The accession of Charles IX., a child not eleven years old, was a revolution. “Now we fell from a fever into a frenzy,” quaintly writes an old historian; “a reign cursed in the city and cursed in the field; cursed in the beginning and cursed in the ending.”[210]

The new king is described by the Venetian embassador as an amiable, handsome boy, with fine eyes and graceful carriage, eating and drinking little, quick-witted and spirited, gentle and liberal.[211]

The same gossiping writer supplies a striking picture of the queen-mother at this time. He speaks of her keen comprehension, her business habits, and her sound understanding. “She never loses sight of the king, and permits no one to sleep in his room. She knows that she is envied because she is a foreigner.... Her plans are deep, and she holds every thing in her own hands.... She lives carelessly, has an enormous appetite, and, to keep down her fat, she takes much exercise, walks much, rides much on horseback, and hunts with the king. Her complexion is very dark, and she is already [ætat. 43] a stout woman.”[212] A letter she wrote about this time to her daughter Elizabeth is eminently characteristic:[213]

“As I have given the messenger instructions to say many things to you, I write only to pray you, my child, not to feel sadness on my behalf; for I will try to demean myself so that God and the world may approve of my actions; for my chief care shall be the honor of God and the conservation of my authority; not, however, for my own benefit, but for the preservation of this realm and the good of your brothers, whom I love for the sake of him who was your common father. My dear child, commend your happiness to the keeping of the Almighty; for you have seen me as happy and prosperous as you are now yourself, when my only sorrow was the fear of not being sufficiently beloved by the king your father, who gave me more honor than I merited, but whom I so loved that, in his presence, I always felt awe. God has bereaved me of my husband; and now I weep for your brother. He has committed to my charge three little children, a kingdom distracted by divisions, within which there is not one individual in whom I can trust, or one who is not swayed by private partiality. Therefore, my dear, take warning by my fate: confide not exclusively in the love which you bear toward your husband, and which he renders back to you; nor in the pomps and luxuries of your present power: but lift up your heart to Him alone who can continue these blessings to you; and who, when it is His sovereign will, can bring you to my present condition; the which I would rather die than see you suffer, from dread lest your constancy might fail under the bitter trials which I have endured, solely through His sustaining aid and protection.”

There can be no doubt that Catherine was fully sensible of the difficulties and dangers of her position. More than once she quoted the well-known words: “Væ tibi, terra, cujus rex est puer!” She toiled and intrigued and struggled for herself and for her children—not for France. The Guises threatened both, and her task was how to thwart, if not defeat, her rivals: “Virilibus curis vitia muliebria.” She was not persistent enough. Correro calls her “timid,”[214] and her heart often failed her at a decisive moment. Her first care, however, was to tranquilize the country; or, to use her own words to the Bishop Limoges, her embassador in Spain, “to restore gently all that the wickedness of the times had damaged in France.” Nor was this an easy matter, if we may trust the Venetian reports, which tell of “an administration almost without rule or guide, justice violated and polluted, deadly hatreds, the passions and caprices of the powerful ones, the opposing interests of the princes, which varied with the opportunities; religious troubles; disobedience and tumult among the people, with revolt among the grandees.”[215]

Charles being only ten years old—he was born on the 27th June, 1550—his mother, with the approval of the council of state,[216] assumed the authority though not the title of regent. Condé was released from prison and Anthony made lieutenant-general of France, while the Constable Montmorency resumed the superintendence of the army, and Guise retained his place of grand-master. When the Constable entered Orleans, he dismissed the soldiers he found at the gate: “I will take care,” he said, “that the king shall travel safely, without guard, all over the kingdom.”

The members of the States-General were silent but not unobservant spectators of these things. Having been summoned to meet at Orleans by Francis II., the curious constitutional question arose, Whether they were not ipso facto dissolved? but it was ingeniously argued, that though the man may die, the king does not, and therefore their sittings would be perfectly legal.

The States-General, or assembly of the three orders (clergy, nobles, and commons), date from the beginning of the fourteenth century, when Philip the Fair called them together on the occasion of his quarrel with Pope Boniface VIII. They held but one session, yet, in that, they proclaimed the temporal independence of France, and scattered forever the ideas of universal monarchy entertained by the papacy. The States met at indeterminate epochs, and were at one time in a fair way to lead the European nations in the difficult path of representative government. In the assembly held at Tours, in 1484, they called for extensive reforms, and asserted a claim to be summoned every two years. They went farther, and in language as bold as that of our Petition of Rights, a century and a half later, declared that “the said States-General expected that henceforward no taxes would be imposed on the people until they had been consulted on the subject, nor unless the imposition of such taxes should be made with their free-will and consent, as the guardians and keepers of the liberties and privileges of the realm.” These resolutions came to nothing: the crown continued to levy taxes by proclamation, and nearly fourscore years elapsed before the Estates[217] were called together again. And now in 1560, when France was in great peril from internal commotions, they were to meet once more in the city of Orleans. Even had the country been entirely quiet, the financial condition of the state was such, that extraordinary means of raising supplies would have been required. The expenditure exceeded the annual revenue by ten millions, and though such a deficit may be easily met by modern finance-ministers, there were not three hundred years ago the same convenient methods of filling an empty exchequer. The Guises knew that the summoning of the States-General was a hostile measure aimed at them, but had not opposed it for two reasons: firstly, it would relieve them of the unpopularity they might possibly incur by attempting to raise the necessary supplies by increasing taxation under the royal mandate; secondly, they hoped to receive a large accession of strength from the Catholic members. Each party, indeed, labored to gain the popular support, and at the electoral meetings throughout the kingdom there was an excitement that augured well for the revival of constitutional forms of government. The Huguenots of Paris went to the Hotel-de-Ville and insisted that their remonstrance and confession should be embodied in the cahier of instructions. In that drawn up by the municipality of Provins the grievances of the people were declared in plain and forcible language. “The clergy,” they said, “are too rich, the Church too wealthy; the priests should have less money and keep fewer concubines; they should give the people more instruction in good manners, distribute more liberal alms to the poor, and be less disorderly in their passions, less luxurious in their dress, less given to haunting taverns and houses of ill-fame; they should not ride out a hunting so frequently with hawks and hounds, or so grind the people in body and goods.... Justice is too dear, the fees are excessive, and the judge ought to be paid out of the public purse.... The people are oppressed by the soldiery, who beat and plunder them, and turn them out of house and home, and kill them. They are grievously oppressed by taxes, from which the rich by favor are exempt.... The salt is not good, dry, or pure; it contains a sixth part of rubbish.... The gentry do not defend their people or neighbors, as they are bound to do; they hold taxable property, and carry on trades without paying for licenses.”[218]

