toilet-table, with a mirror in Venetian glass set in a shroud of lace. The polished floor has no carpet, and there is not a chair that can be moved without an effort. A window, looking south towards the river and the woods, is open. The summer breezes fill the room with fragrance. Under a ponderous mantelpiece of coloured marbles Marguerite seats herself on a narrow settee. Her large, sparkling eyes and animated face, her comely shape, and easy though stately bearing, invite, yet repel, approach. She still wears her riding-dress of emerald velvet laced with gold, and a plumed cap lies beside her. Her luxuriant hair, escaped from a golden net, covers her shoulders. She is a perfect picture of youth and beauty, and as fresh as her namesake, the daisy.
Charlotte de Presney, at least ten years older than the Princess, is an acknowledged belle. Her features are regular, her complexion brilliant, and her face full of intelligence; but there is a cunning expression about her dimpling mouth that greatly mars her beauty.
“Have you nothing for me, Charlotte?” whispers the Princess, stretching out her little hand glistening with precious stones. “I know you have. Give it me. His eyes told me so when he passed me in the avenue.”
“Your highness must not ask me. Suppose her Majesty opens that door and sees me in the act of giving you a letter?”
“Oh! méchante, why do you plague me? I know you have something hidden; give it me, or I will search you,” and she jumps up and casts her soft arms round the lady-in-waiting.
Charlotte disengages herself gently, and with her eyes fixed on the low door leading into the Queen’s closet sighs deeply, and takes a letter from her bosom, bound with blue silk, and sealed with the arms of Guise.
“Ah! my colours! Is he not charming, my lover?” mutters Marguerite, as her eager eyes devour the lines. “He says he has followed us, disguised, from Tours; not even his father knows he has come, but believes him to be in Paris, in case he should be questioned by the Queen-mother,—Charlotte, do you think her Majesty recognised him in the avenue? He was admirably disguised.”
“Your highness knows that nothing escapes the Queen’s eye. The sudden appearance of a stranger in this lonely spot must have created observation.”
“Ah! is he not adorable, Charlotte, to come like a real knight-errant to gaze at his lady-love? How grand he looked—my noble Guise, my warrior, my hero!” and Marguerite leans back pensively on the settee, as though calling up his image before her.
“Her Majesty will be very angry, madame, if she recognised him. I saw her questioning the Duke, his father, and pointing towards him as he disappeared into the wood,” answered Charlotte, with the slightest expression of bitterness in her well-modulated voice.
“Henry has discovered,” continues Marguerite, still so lost in reverie that she does not heed her remark, “that the Queen has a masque to-night on the river. He will be disguised, he tells me, as a Venetian nobleman, in a yellow brocaded robe, with a violet mantle, and a red mask. He will wear my colours—blue, heavenly blue, the symbol of hope and faith—on his shoulder-knot. Our watchword is to be ‘Eternal love.’ ”
“Holy Virgin!” exclaims Charlotte, with alarm, laying her hand on Marguerite’s shoulder, “your highness will not dare to meet him?”
“Be silent, petite sotte,” breaks in the Princess. “We are to meet on the southern bank of the river. Charlotte, you must help me; I shall be sure to be watched, but I must escape from the Queen by some device. Change my dress, and then—and then——” and she turns her laughing eyes on the alarmed face of Charlotte, “under the shady woods, by the parterre near the grotto, I shall meet him—and, alone.”
“And what on earth am I to say to the Queen if she asks for your highness?” replies Charlotte, turning away her face that the Princess might not see the tears that bedew her cheeks.
“Anything, my good Charlotte; you have a ready wit, or my mother would not favour you. I trust to your invention, it has been often exercised,” and she looked archly at her. “Tell the Queen that I am fatigued, and have retired into the château until the banquet, when I will rejoin her Majesty. There is no fear, ma mie, especially as the Comte de Clermont is at Chenonceau. Her Majesty, stern and silent though she be, unbends to him and greatly affects his company,” and she laughs softly and points towards the closed door.
“I trust there is, indeed, no fear of discovery, Princess,” returns Charlotte; “for her Majesty would never forgive me.” At which Marguerite laughs again.
“Princess,” says Charlotte, looking very grave, and seating herself on a stool at her feet, “tell me, truly, do you love the Duc de Guise?” Charlotte’s fine eyes are fixed intently on Marguerite as she asks this question.
“Peste! you know I do. He is as great a hero as Rinaldo in the Italian poet’s romance of Orlando. Somewhat sedate, perhaps, for me, but so handsome, spite of that scar. I even love that scar, Charlotte.”
“Does the Duke love you?” again asks Charlotte, with a trembling voice.
“Par exemple! do you think the man lives who would not return my love?” and the young Princess colours, and tosses the masses of waving brown curls back from her brow, staring at her companion in unfeigned astonishment.
“I was thinking,” continues Charlotte, avoiding her gaze, and speaking in a peculiar voice, “I was thinking of that poor La Molle, left alone in Paris. How jealous he was! You loved him well, madame, a week ago.”
“Bah! that is ancient history—we are at Chenonceau now. When I return to Paris it is possible I may console him. Poor La Molle! one cannot be always constant. Charlotte,” said the Princess, after a pause, looking inquisitively at her, “I believe you are in love with the Balafré yourself.”
Charlotte colours, and, not daring to trust her voice in reply, shakes her head and bends her eyes on the ground.
