fifty of his most trusty friends. He told them to take each an iron-tipped staff, with five unlighted matches at the end. He then went with them to a house near the palace, where they remained hidden till the hour of midnight. Then Baudichon ordered his men to light their matches, to hold their staves in their left hands, their swords in their right hands, and to follow him.
And thus suddenly, none daring to resist them, did they walk straight into the bishop’s palace, and up to his chamber.
The bishop “stared with amazement,” and trembled with fear. Baudichon spoke for the rest. “We demand the prisoners,” he said.
“Surrender them at once to their lawful judges.” The bishop was now completely terrified. He had already been alarmed by the sight of a comet, and this sudden apparition of armed men, with drawn swords, and with 250 lights, so bewildered and scared him that he made no resistance. He delivered up the prisoners, one and all. And without striking a blow, did Baudichon carry them off in triumph, and deliver them up to the magistrates.
And not only were the prisoners delivered from death—but, strange to say, that daring act of Baudichon had delivered Geneva forever from Peter de la Baume, and from Catholic prince-bishops from that day to this.
The poor bishop could not recover from his fright. He could not sleep; he thought his life was hanging but by a thread in the wicked Huguenot city. He told his servants he would fly at once for safety. Some Catholic magistrates, hearing the rumor, came next day, which was Sunday, to entreat him to remain. But the more the bishop thought of it, the more terrified did he feel. He gave secret orders to his servants to pack up a few needful articles. He sat up on Sunday night, and wrote a letter to the council, commanding them to put down the gospel meetings, and to defend the holy church “tooth and nail.” Early on the morning of Monday, July 14, the news spread through the town that the bishop had fled. He had escaped in the darkness of the early morning, by a little postern door, had hurried through the silent streets, had sprung into a boat, which his servants had prepared, and having ridden to a safe distance, had mounted the horse that was waiting for him, and had galloped away, never to return.
He retired to his tower of May, and rejoiced to think he should see Geneva no more.
And the free citizens of Geneva say to this day, when they want to express their utter contempt, “I don’t care a Baume for you!” F. B.