The assembly of the Three Estates was solemnly inaugurated on the 13th December, 1560, in the great hall of the castle of Orleans, where the Black Prince had feasted, and Joan of Arc had sat in council with Dunois, La Hire, Xaintrailles, and the flower of French chivalry, while “the English wolves” under Talbot were prowling round the city walls. The vaulted roof, long since crumbled to ruins, was painted and decorated with fleur-de-lis; the walls were hung with tapestry representing mythological and allegorical scenes. On a small carpeted platform or dais, at the upper end, sat Charles IX.; at his left, the queen-mother; beyond her the king’s sister and the Queen of Navarre; while the king’s brother and Anthony of Navarre occupied similar places to the right of the infant monarch. At the end of the platform sat the Duke of Guise with his ivory staff as grand-master of the household; at his right the constable with the naked sword of state; at his left the chancellor with his golden mace. These were on low-backed chairs, according to the strict etiquette of the court; all the other members of the States sat on benches. To the right of the throne were the cardinals in their robes of scarlet, and the high dignitaries of the Church; opposite them, the nobility in court dresses of every costly material and hue. The members of the Third Estate, dressed in sober garments, faced the throne. Four secretaries of state were present to record the proceedings. Soldiers with spear and cross-bow, halberd and partisan, lined the walls; chamberlains and equerries, the esquires of the nobles, and the chaplains and deacons in attendance upon the churchmen, filled up the hall. A little behind the throne were two galleries set apart for the ladies and other spectators, among whom were several Huguenots of mark, whose grave faces and dress seemed almost out of place among their brilliant companions.

The proceedings were opened by an address from the Chancellor Michel de l’Hopital, one of the greatest and noblest men of the sixteenth century. When he rose to speak, his lofty stature, pale face, and long white beard filled the spectators with admiration, and an involuntary murmur ran through the assembly. He seemed the very model of a senator and magistrate. First bending the knee to his royal master, and then seating himself again at the king’s desire, he proceeded to state the motives that had induced the government to call the Estates together, and to point out very explicitly that they were mere “counters in the king’s hands,” and that their sole duty was to “petition and obey.” It did not occur to any of his hearers to ask why they were assembled at all if such were their duties and position. Adverting to the religious dissensions, the chancellor advised the Catholic members “to adorn themselves with virtue and holy living,” and to attack their adversaries with arms of charity, prayer, and persuasion. “The sword,” he added, “is of little avail against the understanding; gentleness will make more converts than violence.” Yet even this large-hearted man could not see the possibility of two forms of religion existing side by side in the same state: he wanted uniformity, where he should have been satisfied with harmony. “It is foolish,” he said, “to look for peace, repose, and friendship between persons of different creeds. An Englishman and a Frenchman may live together on good terms, but not two people of different religions, who dwell in the same city. One faith, one law, one king.” For this reason he proposed a national council, which might reform abuses, and so reconcile the two parties, adding “that if the pope did not call one the king would.” The chancellor concluded his long harangue by drawing their attention to the disordered state of the finances. “No orphan was ever more destitute of resources than our young king,” he said. The public debt amounted to forty-three million livres, paying the enormous though ordinary rate of interest, namely, twelve per cent. Nor was it easy to see how such a debt could be met, considering that the expenditure exceeded twenty-two million livres, while the total annual revenue barely amounted to twelve millions.[219]

The assembly now broke up, the three Estates proceeding to their separate deliberations: the Clergy in the refectory of the Franciscans, the Nobles at the Dominicans’, and the Tiers État at the Carmelites’.[220] The first act of each body was to choose its orator or speaker. The Clergy elected the Cardinal of Lorraine, and recommended the other two orders to concur in their choice. This they refused to do,[221] on the ground that they might have something to say against him[222]—a hint which drove the cardinal from Orleans. Jean Quentin, a canon of Notre Dame, was elected in his place, the Nobles having chosen Jacques de Silly, baron of Rochefort; and the Third Estate, an advocate of Bordeaux, named Lange (Angelus) or Langin.

On the 1st January, 1561, the Three Estates assembled again in the great hall of the castle, where the king attended to hear the Speakers of the orders deliver their addresses. Jean Lange began by denouncing “the three ruling passions of the clergy—ignorance, avarice, and wantonness. Livings are given to those who have never learned. Bishops transfer their duties to unworthy deputies; while the prelates ruin themselves by prodigality and loose living. These things can only be reformed by means of a council—a national council.” He went on farther to demand the restitution to the clergy of the right of electing the bishops, as in the time of the primitive Church, the dedication of a portion of the ecclesiastical property to the foundation of hospitals, colleges, and schools, the suppression of every kind of tribute or payment to the court of Rome, and a check upon the tyranny of the nobles over the peasantry. Of the sufferings of this class, Lange’s cahier presented a distressing picture. It may be overcolored, but its substantial truth is unfortunately established by other evidence. “Some poor creatures,” he said, “having been robbed of their little store to pay their taxes, have starved to death during the winter. Others in despair have murdered their wives and children and then themselves. Others have been dragged to prison and there left to die for want of food. Some have forsaken their families and fled. Many are in such distress, that, having neither horse nor ox, they are constrained to harness their own bodies to the plough.” The last of the three hundred and fifty articles of this cahier contained a demand which would have changed the current of French history had it been granted: it was that the States-General should be held every five years.