Marguerite, too much occupied with her own thoughts to take much heed of her friend’s emotion, pats her fondly on the cheek, and proceeds—
“You are dull, ma mie; amuse yourself like me, now with one, then with another. Be constant to none. Regard your own interest and inclination only. But leave Guise alone; he is my passion. His proud reserve pleases me. His stately devotion touches me. He is a king among men. I love to torment the hero of Jarnac and Moncontour. He is jealous, too—jealous of the very air I breathe; but in time, that may become wearisome. I never thought of that,” adds she, musing.
“Your highness will marry soon,” says Charlotte, rising and facing the Princess, “and then Guise must console himself——”
“With you, par exemple, belle des belles? You need not blush so, Charlotte, I read your secret. But, ma mie, I mean to marry Henri de Guise myself, even if my mother and the King, my brother, refuse their consent. They may beat me—imprison me—or banish me; I will still marry Henri de Guise.”
“Her Majesty will never consent to this alliance, madame.”
“You are jealous, Charlotte, or you would not say so. Why should I not marry him, when my sister-in-law, the young Queen of Scots, is of the House of Lorraine?”
“Yes, madame, but the case is altogether different; she is a Queen-regnant. The house of Lorraine is already too powerful.”
“Ah!” exclaims the volatile Marguerite, starting up, “I love freedom; freedom in life, freedom in love. Charlotte, you say truly, I shall never be constant.”
“Then, alas, for your husband! He must love you, and you will break his heart.”
“Husband! I will have no husband but Henri de Guise. Guise or a convent. I should make an enchanting nun!” And she laughs a low merry laugh, springs to her feet, and turns a pirouette on the floor. “I think the dress would suit me. I would write Latin elegies on all my old lovers.”
“You will hear somewhat of that, madame, later from the Queen,” Charlotte replies, with a triumphant air. “A husband is chosen for you already.”
“Who? Who is he?”
“You will learn from her Majesty very shortly.”
“Charlotte, if you do not tell me this instant, I will never forgive you;” and Marguerite suddenly becomes grave and reseats herself. “Next time you want my help I won’t move a finger.”
“I dare not tell you, madame.”
“Then I will tell Guise to-night you are in love with him,” cries she, reddening with anger.
“Oh, Princess,” exclaims Charlotte, sinking at her feet, and seizing her hand; “you would not be so cruel!”
“But I will, unless you tell me.”
At this moment, when Marguerite was dragging her friend beside her on the sofa, determined to obtain an avowal from her almost by force, the low door opens, and Catherine stands before them.
THE two girls were startled and visibly trembled; but, recovering from their fright, rose and made their obeisance. For a moment Catherine gazed earnestly at them, as if divining the reason of their discomposure; then beckoning to the Princess, she led her daughter into her writing-room, where she seated herself beside a table covered with despatches and papers.
“My daughter,” said the Queen, contemplating Marguerite with satisfaction, as the Princess stood before her, her cheeks flushed by the fright that Catherine’s sudden entrance had occasioned. “I have commanded a masque to-night on the river, and a banquet in the water-gallery, to celebrate my return. You will attend me and be careful not to leave me, my child. Strangers have been seen among the woods. Did you not mark one as we approached riding near us?” And Catherine gave a searching glance at Marguerite. “I have given strict orders that all strangers (Huguenots, probably, with evil designs upon his Majesty) shall be arrested and imprisoned.”
Again Catherine turned her piercing eyes upon Marguerite, who suddenly grew very pale.
“My daughter, you seem indisposed, the heat has overcome you—be seated.”
Marguerite sank into a chair near the door. She knew that her mother had recognised the Duke, and that it would be infinitely difficult to keep her appointment with him that evening. Neither mother nor daughter spoke for some moments. Catherine was studying the effect of her words on Marguerite, and Marguerite was endeavouring to master her agitation. When the Queen next addressed her, the Princess was still pale but perfectly composed.
“My daughter, you passed much of your time before you left the Louvre with the Comte la Molle. I know he is highly favoured by my son Anjou. Does his company amuse you?”
Marguerite’s cheeks became scarlet.
“Your Majesty has ever commanded me,” replied she in a firm voice, “to converse with those young nobles whom you and my brother the King have called to the Court.”
“True, my child, you have done so, I acknowledge freely, and, by such gracious bearing you have, doubtless, forwarded his Majesty’s interests.” There was again silence. “Our cousin, the young Duc Henri de Guise, is also much in your company,” Catherine said at length, speaking very slowly and turning her eyes full upon Marguerite who, for an instant, returned her gaze boldly. “I warn you, Marguerite, that neither the King my son, nor I, will tolerate more alliances with the ambitious House of Lorraine. They stand too near the throne already.”
Marguerite during this speech did not look up, not daring to meet the steadfast glance of the Queen.
“Surely,” said she, speaking low, “your Majesty has been prejudiced against the Duke by my brother Charles. His Majesty hates him. He is jealous of him.”
“My child, speak with more respect of his Majesty.”
“Madame, the King has threatened to beat me if I dared to love the Duc de Guise. But I am your Majesty’s own child,” and Marguerite turned towards Catherine caressingly. “I fear not threats.” Catherine smiled and curiously observed her. “But your Majesty surely forgets,” continued Marguerite, warmly, “that our cousin of Guise is the chief pillar of the throne, a hero who, at sixteen, vanquished Coligni at Poitiers; and that at Massignac and Jarnac, in company with my brother Anjou, he performed prodigies of valour.”
“My daughter, I forget nothing. You appear to have devoted much time to the study of the Duke—our cousin’s life. It is a brilliant page in our history. I have, however, other projects for you. You must support the throne by a royal marriage.”
“Oh, madame!” exclaimed Marguerite, heaving a deep sigh, and clasping her hands as she looked imploringly at her mother, who proceeded to address her as though unconscious of this appeal.
