his pardon, but only after Navis had promised to reform. He returned to his father’s office and might be seen constantly poring over the laws and acts of the exchequer. This manœuvre having succeeded, and the party of the independents being thus weakened, the bishop, the duke, and their friends thought that its head should be removed: that head was Berthelier. It was not easy, however, to get rid of him: he was a member of council, much looked up to in Geneva, and possessed a skill and energy that baffled all their attempts. ‘To catch this big partridge,’ said the bishop, ‘we must first trap a little decoy-bird.’ The advice appeared excellent. The prince determined accordingly to catch some friend of Berthelier’s, less formidable than himself, who by his depositions (for the _question_ would not be spared) would compromise the best citizens in Geneva. The decoy would by his song draw the large birds into the nets spread to catch them.[105] CHAPTER VIII. PÉCOLAT TORTURED AND BERTHELIER ACCUSED. (1517.) Among the best patriots of Geneva was John Pécolat, whom we have already met at the mule supper. He had not Berthelier’s strength of character, but he had spirit. A prey by turns to enthusiasm and fear, at times indulging in the most courageous acts or the most culpable weakness, subject to the blackest melancholy or to fits of the maddest humour, Pécolat was at once a hero and a jester. His social position offered the same contrasts. One of his ancestors had been syndic in 1409, another councillor in 1474; in 1508 his father had exercised the highest functions in the State, and he was himself one of the Council of Fifty; he was well instructed, understood Latin, and yet was a hosier by trade. It is true that at this time we often find traders invested with the highest offices; it is one of the peculiarities of democratic manners; and we meet with examples of it in modern society. An accident which deprived him of the use of his right arm, compelled him to give up his business, reduced him to poverty, and plunged him at first into great dejection. However, that did not last long, and there was no man in Geneva that had such fits of gaiety. At a banquet, nobody was louder than Pécolat; he laughed and joked; pun followed pun, in rapid succession. ‘What happy things come into his head!’ said everybody, and ‘it was these happy things,’ adds the chronicler, ‘that gave him access to good tables.’[106] When he entered the room a frank and hearty greeting, an enthusiasm mingled with laughter welcomed his arrival. But Pécolat had hardly left his friends when dark thoughts mounted to his brain. Sitting in his narrow chamber, he thought of his maimed arm, his indigence, his dependent life; he thought frequently too of the liberties of Geneva, which he saw sacrificed; and this strange man who made all the city laugh, would burst into tears. It was not long before Pécolat compromised himself in such a manner as to