Jacques de Silly, the orator of the Nobility, began by making a preposterous defense of the divine origin of his order, and went on to accuse the Clergy of encroaching on the power of the judicial tribunals.[223] “It is your business,” he said, “not to interfere with edicts, but to pray, preach, and administer the sacraments.” The Nobility were more eager for change than the Tiers État. Those of Touraine demanded a church reform in conformity with the pure word of God; others, that all religious differences should be decided by the Bible alone.

The Clergy wisely thought that their best policy would be to stand mainly on the defensive.[224] Their orator, Jean Quentin, who read his speech, acknowledged that their discipline needed correction, but that such a reform could not be brought about by profaning the churches, destroying the images, and expelling the priests. “I contend,” he said, “that it is necessary to preserve the Catholic religion in France, and consequently to refuse liberty of conscience to such as dissent from it.” He then argued that all ecclesiastical property ought to be used according to the wishes of the donors, and that the clergy should be relieved of the décimes and other imposts by which they were oppressed. In the course of his speech, Quentin went out of his way to insult Coligny, as a “reviver of old heresies;” and advised “that any one petitioning for freedom of worship should be declared heretical, and proceeded against accordingly, so that the evil might be removed from among us.”[225] He gave point to his words by looking at the admiral, who complained of such language and demanded an apology, which was made. This humiliation, added to the satires and epigrams showered upon him by the offended Huguenots, gave poor Quentin such a shock that he is reported to have died a few days after.

In the last sitting of the Estates the Abbot of Bois Aubry, secretary of the Clergy in the preparation of their cahier, strongly condemned the use of force in religious matters. “The conscience,” he said, “suffers no one to command it but reason; and therefore to desire in our days to deprive the followers of the pretended Reformed religion of the exercise of their reason can produce nothing but evil. It would be driving them to atheism;—a thing which every good Catholic should hold in horror and execration.... It is only by means of a Council that we can remedy the evil of religious diversity now among us, and not by the sword or the gibbet. Nine royal edicts were issued during the former reigns, and the courts of Parliament have published decrees without number, in order to abolish this so-called Reformed religion, by the punishment of fire and other severe pains and penalties. They omitted nothing to prevent its growth, and did not succeed. Our Holy Father (it is said) will never consent to permit the exercise of their religion; but what answer would he make if any one should ask him why he allows the Jews the exercise of their religion at Rome and Avignon, and in all the States of the Church? Would he say that the religion of the Jews, who do not believe in Christ, is better than the religion of those who do believe in him?”

The Estates separated without settling any thing: they did nothing toward reconciling the two religious parties or relieving the finances of the kingdom. They called for the redress of many grievances; and when the court would have been willing to concede a few reforms in exchange for pecuniary supplies, the Estates said that their instructions, which they could not exceed, gave them no power or authority to raise money. They thus virtually threw away “the keys of the purse”—the most potent guarantee of good government. It was a fatal mistake, but it does not appear that the court observed it any more than the Estates. The government saw only that the States-General was a body too numerous for the dispatch of business, and it was agreed that the provincial Estates, grouped into thirteen assemblies, should each elect three deputies, and that the thirty-nine thus returned should meet in the following August. The bishops were also convoked to this assembly, and a great number of them actually obeyed the summons.

The meeting of the States-General did not quiet the agitation in the provinces. The war of words soon became a war of blows, and serious riots occurred in many large towns. At Beauvais, Cardinal Chatillon, the admiral’s brother, nearly lost his life, because on Easter Sunday he had celebrated divine service in his private chapel and not in the cathedral, and had administered the holy communion in both kinds, after the Huguenot fashion. The mob broke into the houses of some persons suspected of heresy, and catching one Adrian Fourré, a priest, they killed him, and were dragging him to the voirie to burn him, when the public executioner interfered, asserted his rights, and burned the body himself amid the shouts of the populace. Some of the rioters were afterward hanged, when the fanatic people rose and hanged the executioner. At Le Mans a Protestant was killed, and the bishop did not scruple to write to the king, asking pardon for the murderers. At Rennes, the Huguenots ventured to worship openly, for which they were attacked by a “noisy bawling bully” of a grey friar, who exhorted his hearers to fall upon them by night. The municipal officers did not attempt to silence him, fearing that if they should not succeed they would next day be “publicly and scandalously preached at before the people.”[226] In December, 1560, an image of the Virgin was found lying in the kennel at Carcassonne. The sacrilege was imputed to the Huguenots, and the mob rose upon them, and many were killed. One man had his mouth cut from ear to ear, and an iron bit was fastened into it. The town hangman murdered five Huguenots, whom he skinned, and then ate the heart of one of them. He also sawed another, a private enemy, in two.

It must not, however, be supposed that the provocation and insult were all on one side. On the 25th March, 1561, the high bailiff of Blois sent the queen-mother a long account of the mischievous doings and profanity of the Huguenots; how they had broken open churches, shattered images and crucifixes, and carried away thirteen young women from the convent of Guiche. Even in Paris, the hot-bed of Romish fanaticism, the Huguenots broke the images set up in the streets, and in some of the churches. They also held tumultuous meetings in the Pré aux Clercs, which were at last put down.