“Avoid Henri de Guise, Princess. I have already remonstrated with his father on his uninvited presence here, of which he professes entire ignorance—for he is here, and you know it, Marguerite”—and she shot an angry glance at the embarrassed Princess. “Avoid the Duke, I say, and let me see you attended less often by La Molle, or I must remove him from Court.”
“Madame!” cried Marguerite, turning white, and looking greatly alarmed, well knowing what this removal meant; “I will obey your commands. But whom, may I ask, do you propose for my husband? Unless I can choose a husband for myself”—and she hesitated, for the Queen bent her eyes sternly upon her and frowned—“I do not care to marry at all,” she added in a low voice.
“Possibly you may not, my daughter. But his Majesty and the council have decided otherwise. Your hand must ultimately seal a treaty important to the King your brother, in order to reconcile conflicting creeds and to conciliate a powerful party.”
All this time Marguerite had stood speechless before the Queen. At this last sentence, fatal to her hopes of marrying the Duc de Guise, the leader of the Catholic party, her lips parted as if to speak, but she restrained herself and was silent.
“The daughters of France,” said Catherine, lifting her eyes to the ceiling, “do not consider personal feelings in marriage, but the good of the kingdom. My child, you are to marry very shortly the King of Navarre. I propose journeying myself to the Castle of Nérac to conclude a treaty with my sister, Queen Jeanne, his mother. Henri de Béarn will demand your hand. He will be accepted when an alliance is concluded between the Queen of Navarre and myself.”
“But, my mother,” answered Marguerite, stepping forward in her excitement, “he is a heretic. I am very Catholic. Surely your Majesty will not force me——”
“You will convert him,” replied Catherine.
“But, madame, the Prince is not to my taste. He is rough and unpolished. He is a mountaineer—a Béarnois.”
“My daughter, he will be your husband. Now, Marguerite, listen to me. This marriage is indispensable for reasons of state. The King, your brother, and I myself like the King of Navarre as little as you do. That little kingdom in the valleys of the Pyrenees is a thorn in our side which we must pluck out. Those pestilent and accursed heretics must be destroyed. We call them to our Court; we lodge them in the Louvre—not for love, Marguerite—not for love. Have patience, my daughter. I cannot unfold to you the secrets of the council; but it is possible that Henry of Navarre may not live long. Life is in the hands of God,—and of the King.” She added in a lower voice. “Console yourself. A day is coming that will purge France of Huguenots; and if Henry do not accept the mass——”
“Madame,” said Marguerite, archly (who had eagerly followed her mother’s words), “I trust that the service of his Majesty will not require me to convert the King of Navarre?”
“No, Princess,” said Catherine, with a sinister smile. “My daughter,” continued she, “your dutiful obedience pleases me. The King may, in the event of your marriage, create new posts of honour about the King of Navarre while he lives. Monsieur la Molle, a most accomplished gentleman, shall be remembered. Au revoir, Princess. Send Charlotte de Presney to me. Go to your apartments, and prepare for the masque on the river I have commanded to-night in honour of our arrival.”
So Marguerite, full of thought, curtseying low before her mother, kissed her hand, and retired to her apartments.
As the sun sets and the twilight deepens, torch after torch lights up the river and the adjacent woods. Every window in the château is illuminated, and the great beacon-fires flash out from the turrets. The sound of a lute, the refrain of a song, a snatch from a hunting-chorus, are borne upon the breeze, as, one by one, painted barges shoot out from under the arches of the bridge along the current.
As night advances the forest on both sides of the river is all ablaze. On the southern bank, where the parterre is divided from the woods by marble balustrades, statues, and hedges of clipped yew, festoons of coloured lamps hang from tree to tree, and fade away into sylvan bowers deep among the tangled coppice. The fountains, cunningly lit from below, flash up in streams of liquid fire. Each tiny streamlet that crosses the mossy lawns is a thread of gold. Tents of satin and velvet, fringed with gold, border broad alleys and marble terraces of dazzling whiteness. The river, bright as at midday with the light of thousands of torches, is covered with gondolas and fantastic barques. Some are shaped like birds—swans, parrots, and peacocks; others resemble shells, and butterflies whose expanded wings of glittering stuff form the sails. All are filled with maskers habited in every device of quaint disguisement. Not a face or form is to be recognised. See how rapidly the fairy fleet cleaves the water, now dashing into deep shadows, now lingering in the torchlight that glances on the rich silks and grotesque features of the maskers. Yonder a whole boat’s crew is entangled among the water lilies that thickly fringe the banks under the over-arching willows. Some disembark among the fountains, or mount the broad marble steps leading to the arcades; some descend to saunter far away into the illuminated woods. Others, tired of the woods, are re-embarking on the river. In the centre of the stream is a barge with a raised platform covered with velvet embroidered in gold, on which are placed the Queen’s musicians, who wake the far-off echoes with joyous symphonies. Beyond, in the woods, are maskers who dance under silken hangings spread among the overhanging branches of giant oaks, or recline upon cushions piled upon rich carpets beside tables covered with choice wines, fruit, and confectionery. The merry laughter of these revellers mixes with strains of voluptuous music from flutes and flageolets, played by concealed musicians placed in pavilion orchestras hidden among the underwood, tempting onwards those who desire to wander into the dark and lonely recesses of the forest.
