The Syndic smiled after a sickly fashion. Petitot? The stickling pedant! The thin, niggling whipster! "Or Messer Fabri?" Blondel shook his head. "Or Messer Baudichon?" "I called him but now--a fat hog!" It was Basterga's turn to shake his head. "He is not one to forget," he said gravely. "I fear you will hear of that again, Messer Blondel. I fear it will make trouble for you. But if these will not, is there any man in Geneva, any man you can name, who would give his life for you?" "Do men give life so easily?" Blondel answered, moving painfully in his chair. "Yet you will give yours for them! You will give yours! And who will be a ducat the better?" "I shall at least die for freedom," the Syndic muttered, gnawing his moustache. "A word!" "For the religion, then." "It is that which men make it!" the scholar retorted. "There have been good men of all religions, though we dare not say as much in public, or in Geneva. 'Tis not the religion. 'Tis the way men live it! Was John Bernardino of Assisi, whom some call St. Francis, a worse man than Arnold of Brescia, the Reformer? Or is your Beza a better man than Messer Francis of Sales? Or would the heavens fall if Geneva embraced the faith of the good Archbishop of Milan? Words, Messer Blondel, believe me, words!" "Yet men die for them!" "Not wise men. And when you have died for them, who will thank you?" The Syndic groaned. "Who will know, or style you martyr?" Basterga continued forcibly. "Baudichon, whom you have called a fat hog? He will sit in your seat. Petitot--he said but a little while ago that he would buy this house if he lived long enough." "He did?" The Syndic came to his feet as if a spring had raised him. "Certainly. And he is a rich man, you know." "May the Bise search his bones!" Blondel cried, trembling with fury. For this was the realisation of his worst fears. Petitot to live in his house, lie warm in his bed, sneer at his memory across the table that had been his, rule in the Council where he had been first! Petitot, that miserable crawler who had clogged his efforts for years, who had shared, without deserving, his honours, who had spied on him and carped at him day by day and hour by hour! Petitot to succeed him! To be all and own all, and sun himself in the popular eye, and say "Geneva, it is I!" While he, Blondel, lay rotting and forgotten, stark, beneath snow and rain, winter wind and summer drought! Perish Geneva first! Perish friend and foe alike!