The government, desirous of acting with mildness in the distracted state of the country, had summoned a meeting of the Privy Council on the very day of the dissolution of the States-General of Orleans, in order to take into consideration the petitions of the Huguenots for leave to celebrate their worship in private. The prayer was refused, for the Lorraine party was still strong; but the queen-mother not long after issued a general pardon, liberating all persons who had been imprisoned for their religion, and commanding the magistrates to restore the property of which the lawful owners had been deprived in consequence of their heretical opinions. At the same time all the king’s subjects were exhorted to conform to the rites and usages of the national Church, and the penalty of death was denounced against those who, under pretense of supporting the interests of religion, should disturb the public tranquillity. As this was not a sufficient protection to the Reformed party, letters patent were issued in April, repeating the former salutary provisions, forbidding men to revile each other with the odious appellations of Papist and Huguenot, or to assemble in large bodies, or to make domiciliary visits under pretense of discovering religious practices contrary to law; and permitting the return of all who had been forced to leave the kingdom in consequence of their opinions, provided they were willing to conform externally to the Catholic religion. Such persons as would not submit to these regulations had liberty to sell their property and leave France. The revised edict was ordered to be read in all the churches, and a cordelier at Provins introduced it in the following grotesque terms: “My dear Christian brethren, I have received instructions to read an edict ordering the cats and mice to live in peace together, and that we in France—that is to say, the Heretics and the Catholics—should do the same, and that such is the king’s pleasure. I am sorry for it, and I am grieved to see the new reign begin so unpromisingly.”

Even the small concessions made by this edict were severely blamed by the pope and the King of Spain;[227] while numerous outbreaks in various parts of France—bloody protests against toleration, like our own Gordon riots—showed that the people were very much divided in their sentiments upon it. In order, therefore, to tranquillize the public mind, the chancellor advised the queen-mother to consult the Parliament of Paris on the best means of suppressing these religious disorders. A solemn meeting was held in July (1561), Charles, Catherine, and the chief nobility being present. The debate, which De l’Hopital opened with a wise and conciliatory address, was long and stormy. “We have not met to discuss points of doctrine,” he said, “but to deliberate on the best means of preventing the dissensions occasioned by the difference of religious opinion, and to put an end to the license and rebellion of which that difference has hitherto proved a constant source. The devil has entered into these contests, and no one thinks of reforming himself.” In other words, religion was a mere pretext. The parliament was much divided: some contended that the edicts against the Huguenots ought to be wholly suspended until a meeting of the National Council; another that they should be carried out more strictly; while a third party were of opinion that the sole cognizance of heresy should be assigned to the bishops, and that a severe penalty, short of death, should be inflicted upon all who assembled, even peacefully, for religious worship.[228] This proposal was carried by a majority of three votes, and the result was the Edict of July, 1561, forbidding, under pain of death, the use of insulting terms, and any act of violence under color of religion. All public and private meetings were interdicted; the bishops were still to take cognizance of the crime of heresy, but the penalties were restricted to banishment; and, finally, the king granted a general amnesty, on condition that every body lived peaceably and catholically. The Huguenots gained little by this decree beyond the abolition of the death penalty in cases of heresy; indeed, it actually diminished the toleration they already enjoyed; and yet the Parliament of Paris would only register it provisionally, on the ground that it was too favorable. That this opinion was not shared by the Huguenots is clear from a hymn written on the occasion, of which the following is a portion:

That the restrictions and penalties of the July edict were unnecessary is clear enough from indisputable contemporaneous evidence. On April 25th of this very year De Crussol wrote to the queen-regent from Montpellier, that the Reformed had petitioned him to be allowed to live in peace; that he found in them nothing but “great obedience and reverence,” and that they were loyal subjects. He goes on to complain of the Parliament of Toulouse, infringing the edict and detaining the Huguenots in prison: “It looks as if they wanted to amend the said edict, or to make a new one.” Six months later we find Prosper de Sainte Croix (Santa Croce), the papal legate, equally emphatic in his praise of the Reformed. Writing to Cardinal Borromeo, the pope’s nephew, on the 16th October, 1561, he says: “In Gascony and other places, I saw no mutilated images, no broken crosses, no deserted churches, as I had been told I should;” and then proceeds to speak of the proper feeling of the people on the matter where a cross had been broken.

Ever since the accession of Charles IX. the Huguenots had been growing in favor at court, and the true cause of this favor was not far to seek. Philip II. was known to be intriguing with the Guises to marry the widowed Mary Stuart to his son Don Carlos. This was the first step in a well-devised plot to aggrandize Spain and crush the Reformation. By this marriage Philip would become master of Scotland, paralyze England by exciting the hopes of the Romanists in both countries, and prevent Elizabeth from sending aid to the rebels in Flanders. The influence of the Guises would also be so far increased that France would be entirely under their control. All this Catherine saw, and to checkmate Spain she drew nearer to England, and only three years later (Sept. 1564) actually proposed a marriage between Charles IX. and Elizabeth.[229]