Among the crowd which thickly gathers on the parterre, a tall man of imposing figure, habited in a Venetian dress of yellow satin and wrapped in a cloak of the same colour, paces up and down. He is alone and impatient. He wears a red mask; conspicuous on his right shoulder is a knot of blue and silver ribbons. As each boat approaches to discharge its gay freight upon the bank he eagerly advances and mixes with the company. Then, as though disappointed, he returns into the shadow thrown by the portico of a shell grotto. Wearied with waiting, he seats himself upon the turf. “She will not come!” he says, and then sinks back against a tree and covers his face with his hands. The fountains throw up columns of fiery spray; the soft music sighs in the distance; crowds of fluttering maskers pace up and down the plots of smooth grass or linger on the terrace—still he sits and waits.
A soft hand touches him, and a sweet voice whispers, “Eternal love!” It is the Princess, who, disguised in a black domino procured by Charlotte de Presney, has escaped from the Queen-mother and stands before him.
For an instant she unmasks and turns her lustrous eyes upon him.
Henri de Guise (for it is he) leaps to his feet. He kneels before her and kisses her hands. “Oh! my Princess, what condescension!” he murmurs, in a low voice. “I trembled lest I had been too bold. I feared that my letter had not reached you.”
A gay laugh answers his broken sentences.
“My cousin, will you promise to take on your soul all the lies I have told my mother in order to meet you?”
“I will absolve you, madame.”
“Ah, my cousin, I have ill news! My mother and the King are determined to marry me to the King of Navarre.”
“Impossible!” exclaims the Duke; “it would be sacrilege!”
“Oh, Henry!” replies the Princess, in a pleading voice, and laying her hand upon his arm, “my cousin, bravest among the brave, swear by your own sword that you will save me from this detestable heretic!”
The Duke did not answer, but gently drew her near the entrance of the grotto. It was now late, and the lights within had grown dim. “Marguerite,” he says, in a voice trembling with passion, “come where I may adore you as my living goddess—come where I may conjure you to give me a right to defend you. Say but one word, and to-morrow I will ask your hand in marriage; the King dare not refuse me.”
“Alas! my cousin, my mother’s will is absolute.”
“It is a vile conspiracy!” cries the Duke, in great agitation. “The House of Lorraine, my Princess, save but for the Crown, is as great as your own. My uncle, the Cardinal, shall appeal to the Holy See. Marguerite, do but love me, and I will never leave you! Marguerite, hear me!” He seizes her hands—he presses her in his arms, drawing her each moment deeper into the recesses of the grotto. As they disappear, a voice is heard without, calling softly—
“Madame! Madame Marguerite! for the love of heaven, come, come!”
In an instant the spell is broken. Marguerite extricates herself from the arms of the Duke and rushes forward.
It is Charlotte de Presney, disguised like herself in a black domino. “Not a moment is to be lost,” she says, hurriedly. “Her Majesty has three times asked for your highness. She supposes I am in the château seeking you.” Charlotte’s voice is unsteady. She wore her mask to conceal her face, for it was bathed in tears.
In an instant she and the Princess, followed by the Duke, cross the terrace to where a boat is moored under the shade of some willows, and are lost in the crowd.
The Duke dashes into the darkest recesses of the forest, and is seen no more.
HENRY, King of Navarre, accompanied by the Prince de Condé and his wife, and attended by eight hundred Huguenot gentlemen dressed in black (for his mother, Queen Jeanne, had died suddenly at Paris, while he was on the road), has just arrived at the Louvre to claim the hand of the Princess Marguerite. The two Princes and the Princesse de Condé are received with royal honours and much effusion of compliments by King Charles and Catherine; they are lodged in the Palace of the Louvre. Whatever Marguerite’s feelings are, she carefully conceals them. Insinuating, adroit, clever, gifted with a facile pen and a flattering tongue, she is too ambitious to resist, too volatile to be constant. She lives in a world of intrigue, as she tells us in her memoirs, and piquing herself on being “so Catholic, so devoted to the ‘sacred faith of her fathers,’ ” and she pendulates between Henri de Guise and La Molle, amid a thousand other flirtations. She lives in a family divided against itself. Sometimes she
takes part with the Duc d’Anjou and watches the Queen-mother in his interests, in order to report every word she says to him; or she quarrels with D’Anjou and swears eternal friendship with her youngest brother, D’Alençon—all his life the puppet of endless political conspiracies; or she abuses the King (Charles) because he listens to her enemy, De Gaust, and tells her that she shall never marry the Duc de Guise, because she would reveal all the secrets of state to him, and make the House of Lorraine more dangerous than it is already. This greatest princess of Europe, young and beautiful, a “noble mind in a lovely person,” as Brantôme says of her, is agitated, unhappy, and lonely. “Let it never be said,” writes she, “that marriages are made in heaven; God is not so unjust. All yesterday my room echoed with talk of weddings. How can I purge it?”
The Duc de Guise no longer whispers in her ear “Eternal love.” The great Balafré, stern in resolve, firm in affection, is disgusted at her légèreté. He has ceased even to be jealous. His mind is now occupied by those religious intrigues which he developed later as leader of the Holy Catholic League. Guise dislikes and distrusts the Valois race. He especially abhors their unholy coquetting with heretics in the matter of Marguerite’s approaching marriage. He has now adopted the motto of the House of Lorraine, “Death to the Valois! Guise upon the throne!” Moreover, he looks with favour on a widow—the Princesse de Porcian, whom he marries soon after. Guise only remains at Court to fulfil the vow of vengeance he has sworn against Coligni for his suspected connivance in the murder of his illustrious father, Francis of Guise, of which accusation Coligni could never clear himself.[11] The great Admiral is now at Court. He is loaded with favours. Charles IX. has requested his constant attendance at the council to arrange the details of a war with Spain. He has also made him a present of a thousand francs. The friends of Coligni warn him to beware. His comrade and friend Montmorenci refuses to leave Chantilly. The Admiral, more honest than astute, is completely duped. It is whispered among the Catholics that revenge is at hand, and that the Protestant princes and Coligni are shortly coming to their death. It is said also that the marriage liveries of the Princess will be “crimson,” and that “more blood than wine will flow at the marriage feast.”
