Without the city, in a solitary place then called Gervasa (now corrupted into _Savoises_), was a quiet meadow, which the Rhone bathed with its swift waters: this was Berthelier’s favourite retreat. Remote from the noise of the city, seated on the picturesque bank of the river, watching its blue waves gliding rapidly past, he dwelt on the swiftness of time, and casting a serious glance into the future, he asked himself when would Geneva be free? ‘Every day he was in the habit of taking his pleasure there,’ say the annals, ‘and never omitted doing so, although at the time he had so many enemies in Geneva.’[257] On Tuesday, August 23, he went out between six and seven to breathe the morning air in his favourite retreat.[258] Berthelier was now forty years of age; everything foretold him that his end was near; but he preferred, without passion and without fear, to make the passage from life to death. This active and much-dreaded citizen began to sport, but with a serious gentleness, upon the brink of the grave. He had a little weasel which he was very fond of, and ‘for the greater contempt of his enemies,’ he had taken the tame ‘creature in his bosom, and thus walked out to his garden, playing with it.’ The vidame, who knew of these morning walks, had given orders for a certain number of soldiers to be posted outside the walls of the city, whilst he remained within, in order to take Berthelier from behind. Just as the latter was about to pass the gates, the troop that awaited him came forward. Berthelier, ‘always _booted_ and ready to depart for the unknown shores of eternity,’ had no thought of returning to the city and arousing the youth of Geneva; he did not turn aside from the road, but continued gently caressing his weasel, and ‘walked straight towards the armed men, as proudly as if he was going to take them.’[259] ‘They met,’ says a manuscript, ‘under the trellis in front of the hostelry of the Goose,’[260] and the vidame, who was descending the hill on his mule, coming up with him at the same time, laid his hand upon his shoulder, saying: ‘In the name of my lord of Geneva, I arrest you,’ and prepared to take away his sword. Berthelier, who had only to sound his terrible whistle to collect enthusiastic defenders, stood calm, without a thought of resistance, and quietly handed his sword to the vidame, contenting himself with the words: ‘Take care what you do with this sword, for you will have to answer for it.’