The favor shown to the Huguenots greatly annoyed the orthodox party. Old Montmorency was greatly scandalized that Condé, Coligny, and others ate meat in Lent; and that Archbishop Montluc, brother of the brutal soldier of that name, openly preached that it was not wrong to pray to God in French, and that the Scriptures ought to be translated into the vulgar tongue. The halls of St. Germain’s and Fontainebleau were thrown open to Huguenot ministers, and “it seemed as if the whole court had become Calvinist,” says the Jesuit Maimbourg. Catherine received the Protestant leaders with favor, and assumed the character of a devout inquirer after truth.[230] Chantonnay, the Spanish embassador, scarcely wrote a letter to his royal master in which he did not complain of the toleration shown to heretics,[231] and of the influence of the admiral, whose chaplain often preached to a congregation of more than 300 persons. Another time he writes: “The day after Easter Sunday the public preachings in the great court of Fontainebleau, before the lodgings of Admiral Coligny, in the presence of M. de Condé, have been forbidden.” On the 9th July he says that not a day passes without preaching “in the mansion of some lord or lady of the court.” The same busy correspondent informs us that in August, 1561, Beza preached in the hotel of the Prince of Condé at St. Germains and in the royal palace, and that the Reformed ministers “were more confident than the Catholic.” At another time we read that, in consequence of the favor shown to the heretics, there had occurred every day at Paris and elsewhere, “seditions, tumults, and murders of Protestants and Catholics.”[232] A little later Chantonnay mentions that certain bishops, adopting the doctrine and language of the heretics, called for reform in the Church; and that the clergy were made a laughing-stock in the presence even of the papal legate. “After supper the other evening, when the cardinal-legate was with the queen, the king, his brother the Duke of Orleans, and the Prince of Bearn, entered the room, followed by many others, all of them dressed up as cardinals, bishops, abbots, and priests, riding upon asses, and each carrying on the crupper behind him a page dressed as a loose woman.[233] There was a good laugh at it, and they continue to amuse themselves, calling the Prince of Bearn legate, because he was dressed as a cardinal.” The nuncio complained of this masque, for which Catherine apologized as being “only a childish jest.” Margaret of Valois, afterward wife of Henry IV., writes in her memoirs that “all the court was infected with heresy,” that “many of the lords and ladies tried to convert her,” that “her brother of Anjou [afterward Henry III.] had not escaped the unhappy influence, and that he used to throw her prayer-book into the fire and give her Huguenot hymns instead.” Considering that Margaret was at this time barely eight years old, her testimony, given nearly forty years later, is of little value, except as corroborating from another point of view, the evidence of other witnesses. The Duke of Bouillon writes in his memoirs, that another of Margaret’s brothers, Alençon, “favored the cause of the Religion.”[234] From all this it is pretty clear that France, at the beginning of the new reign, was on the brink of great changes, and that, if Catherine had been a woman of good principles, the current of French history would have been turned into another and a better channel. The Huguenots, believing her to be sincere in her protestations, exhorted her “to say but one word, and Christ would be worshiped in truth and purity throughout the kingdom.” But that word the queen-mother had no intention of uttering. Like many of those trained beneath the shadow of St. Peter’s, she was outwardly fervent enough, “pious after the Italian fashion,” but at heart she believed more in witchcraft and astrology than in God.

Preparatory to the reassembling of the States-General, it had been thought advisable to call together the provincial assemblies with the view of coming to an understanding regarding the matters to be brought before the general body. Each locality had its grievances and its remedies to propose, the clergy being the chief object of attack. But an unexpected turn was given to the course of events by the constituency of the Isle of France, who suggested the propriety of making those court favorites disgorge, who had been enriched by the prodigality of former reigns.[235] The idea of being called upon to restore his ill-gotten gains alarmed Montmorency, not only for himself but for his son, who had married a daughter of the notorious Diana of Poitiers. He was also offended by the Huguenot opinions of his nephews, the Chatillons, and the favor shown them by the queen-mother. In such a state of mind it needed but little persuasion on the part of Diana—fit instrument for such a scheme—to reconcile the constable with the Lorraines. A common danger drew them close together, and that fatal Triumvirate was formed which brought so much evil upon France.[236] In token of reconciliation, and as a pledge of mutual support, Montmorency, the Duke of Guise, and Marshal St. André took the sacrament together. The constable, who feared that a religious would lead to a political change, carried the whole weight of his influence to the Catholic side, toward which the King of Navarre was gradually inclining. His brother Condé, aided by Coligny, alone resisted the violent proposals of the Romish party, and advocated the assembling of a national council to arrange the religious differences, in which course they were supported by petitions from the Huguenots too numerous to be neglected. To gratify so just a request, a meeting of the clergy was summoned, at which a number of Protestant divines were to appear to explain and defend their doctrine.

In the interval came the meeting of the States of Pontoise (17th August, 1561), and their first step was to confirm the minutes of the Orleans meeting. The chancellor, who had grown in wisdom and toleration, said in his opening speech: “I do not understand those who desire to exclude the new religion from the kingdom—to issue edict after edict against it. Our only concern is, to learn whether the interests of the state are best served by the permission, or by the prohibition of the meetings of the Calvinists. To decide this, we need not inquire into their doctrine; for supposing the Reformed religion to be bad, is that a sufficient reason for proscribing its professors? Is it not possible to be a good subject without being a Catholic or even a Christian? Can not fellow-citizens, differing in religious opinions, still live in harmony? We have met not to establish articles of faith, but to regulate the state.”

The orator of the nobility demanded, with the almost unanimous consent of the order, that all religious controversies should be decided in conformity with Holy Scripture;[237] that heresy should no longer be considered an offense against the state; and that the Apostles’ and the Athanasian Creeds should be the only test of orthodoxy. The nobles also called for reforms in the judicature and in the government, but their scope belongs rather to the political than the religious history of the times.

The orator of the Tiers État demanded still greater changes: such as a national council, under the royal presidency, in which all the controverted questions should be decided by the Word of God; and a cessation of persecution, on the ground that it was unreasonable to force any man to do what his conscience condemned. The Third Estate farther proposed that cardinals and bishops should be disqualified for seats in the royal council; that the States-General should be convened every two years; and that the Reformed should enjoy full liberty of worship, either in the existing churches, or in such as they might build for themselves. “As both religions have the same foundation,” said one speaker, “there is no reason why they should hate and persecute one another. Perseverance in penal enactments will kindle a fire which no power under heaven can extinguish.” After suggesting various ecclesiastical reforms, he continued: “If the king wants money, let him do as they have done in Germany and England—take the money that makes the Church luxurious. One-third of what it possesses is enough for its wants. The people are ruined and can pay no more taxes.” The idea of paying their debts and getting rich by seizing the property of the clergy pleased even the orthodox; but the churchmen caught the alarm, and set every engine at work to ward off the threatened blow. The property of the Church was valued at one hundred and twenty millions. Out of this it was proposed to allot forty-eight millions, which would produce a revenue of four millions for the clergy, and which, men argued, was quite ample for their support. Forty-two millions were to be appropriated to the payment of the debt, and the balance of thirty millions would, if judiciously distributed in loans among the chief cities of France, develop trade and increase the general wealth of the country, while the interest would suffice to pay the army and keep the fortresses in repair. To carry out such a sweeping confiscation required a strong government, and then it could be done only at the risk of a revolution; but the very proposal made the clergy more willing to take their share of the public burdens, and they offered not only to redeem at their own cost all the royal domains pawned or mortgaged by the crown, but to pay annually for six years a tribute of sixteen hundred thousand livres. The queen-regent having thus obtained the necessary supplies, and a promise of more, the popular demands (with a few trivial exceptions) were evaded, but liberty of conscience was promised. If the meetings at Orleans and Pontoise did not effect much good, they materially promoted the interests of the Huguenots by recognizing the great principle of toleration, though more than two centuries were to pass away before it was fully carried out.