And the Queen? Serene and gracious, she moves with her accustomed majesty among these conflicting parties. She neither sees, nor hears, nor knows aught that shall disarrange her projects. Silent, inscrutable, her hands hold the threads of life. Within her brain is determined the issue of events. Her son Charles is a puppet in her hands. This once frank, witty, brave, artistic youth, who formerly loved verses and literature,—when not a roaring Nimrod among the royal forests,—is morose, cruel, and suspicious; convinced that the whole world is playing him false, all perjured but his mother. She has told him, and she has darkly hinted in the council, that events are approaching a crisis. She has secured the present support of the young Duc de Guise and the powerful House of Lorraine, ever foremost when Catholic interests are at stake. She can now sit down calmly and marshal each act in the coming drama, as a general can marshal those regiments which are to form his battle-front. Fifteen hundred Protestants were slaughtered at Amboise alone, but there are thousands upon thousands remaining, and she has promised Philip II., her awful son-in-law, and his minister, the Duke of Alva, that she will cut off the head of heresy within the realm of France. She has tried both parties, intrigued with both—with Coligni and the Condés, with Guise and the Cardinal de Lorraine—and she finds that at present orthodoxy answers her purpose best.
Besides, there is personal hatred, fear, and offence towards the Huguenots. Did not Coligni dare to criticise her government at the Council of Amboise? Did not Condé (that cautious Bourbon) escape her? The King of Navarre, too, her future son-in-law, is he to be lured to Court and married to the fascinating Marguerite for nothing? Has not Ruggiero shown her that his life crossed the life of her sons? Does she not hate him? Is he not adored by the people, who, grown cold towards the House of Valois, extol his vigour, courage, and ability? Yes, he shall marry. Then he shall die along with all rebels, heretics, and traitors! A general massacre of the Huguenots throughout France can alone satisfy her longings and secure Charles on the throne.
Thus came to be planned that most tremendous crime, fixed for the festival of St. Bartholomew, ostensibly for the triumph of the Catholic Church, but in reality to compass the death of the Queen’s political enemies—Navarre, Condé, and Coligni—and to crush the freedom of thought and opinion brought in by liberty of conscience and a purer faith.
This was the Court to which Henry of Navarre came, to be lodged under the roof of the Louvre, and to marry the Princess Marguerite!
The marriage took place on the 18th of August, 1572, at Notre-Dame.[12] The outspoken Charles had said that, in giving his sister Margot to the King of Navarre, he gave her to all the Huguenots in his kingdom. The Princess tells us she wore a royal crown and a state mantle of blue velvet, wrought with gold embroidery, four yards long. It was held up by three princesses; and she further wore a corset, forming the body of her dress, covered with brilliants, and the crown jewels. The streets through which she passed were dressed with scaffoldings, lined with cloth of gold, to accommodate the spectators, all the way from the Archbishop’s palace to Notre-Dame.
A few nights after, Admiral Coligni was shot at, with an arquebuse, by a man standing at a barred window in the street of the Fossés Saint-Germain, as he returned from playing a game of rackets with the King, at the Louvre, to his lodgings at the Hôtel de Saint-Pierre, in the Rue Béthisy. He was walking along slowly, reading a paper; the finger of his right hand was broken, and he was otherwise grievously wounded. The assassin, Maurévert, was a fellow known to be in the pay of Henri, Duc de Guise. The house from which the shot was fired
belonged to the Duke’s tutor. The King of Navarre and Condé were overcome at the news. Charles IX., along with the Queen-mother, visited the Admiral next day, and stayed an hour with him. Before leaving, Charles folded him in his arms and wept. “You, my father,” he said, “have the wound, but I suffer the pain. By the light of God, I will so avenge this act that it shall be a warning as long as the world lasts.”
A few hours after the shot was fired, the Huguenot chiefs assembled in Navarre’s apartments to deliberate what means should be taken to punish the assassin. About the same time a secret council was called by the Queen-mother, to decide whether or no Navarre and Condé should be massacred. Charles IX., the Duc de Guise—who, however hostile otherwise, join issue to destroy Navarre and Condé—Anjou, Nevers, and D’Angoulême were present. It was resolved that the King of Navarre and the Prince de Condé should die, and that the massacre should take place that very night, before the Huguenots—alarmed by the attempt on Coligni—had time to concert measures of defence. Under pretence of protecting them from further violence, all hotels and lodging-houses were diligently searched, and a list made of the name, age, and condition of every Protestant in Paris. Orders were also given for the troops to be under arms, during the coming night, throughout the city. Every outlet and portal of the Louvre were closed and guarded by Swiss Guards, commanded by Cossein. The Hôtel de Saint-Pierre, in the Rue Béthisy, where Coligni lay, was also surrounded by troops, “for his safety,” it was said. No one could go in or out. At a given signal, the tocsin was to sound from all places where a bell was hung. Chains were to be drawn across the streets and bonfires lighted. White cockades, stitched on a narrow white band to be bound round the right arm, were distributed, in order that the Catholics might be recognised in the darkness. The secret, known to hundreds, was well kept; the Huguenots were utterly unprepared. “No one told me anything,” said Marguerite.[13] “They knew that I was too humane. But the evening before, being present at the coucher of my mother the Queen, and sitting on a coffer near my sister Claude, who seemed very sad, the Queen, who was talking to some one, turned round and saw I was not gone. She desired me to retire to bed. As I was making my obeisance to her, my sister took me by the arm and stopped me. Then, sobbing violently, she said, ‘Good God, sister, do not go!’ This alarmed me exceedingly. The Queen, my mother, was watching us, and, looking very angry, called my sister to her and scolded her severely. She peremptorily desired her to say no more to me. Claude replied that it was not fair to sacrifice me like that, and that danger might come to me.
