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