As soon as the meetings at Pontoise were ended, all eyes were turned to the approaching colloquy to be held at Poissy. The clergy, in return for their liberal contribution toward the burdens of the state, had called for the thorough execution of the Edict of July. “Non impetrarunt,” says Beza laconically. The regent took the money, but answered their prayer in very vague terms. What she really thought of the matters in dispute between the two religious parties may be gathered from her instructions to Cardinal Ferrara to be laid before the pope (4th August, 1561):—“The number of those professing the Reformed religion is so great, and their party is so powerful, that they are no longer to be put down by severe laws or force of arms. They are neither anabaptists nor libertines; they believe all the articles of the Apostles’ Creed, and therefore many are of opinion that they ought not to be cut off from communion with the Church. What danger can there be in removing the images from the churches, and doing away with certain useless forms in the administration of the sacraments? It would farther be advantageous to allow to all persons the communion under both kinds, and to permit divine worship to be celebrated in the vulgar tongue.”[238]

How far Catherine was sincere in her letter to Cardinal Ferrara is hardly a question for those who hold her to have been always more influenced by policy than by principle. She was sincere, when it served her purpose to be so. Long before the Triumvirate—that precursor of the League—took a definite form, she had seen the necessity of uniting with the Huguenots, in order to counterbalance the Lorraine party. It was this that made her write to the pope; that made her pretend to entertain Calvinistic ideas; in short, that made her deceive both parties. Without entirely adopting the views of Davila (at the end of his 2d book), we agree in his conclusion, that “she deceived not only simple people, but the craftiest and most skillful also.”

Whatever may have been Catherine’s motives, the pope would not yield an inch; he wrote to encourage the Catholic party to resistance. Meanwhile Chancellor de l’Hôpital was addressing the Calvinists of Geneva, praising in the king’s name—in reality according to the queen-mother’s instructions—the purity of their motives and the rectitude of their principles, and exhorting them to restrain “the malice of certain preachers and dogmatizers who abuse the name and purity of the religion which they profess, by sowing in the minds of the king’s subjects a damnable disobedience, not only by their libels and slanders, but by their sermons.”[239]

It was under such circumstances and in accordance with the promise made in the Edict of July, that the celebrated colloquy of Poissy was held, in September, 1561. On both sides great preparations had been made for the grand discussion; and in order to counterbalance the eloquence and skill of the Catholic party, Calvin, Beza, Peter Martyr,[240] and other ministers were invited, under safe conduct, from Switzerland. Calvin did not answer to the appeal, but the Protestants had no cause to regret his absence, for Theodore Beza was altogether a fitter person for such an occasion. Beza was a man of noble birth and a ripe scholar; he had seen much of courts, and in the fashionable society of Paris had acquired a remarkable grace of manner. He was converted by a serious illness: “As soon as I could leave my bed,” he told his friend and tutor, Melchior Wolmar, “I broke all my chains and went into voluntary exile with my wife to follow Christ.” At Geneva, he was nominated professor of theology, and ordained to the ministry; and became so strongly attached to Calvin that he scarcely ever left him. His appearance was a recommendation, being a handsome man of middle stature and pleasing address. On the 23d August, the day after his arrival at St. Germain’s, he preached before the court in Condé’s apartment, and was summoned at midnight to a private conference in the drawing-room of the Queen of Navarre,[241] where he was graciously received by the queen-mother, the Cardinals of Lorraine and Bourbon, and others. Catherine asked him many questions about Calvin’s health, age, and occupations. The Cardinal of Lorraine, after some well-turned compliments, declared that the difference in the Christian churches on transubstantiation and consubstantiation were not in his opinion a sufficient cause of schism. Beza replied: “We hold the bread to be the sacramental body, and we define sacramentaliter by maintaining, that though the body be now in heaven and nowhere else, and the signs on earth with us, yet it is as truly given and received by us, through faith in eternal life, as the sign is given naturally by the hands.” The cardinal, turning to the queen-mother, observed: “Such is my belief, madam, and I am satisfied.” Beza took advantage of this unexpected concession to add, “And these are the Sacramentarians who have been so long and so cruelly persecuted and slandered.”

Early on the morning of the 9th of September, 1561, Beza left St. Germain’s for Poissy (a small town about four leagues from Paris), escorted by a brilliant train of gentlemen, among whom must have been many of his old friends.[242] The members of the council, or colloquy as it was termed, in order not to wound the susceptibility of the papal court, assembled in the refectory of the great convent. The king, then only eleven years of age, presided, and around him were gathered the princes of the blood royal, with the officers and ladies of the court. On the two sides of the hall were ranged, according to their rank, six cardinals with archbishops and bishops to the number of forty and more, besides a vast array of doctors and lawyers who accompanied these prelates, all in scarlet or purple robes. Along the lower part of the room ran a bar, but the space beyond it was empty, the Protestants not being as yet admitted into the presence of the king. Charles IX. opened the proceedings by reading a formal speech, in which he said that he hoped “they would inquire into the things necessary to be reformed, without passion or prejudice, but solely for God’s honor, the discharge of their consciences, and the public peace.”...“What I desire,” he continued, “is that you will not separate until you have put matters into such good order that my subjects may live together in peace and unity.”[243] He was followed by Chancellor de l’Hopital, who, by the king’s express order, kept his seat while speaking. After a formal explanatory introduction he went on, “I caution you against subtle and curious questions that lead to nothing. We do not require many books, but only to understand thoroughly the Word of God, and to live in conformity with it as well as we can. The ministers of the new sect have been invited hither by his majesty to confer with you. I pray you receive them as a father receives his children, and graciously teach and instruct them, so that they can not hereafter say, they were condemned unheard.”