“ ‘Never mind,’ said the Queen. ‘Please God, no danger will come to her; but she must go to bed at once in order to raise no suspicions.’ But Claude still disputed with her, although I did not hear their words. The Queen again turned to me angrily and commanded me to go. My sister, continuing her sobs, bade me ‘good-night.’ I dared ask no questions. So, cold and trembling, without the least idea of what was the matter, I went to my rooms and to my closet, where I prayed to God to save me from I knew not what. The King, my husband, who had not come to bed, sent word to me to do so.” (They occupied the same room, she tells us, but separate beds.) “I could not close my eyes all night,” she adds; “thinking of my sister’s agitation, and sure that something dreadful was coming. Before daylight my husband got up. He came to my bed-side, kissed me, and said that he was going to play a game of rackets before the King was awake. He said he would have justice in the matter of the attempt on the Admiral’s life. Then he left the room. I, seeing the daylight, and overcome by sleep, told my nurse to shut the door, that I might rest longer.”
This took place on Saturday evening, the 23d of August, being the eve of St. Bartholomew.
A SIGNAL sounded from the belfry of Saint-Germain l’Auxerrois. It was answered by the great bell of the Palace of Justice on the opposite bank of the Seine. Catherine and her two sons, Charles IX. and the Duc d’Anjou, had risen long before daylight. Catherine dared not leave Charles to himself. He was suddenly grown nervous and irresolute. He might yet countermand everything. Within a small closet over the gate of the Louvre, facing the quays, the mother and her two sons stood huddled together. Charles was tallest of the three. The window was open; it was still dark; the streets were empty; not a sound was heard save the crashing of the bells. They listened to the wild clamour without; but not a word was spoken. Catherine felt Charles tremble. She clutched him tightly, and, dreading to hear the echo of her own voice, she whispered in his ear, “My son, God has given your enemies into your hands. Let them not escape you.”
“Mort de Dieu, mother, do you take me for a coward?” whispered back Charles, still trembling.
Suddenly a shot was fired on the Quays. The three conspirators started as if the weapon had been levelled against themselves.
“Whence this pistol shot came, who fired it, or if it wounded any one, I know not,” writes the Duc d’Anjou, who as well as his sister has left an account of the massacre; “but this I know, that the report struck terror into our very souls. We were seized with such sudden dread at the horrors we had ourselves invoked, that even the Queen-mother was dismayed. She despatched one of the King’s gentlemen who waited without, to command the Duc de Guise to stay all proceedings and not to attack Admiral Coligni.” This counter order came too late. The Duke had already left his house.
All the bells in Paris were now ringing furiously; the quays and streets were rapidly filling with citizens bearing flambeaux. Multitudes came pouring in from every opening, every window was filled with persons holding lights, and the crackling of firearms, loud curses, piercing screams, and wild laughter were heard on every side. In the midst of this uproar, Henri de Guise, thirsting for revenge upon the supposed murderer of his father, accompanied by Nevers and D’Angoulême, and a company of Catholic nobles, made his way to the Hôtel Saint-Pierre, in the Rue Béthisy, where Coligni lodged.
Coligni, who had the night before been embraced by his sovereign, lay asleep on his bed. Some of his Protestant friends, Guerchi, Teligny, with Cornaton and Labonne his gentlemen, who had hastened to him upon the news of the attempted assassination, lingered in the anteroom. Paré, the surgeon who had dressed his wounds, had not yet left the hotel. The Admiral had been conversing with him and with his chaplain Merlin, who had offered up a thanksgiving for his deliverance. Within the Court five Swiss Guards stood behind the outer doors; without, in the darkness of the night, crouched Cossein with fifty arquebusiers, who had been gained over by the Duc de Guise.
Suddenly, out of the stillness of the night a voice is heard calling from without, “Open the door—open in the name of the King!” At the King’s name the street-door is immediately unbarred; Cossein and his men rush in, poniard the five guards, break open the inner door, and dash up the stairs. The noise disturbs Cornaton, who descends the stairs; he is pushed violently backwards amid cries of “De par le Roi!” Now the whole house is aroused, Merlin has risen, and Coligni awakened from his sleep, calls loudly from the door of his room, “Cornaton, what does this noise mean?” “My dear Lord,” cries Cornaton hurrying up to him, wringing his hands, “it means that it is God who summons you! The hall below is carried by your enemies—Cossein is a traitor—we cannot save you—we have no means of defence!”
“I understand,” replies Coligni, unmoved. “It is a plot to destroy me now that I am wounded and cannot defend myself. I have long been prepared to die. I commend my soul to God. Cornaton, Merlin, and the others, if the doors are forced you cannot save me, save yourselves.” Coligni returns to his room.
By this time the Admiral’s retainers are aroused and enter his chamber, but no sooner does he repeat the words, “Save yourselves, you cannot save me,” than they lose not a moment in escaping to the leads of the house. One man only remains with his master; his name is Nicolas Muso. The door is then shut, barred, and locked.
Meanwhile Cossein, heavily mailed and sword in hand, having slain all he has found in his way, is on the landing. Besme, a page of the Duc de Guise, Attin, and Sarbaloux are with him; they force open the door of Coligni’s room.
The Admiral, his long white hair falling about his shoulders, is seated in an arm-chair. There is a majesty about him even thus wounded, unarmed and alone, that daunts his assailants. The traitor Cossein falls back. Besme advances brandishing his sword.
“Are you Admiral Coligni?” he cries.
“I am,” replies the veteran, following with his eyes the motion of the sword. “Young man, respect my grey hairs and my infirmities,” and he
signs to his arm bound up and swathed to his side. Besme makes a pass at him. “If I could have died by the hands of a gentleman and not of this varlet!” exclaims the Admiral. Besme for answer plunges his sword up to the hilt into Coligni’s breast.
A voice is now heard from without under the window—“Besme, you are very long; is all over?”
“All is over,” answers Besme, thrusting his head out and displaying his bloody sword.
“Sirrah, here is the Duc de Guise, and I, the Chevalier d’Angoulême. We will not believe it until we see the body. Fling it out of the window, like a good lad.”
With some difficulty the corpse is raised and thrown into the street below. The gashed and bleeding remains of the old hero fall heavily upon the pavement. Henri de Guise stoops down to feast his eyes upon his enemy. The features are so veiled with blood he cannot recognise them. He takes out his handkerchief and wipes the wrinkled face clean. “I know you now—Admiral Coligni,” says he, “and I spurn you. Lie there, poisonous old serpent that murdered my father. Thou shalt shed no more venom, reptile!” and he kicks the corpse into a corner, amidst the dirt and mud of the thoroughfare. (Coligni’s dead body[14] is carried to the gallows at Montfaucon, where it hangs by the feet from a chain of iron.) Guise then turns to the fifty arquebusiers behind him. “En avant—en avant, mes enfants!” he shouts; “you have made a good beginning—set upon the others—slaughter them all—men, women—even infants at the breast—cut them down.” Sword in hand Guise rushes through the streets with Nevers, D’Angoulême, and Tavannes, as well as Gondi and De Retz, who have now joined him, at his back.
Meanwhile, Marguerite de Valois is awakened by some one beating violently with feet and hands against her door crying out, “Navarre! Navarre!” “My nurse,” writes she, “thinking it was the King, ran and opened the door; but it was M. de Séran, grievously wounded and closely pursued by four archers, who cried out, ‘Kill him; kill him! spare no one.’ De Séran threw himself on my bed to save himself. I, not knowing who he was, jumped out, and he with me, holding by me tightly. We both screamed loudly; I was as frightened as he was, but God sent M. de Nançay, Captain of the Guards, who finding me in this condition, could not help laughing. He drove the archers out and spared the life of this man, whom I put to bed in my closet and kept there till he was well. I changed my night-dress, which was covered with blood. M. de Nançay assured me that my husband was safe and with the King. He threw over me a cloak, and took me to my sister Claude, in whose room I arrived more dead than alive; specially so when, as I set my foot in the antechamber, a gentleman named Bourse dropped, pierced by a ball, dead at my feet. I fell fainting into the arms of M. de Nançay, thinking I was killed also. A little recovered, I went into the small room beyond where my sister slept. While I was there, two gentlemen-in-waiting, who attended my husband, rushed in, imploring me to save their lives. So I went to the King and to the Queen, my brother and my mother, and falling on my knees begged that these gentlemen might be spared, which was granted to me.”
“Having,” continues Marguerite, “failed in the principal purpose, which was not so much against the Huguenots as against the Princes of the blood—the King my husband, and the Prince of Condé—the Queen, my mother, came to me and ‘asked me to break my marriage.’ But I replied that I would not; being sure that she only proposed this in order to murder my husband.”[15]
The magic mirror of Ruggiero had revealed the truth; Henry of Navarre led a charmed life. Of his escape, against the express command of the all-powerful Catherine, various accounts are related. He is said to have been saved by his wife, but of this she says nothing. It is believed on good authority that, with the Prince de Condé, he went out unusually early, before daybreak even, in order to prepare for playing that identical game of rackets, of which he spoke to Marguerite and which probably saved his life. When it is discovered that these two princes, Condé and Navarre, are both alive, they are summoned to the King’s presence. They find Charles, arquebuse in hand, within the same small closet over the gate of the Louvre. He has been there since daybreak. A page stands by him, ready to reload his weapon. He is mad with exultation and excitement; he leans out of window to watch the crowds of fugitives rush by and to shout to the Swiss Guards below—“Kill—kill all—cut them all in pieces!” “Pardieu! see,” he roars out, pointing to the river, “there is a fellow yonder escaping. By the mass, look—one, two, three—they are swimming across the Seine—at them, at them—take good aim—shoot them down, the carrion!” Volleys of shot are the reply. Charles had recovered his nerves; he now looks on Huguenots as game, and has been potting them with remarkable precision from the window. With hideous mirth, he boasts to Navarre and Condé how many heretics he has brought down with his own hand. He counts upon his fingers the names of the Huguenot chiefs already slaughtered. He yells with fiendish laughter when he describes how Coligni, whom the night before he had called “father,” looked when dead. “By the light of God, it is a royal chase!” shrieks Charles, as the page quickly reloads his arquebuse. “That last shot was excellent. Not a heretic shall be left in France.” Again he points his gun and shoots; a piercing cry follows. Charles nods his head approvingly. “We will have them all—babies and their mothers. ‘Break the eggs and the nest will rot.’ Our mother says well—we must reign. We will no longer be contradicted by our subjects. We will teach them to revere us as the image of the living God. You, Princes,”—and as he turns to address the King of Navarre and Condé, his tall, gaunt figure, distorted countenance, bleared and bloodshot eyes, and matted hair are repulsive to look upon—“You, Princes, I have called hither, out of compassion for your youth, to give you a chance for your lives, as you are alive,—but by the holy Oriflamme, I thought you were both dead already. You are, both of you, rebels, and sons of rebels. You must instantly recant and enter the true Church or you must die. So down on your knees, both of you. Purge yourselves from your accursed sect. Give me your parole, and your swords too, Princes, that you will not leave the Louvre; or, Dieu des Dieux, you shall be massacred like the rest!”