After some little discussion on the chancellor’s speech, which had offended the Cardinal de Tournon by its liberality, the Huguenots were introduced into the chamber. They were thirty-three in number, eleven ministers and twenty-two lay deputies[244] from the Calvinistic churches. Immediately on entering the hall they knelt down in homage to the king, and taking advantage of that position, Beza implored the Divine blessing upon the assembly. As they stood below the bar at the lower end of the room, their homely dark dresses formed a striking contrast to the silks and furs, and gold and bright colors of the dignitaries of the Romish Church, who sat on the two sides of the hall.

Standing a little in front of his colleagues, Beza proceeded to explain the articles of the faith held by himself and his brethren. His speech, which presents few salient points for modern readers, was a remarkable mixture of address, wisdom, and Scripture. He had gained the ear of an unwilling audience, and was listened to with many marks of approval, until he came to the doctrine of the Eucharist. He admitted (as we have already seen) the spiritual presence of Christ, but qualified it thus: “We say that his body is as remote from the bread and wine, as heaven is from earth.”[245] This so startled the Romish prelates, “that they began to murmur and make a great noise,”[246] calling him a “blasphemer.” Beza, however, took no notice of it, but continued his address, winding up by a statement of their doctrines on the obedience due to the king, appealing to their writings, to the condition of the Protestant states in Germany, and to Scripture. Such a defense would appear unnecessary in these days; but the orthodox constantly maintained that those who were rebels against the Church were also and necessarily rebels against the State. After a week’s adjournment the prelates, through their mouth-piece, the Cardinal of Lorraine, put in a reply to Beza’s statement, but would allow of no discussion except upon two points: the authority of the Church in matters of faith and the Real Presence. Beza offered to reply immediately, but the court rose, and when the turn of the Huguenot champion came, he spoke not so much with the hope of converting his antagonists as of softening them.[247] After his speech the public proceedings were discontinued, as the discussion was becoming unpopular; but at the suggestion of the queen-mother, several private conferences were held, at one of which a monk named Saintes maintained “that tradition was based on a firmer and surer foundation than Scripture;” and at another, the Jesuit Lainez, to the great scandal of all present, called the ministers “wolves, foxes, serpents, and assassins,” and declared that “women and soldiers could be no judges of points of faith.” The Reformed delegates put in a declaration on the Lord’s Supper, which the bishops rejected as heretical; and presenting a counter confession of their own, called upon the queen-mother to “compel the Huguenots to accept it, or else exterminate them, for France is a country that has never put up with heresy.” Catherine, however, did not yield, but sharply charged them with a perverse desire to prolong the disturbances of the kingdom. The Moderate party still clung to the hope of reconciliation, and at a later meeting the chancellor boldly said: “The State and Church are two things, not one. A man may be a good subject, though a bad Christian. You may excommunicate a man, but he is still a citizen.” L’Hopital was too far in advance of his age.[248]

Catherine appears to have acted in a straightforward manner during the colloquy; and, when the members had separated, she did not relax in her exertions to arrive at an acceptable compromise. She suggested that the French bishops should present an address to the king, praying him to move the pope to permit the marriage of priests and the communion in both kinds. They did so, and Pius IV. replied that he had always held these changes to be right and fair, for which he had been taunted with Lutheranism at the last conclave; but he could do nothing without the cardinals, who would not consent.[249] Writing to the embassador at the imperial court (16th February, 1562), the queen-regent complains of the time spent in “idle disputes;” and in a letter to De Lisle, his envoy at Rome, Charles defends what had been done at Poissy, on the ground that it was impossible to carry out the existing edicts; “I therefore resolved,” he says, “to leave my kingdom no longer in a confusion, which became greater the more the remedy was deferred.” The government, enlightened by what had taken place in Germany and Switzerland, began to look upon Protestantism as a barrier against anarchy. Minds that had left the safe anchorage of the Church of Rome were drifting to and fro, and the only resting-place against the torrent which had hurried so many into the errors of anabaptism was the creed of Luther and of Calvin. Heresy was better than a revival of the excesses of Munster.[250]

During the colloquy a synod was held, at which the impracticable temper of the Huguenot pastors was forcibly shown by a memoir they drew up, demanding “the exclusion of women from the government of the state, and the establishment of a legitimate regency;” thus alienating the queen-mother, who was drawing nearer to them every day. They also called for severe measures against “infidels, libertines, and atheists;” like some modern patriots, who love liberty so much that they would keep it all for themselves.

Although the colloquy came to nothing, the actual result was a victory to the Huguenots by clearing their character from the many aspersions cast upon it. They had shown that they were not disloyal subjects, and were not in the habit of practicing infamous crimes; and their faith spread so rapidly in consequence, that the demand for pastors to preside over the new congregations was greater than the Swiss churches could supply. The countenance of the court gave them boldness. During the sittings at Poissy they assembled by thousands outside the walls of Paris to listen to Beza, whose enemies have computed his hearers at 8000, and whose friends at 50,000.[251] The smaller number appears quite large enough for any voice to reach in the open air. Necessity very early compelled these congregations to assume a sort of military formation. The women and children were placed in the centre nearest the preacher; behind them stood the men on foot, next came the men on horseback, and outside all were ranged armed men, soldiers or arquebusiers, to protect the unarmed crowd. As Paris was particularly lawless, Condé collected a volunteer guard of about 400 gentlemen, to whom were added 300 old soldiers under Andelot, with 300 students and as many citizens. Certainly no public worship was safe without some such precautions, but the wisdom of such a display of force, when private worship was possible, is open to doubt.