Thus did Henry IV. and the Prince de Condé escape death, unknown to, and contrary to the express orders of Catherine.
Without, Paris is a charnel-house. The streets are choked up by murdered Huguenots. Carts and litters full of dead bodies, huddled together in a hideous medley, rumble along the rough causeways, to be shot into the Seine. The river runs red with blood; its current is dammed up with corpses. But the Court is merry. Catherine triumphs. Her ladies—la petite bande de la Reine—go forth and pick their way in the gory mud, to scrutinise the dead, piled in heaps against the walls and in the courts of the Louvre, to recognise friends or lovers.
On the 6th September the news of the massacre reaches Rome by letters from the Nuncio. Gregory XIII. commands solemn masses and thanksgivings to God for the event. The cannon of St. Angelo booms over the papal city; feux de joie are fired in the principal streets; a medal is struck; a jubilee is published; a legate is sent into France; a procession, in which the Pope, Cardinals, and Ministers to the See of Rome appear, visit the great Basilicas; the Cardinal de Lorraine, uncle to the Balafré, then at Rome, is present, and in the name of his master, Charles IX., congratulates his Holiness on the efficacy of his prayers these seventeen years past for the destruction of heretics.
Blood calls for blood![16] Charles IX., whose royal mandate authorised the massacre (which lasted seven days and seven nights), falls sick two years after at the Castle of Vincennes. “I know not what has befallen me,” he says to his surgeon, Ambrose Paré; “my mind and body both burn with fever. Asleep or awake, I see the mangled Huguenots pass before me. They drip with blood; they make hideous faces at me; they point to their open wounds and mock me. Holy Virgin! I wish, Paré, I had spared the old and the infirm and the infants at the breasts.” Aged twenty-four, Charles died, abhorring the mother whose counsels had led him to this execrable deed—abhorring her so intensely that he could not even bear her in his sight. In her place he called for the King of Navarre, and confided to him his last wishes. He died, poor misguided youth, piously thanking God that he left no children. The blood actually oozed from the pores of his skin. His cries and screams were horrible.
Thus another King of France passed into the world of spirits, bringing Henry of Navarre one step nearer the throne. Charles, according to the prediction of Ruggiero, had died young, bathed in his own blood.
And Catherine? Calm, undaunted, still handsome, she inaugurated a new reign—that of her third and best beloved son, Henri, Duc d’Anjou and King of Poland, popularly known by the style and title of Henry III., “by the favour of his mother inert King of France.”
FIFTEEN years have passed. The Queen-mother is now seventy. She suffers from a mortal disease, and lies sick at the Château of Blois.
Hither her son Henry III. and his Court have come to meet the States-General. Trouble is in the kingdom; for the great Balafré, supported by Rome and Spain, is in rebellion; Henry totters on his throne.
And what a throne! What a monarch! Henry, who in his youth was learned, elegant, sober, who fought at Jarnac and Moncontour[17] like a Paladin, has become effeminate, superstitious, and vicious. His sceptre is a cup-and-ball; his sword, a tuft of feathers; he paints and dresses like a woman, covers himself with jewels, and passes his time in arranging ecclesiastical processions, or in festivals, pageants, masques, and banquets. His four favourites (“minions” they are called, and also “beggars,” from their greed and luxury), De Joyeuse, D’Epernon, Schomberg, and Maugiron, govern him and the kingdom. They are handsome and satirical, and think to kill the King’s enemies with ridicule and jeux de mots. But Henri de Guise, who sternly rebukes their ribaldry and abhors their dissolute manners, is not the man to be conquered by such weapons as words. He has placed himself at the head of the Catholic League, negotiates with Spain, and openly aspires to the throne.
For a moment there is peace. Henry before leaving Paris, by the advice of his mother summoned the Duc de Guise from Nancy to Paris. The Balafré enters the capital in disguise. The cry, “The Duke is with us!” spreads over the city like lightning. The populace, who adore Guise and detest Henry, tear off his mask and cloak and lead him through the streets in triumph. Catherine, although very ill, is so alarmed at the threatening aspect of affairs, that she causes herself to be carried out to meet him, borne in a chair, and so brings him to the Louvre into the presence of the King. His insolent bearing transports Henry with rage. The citizens, not to be pacified, fall out with the King’s guards, and there is a fearful uproar in the city. The Louvre is besieged. Henry, haughty and obstinate, is no longer safe in Paris. Maréchal d’Ornano offers to assassinate the Duc de Guise, but the King, by advice of D’Epernon, affects to yield to the policy of his mother, and to accept the supremacy of Guise. Under pretence, however, of a walk in the Tuileries Gardens, then newly planted, he orders his horses to be saddled, and escapes out of Paris, by way of Montmartre, attended only by his favourites. He reaches Chartres in safety. At Chartres he is joined by Catherine, and a treaty is signed—a treaty of false peace, for already D’Epernon and Joyeuse are whispering into the King’s ear that “the Duc de Guise must die.”
The treaty stipulates that Henry be declared Head of the Catholic League; that all Huguenots be banished—notably the King of Navarre, heir-presumptive to the throne; and that the Duc de