From a list presented to the queen-mother about this time by Coligny, it would seem that there were more than 2000 Reformed and organized churches in France. Some have calculated the Huguenots to number one-half of the population, while the least sanguine reckoned them at one-tenth. The Chancellor l’Hopital estimated that “a fourth part of the kingdom was separated from the communion of the Church.” This part, he adds, “consists of gentlemen, of the principal citizens, and of such members of the poorer sort as have seen the world and are accustomed to bear arms. They have with them more than three-fourths of the men of letters, and a great proportion of the large and good houses, both of the nobility and third estate, being on their side, they do not want money to carry on their affairs.”[252] To the same effect wrote Castelnau; and Micheli, the Venetian embassador, one of the shrewdest of observers, declared that there was no province of France untainted by Protestantism; and that Normandy and Brittany, Gascony and Languedoc, Poitou and Touraine, Provence and Dauphiny—comprising three-fourths of the kingdom—were full of it. “In many provinces,” he says, “meetings are held, sermons preached, and rules of life adopted, entirely in accordance with the example of Geneva, and without any regard to the royal prohibition. Every one has embraced these opinions, and, what is most remarkable, even the religious body, not only priests, monks, and nuns—very few of the convents have escaped the infection—but even the bishops and many of the most distinguished prelates.... Your highness (the Doge) may be assured that, excepting the common people, who still zealously frequent the churches, all have fallen away. The nobles most especially, the men under forty almost without exception; for although many of them still go to mass, it is only from regard to appearances and through fear. When they are sure to be unobserved, they shun both mass and church.”[253] He considered it indispensable that religious freedom—at least an “interim,” as he called it—should be accorded to the French Protestants, if they would avoid a general war.

Catherine and the least fanatical portion of her advisers saw clearly enough that a compromise was necessary. Though greatly disappointed at the result of the Poissy conference, she recognized the necessity of moderation, and had called upon the chiefs of the Huguenots to assist her by restoring the churches which their followers had seized for their religious services. She then gave them tacit permission to assemble to the number of five hundred[254] in places appointed for that purpose, forbidding them at the same time to wear arms, or to indulge in irritating language.[255] In Paris, the number who could meet together was limited to two hundred, and that in private.[256] But the question of toleration or persecution was too important to be settled in this irregular fashion, and the queen-regent summoned an assembly of Notables, composed of the ordinary members of the Privy Council, with two delegates from each parliament in the kingdom, to advise with her on what had become a matter of high state policy.

The fanatical Romish party were by no means pleased with these tolerant symptoms in the court and government; and finding their power and influence diminishing every day, they began to look about them for foreign help. In their perplexity they naturally turned to the pope and the King of Spain; and there is a story of a petition, emanating from the Cardinal of Lorraine and certain doctors of the Sorbonne, imploring Philip II. to aid the Church of France against the heretics, on the ground that he was the mightiest and most religious of princes. The petition never reached its destination in consequence of its bearer, a priest, being arrested and compelled to give it up. The story is not well authenticated, but there is evidence enough without it to show that the Guises and a part of the French clergy were engaged in a treasonable correspondence. Supported by this correspondence, the King of Spain took a high tone in his letters to the queen-regent, blaming her for holding the colloquy at Poissy, and condemning the mere idea of a national council. He said bluntly that all heretics ought to be punished without respect of persons, and added that if she failed in her duty, he was determined to sacrifice every thing, even his life, to check the progress of the pestilence, which was equally threatening to France and to Spain. The Spanish embassador Chantonnay, whom Anquetil describes as “acting the part of a French minister of state,” scarcely wrote a letter to his royal master in which he did not denounce Catherine’s favor to the Protestants. As it was Philip’s interest to keep France in a disturbed state, he naturally courted the Guise faction, promising them both men and money, but not willing to give either very liberally. Secret as were their manœuvres, they did not escape Catherine’s vigilance, and to prevent any violent outbreak she disarmed the populace of Paris.[257]

Catherine became more unpopular every day among the extreme Romanists, and the discontent with her policy became general: many of the nobility remonstrated with her for her toleration, and the monks gladly seized the opportunity of arousing the fanaticism of the populace. One of these tonsured preachers of sedition actually exhorted the citizens of Paris not to permit the watch, who were paid by them, to protect the heretics. The violence of the Romish clergy—especially of the regulars—at this time can hardly be exaggerated. Simon Vigor,[258] whose sermons are still extant, spoke thus ferociously from his pulpit: “Our nobility will not strike.... Is it not very cruel, they say, to draw the sword against one’s uncle or father?... Come now, which is nearest and dearest to you, your Catholic and Christian brother or your carnal Huguenot brother? The spiritual affinity or relationship is much higher than the carnal, and therefore I tell you that since you will not strike the Huguenots, you have no religion. Accordingly some morning God will execute justice, and permit this bastard nobility to be trodden down by the commonalty. I do not say that it ought to be done, but that God will permit it to be done.”[259] The garrulous Claude Haton declares that Vigor far surpassed all others in violence, and gives an outline of a sermon in which he accused the king’s government of favoring Huguenotry, and “destroying the Church of Christ.” Claude de Sainctes, who was in the household of the Cardinal of Lorraine, declared in one of his writings, “that if the fires which had been lighted up in France for the destruction of Calvinism had not been extinguished, that sect would not have spread.”[260]

This incendiary language produced the intended effect, and the whole kingdom became the theatre of frightful disorders. At Cahors the tocsin called the people to arms (26th December, 1561). The Catholics shut up the Huguenots in their place of meeting and then set fire to it. As the poor wretches forced their way through the flames, they were struck down by the pikes and swords of the savage crowd. Similar disturbances occurred in other parts of France—at Pamiers, Dijon, Troyes, Amiens, Abbeville, Tours, Bordeaux, Montpellier, Marseilles—the Roman Catholics being determined to prevent all assemblies that were not authorized by edict. François Channeil and Louis de Brezous, accompanied by 600 horse and foot, entered Aurillac, and shutting the gates so that none might escape, began to fire upon the inhabitants, killing one of their own number. Many Protestants were thus murdered. The soldiers hanged without trial a book-seller and a hosier, who died bravely singing the 27th Psalm to the last moment: