It was impossible that such “lynch-law” violence could have any permanent repressive effect upon men who felt that “persecution was the ladder by which they were to reach heaven.”[261] The Huguenot was not likely to be less fervent than the Mahometan, who looks upon the sword of his enemy as the key to Paradise.

There were perhaps few cities where the magistrates showed so much good sense as at Amiens in adopting vigorous measures to preserve peace between both religious parties. About four years before this time the heretics in that city were estimated at 500, a body too numerous to be openly molested. The monks, therefore, organized processions of children between the ages of eight and twelve, and these to the number of 200 paraded the streets at night with toy crosses and banners, halting from time to time and singing the Ave Maria at certain doors, according as their leader, a man bearing a sword, directed them: “Sing, children, sing, in spite of the Huguenots.” The Jacobin preachers used their pulpits as instruments of sedition, employing language that could hardly fail to lead to rioting. Indeed (to anticipate our narrative), on the 7th and 8th of December, 1561, the tocsin was rung, the Catholics fell upon the Huguenots as they were returning from divine worship, wounded many, and maltreated some of the civic officers and others who had come to help the weaker party. It was in consequence of these and similar outbreaks that the magistrates, in order to prevent the mere possibility of rioting, interfered so far with individual liberty as to forbid the inhabitants to assemble in the streets to the number of more than four, or to leave their houses after curfew, to carry arms, to discuss the sermons, or to call each other names, such as “Huguenots, Lutherans, papists, hypocrites, and caffards,” under pain of death. Still the magistrates were not in the least inclined to tolerate heterodoxy, for they went on to prohibit assemblies either in the city or without, for the purpose of preaching, reading, or psalm-singing, contrary to the practice of the Church.[262] Although the Catholic party appears to have become stronger in the municipal body, still their measures inclined to tolerance. On the 22d May, 1562, the ministers were ordered to leave the city within three days, and school-masters were forbidden to teach the new doctrine to their pupils. Five days later we find the Notables assembled to devise means for compelling some eighteen or twenty Huguenots to decorate their houses for the procession of the Holy Sacrament, with a view “to avoid any demonstration of feeling on the part of the people, who would be scandalized by any want of reverence.” The men were summoned before them, and consented under protest to adorn their windows. “They pleaded their conscience,” says the register; “and when they were asked how that could be wounded by such an act, they refused to give any explanation.”[263] The men, however, did not keep their word, and were sent to prison. A proclamation was then issued ordering all persons to decorate their houses under pain of being fined twenty livres parisis; but this had so little effect that, the very next Sunday, two hundred and sixty persons refused to comply with the order.

Although the liberal-minded Christians of our days may think these Amiens Reformers overscrupulous, we are hardly in position to blame them. They looked upon the procession of the Corpus Christi as an act of idolatrous worship, and to hang tapestry on the walls of their houses was indirectly to countenance the idolatry. It is not very long ago that a similar argument was urged in the House of Commons against the turning-out of the guard at Malta when the host was carried past the guard-house.

But the Huguenots were almost as turbulent as the Romanists: in many places they had become strong enough to defy the penal laws passed against them. They seized upon the churches, drove the monks from their convents, made bonfires of the crosses, images, and relics, and demanded an enlargement of their privileges. During the procession of the Fête Dieu at Lyons (5th June, 1561) a Huguenot tried to snatch the host out of the priest’s hand. There was an instant riot: “Down with the heretics! To the Rhone with them!” was the cry. Many were drowned, and the principal of the college of the Trinity was dragged a corpse through the streets. In all times of excitement there are hot-headed partisans who add to the confusion and thwart the exertions of those who are inclined to conciliatory measures. The early Reformed Church was not without them: each Protestant country had its iconoclasts. These indiscreet Reformers were the dread of the moderate Beza: “I fear our friends more than our enemies,” he wrote.[264] After receiving intelligence of an outrage at Montpellier he said that, if he were judge, he would punish those “madmen” with extreme severity.[265] And in a letter to Calvin he says (18th January, 1562): “You will scarcely believe how intemperate our people are, as if they wanted to rival our enemies in impatience.” It was necessary to do something, for the two parties were coming into collision, and blood had been shed not only in Paris, the head-quarters of orthodoxy, but in other parts of the country.

One day the populace of the capital having insulted the Huguenots as they were returning from divine service, the gentlemen of the Reform resolved to be present at the next meeting to the number of 2000 horsemen, with the intention, if the insult should be repeated, of seizing upon the adjoining churches and expelling the monks. There were frequent conflicts in the city, and in one of them, known as the riot of St. Medard, both parties were equally violent and equally guilty. It appears that, on St. John’s Day, the priests of the Church of St. Medard, in the southern suburb beyond the walls, rang the bells in their belfry to drown the voice of the Huguenot preaching in an adjoining house. The congregation remonstrated, and one of their number was fired on and killed. The Huguenots drew their swords directly. Andelot entered the Church on horseback, and in the struggle that followed fifty persons were killed and wounded. The riot was renewed the next day by the Catholics, who broke into the house where the Protestants used to worship, and burned it to the ground after smashing the pulpit and benches to pieces. The matter was taken up by the Parliament of Paris, and the next year (1562), at the close of a procession to expiate the profanation of the church, a great number of citizens suspected of heresy were hanged or drowned without trial, among them being the captain of the watch[266] and some archers whose only crime was that they had not stopped the riot. They were pelted by the children, and “if they had possessed a hundred lives all would have been taken, the people were so exasperated.” The corpses of the poor wretches were seized by some fanatics, who dragged them through the streets and then flung them into the river.[267] The nuncio Santa Croce wrote to the court of Rome: “Some Huguenots are put to death every day. Yesterday, four of those who committed such sacrilege in the Church of St. Medard were burned, and to-day they are preparing for a similar spectacle.”[268]

Such was the condition of France when the assembly of Notables met at St. Germains. The Chancellor L’Hopital, who had been growing more tolerant every day, addressed them in a speech full of eloquence and sound sense. He called their attention to the actual state of the Huguenots, their number, and their strength; and showed the injustice and impolicy of those who wished the king to put himself at the head of one part of his subjects, and establish peace by the destruction of the other. “In such a war,” he continued, “where is the king to find soldiers? Among his subjects. Against whom is he to lead them? Against his subjects. A triumph or a defeat is equally the destruction of his subjects. I resign controversies on religion to the theologians; our business is not to settle articles of faith, but to regulate the state. A man may be a good subject without being a Catholic. I see no reason why we should not live in peace with those who do not observe the same religious ceremonies as ourselves.”

After a long and warm discussion the opinions of the Moderate or “political” party triumphed, and sixteen articles were drawn up, which became the basis of the celebrated Edict of January, 1562. It suspended all preceding edicts, and authorized “those of the religion” to assemble unarmed outside the towns to preach, pray, and perform other religious exercises. By this means it was hoped to avoid collision with the Catholics. The edict farther stipulated that the Protestants should restore the churches and other ecclesiastical property they had seized; that they should not resist the collection of tithes, or criticise the ceremonies of the Catholic religion in their sermons, books, or conversation. They were also forbidden to hold synods without the permission of the crown, or to travel from town to town to preach, but were to confine themselves to one church. As a natural corollary Catholic preachers were likewise enjoined to abstain from invectives, “as things serving rather to excite the people to sedition than persuade them to devotion.” The various Parliaments at first refused to register the edict, without which ceremony it would not have the force of law; but their opposition was overcome in every instance except that of Dijon, where it was “virtuously resisted” by Gaspard de Saulx-Tavannes, lieutenant-general of Burgundy, a stanch partisan of the Guises, and one of the most sanguinary leaders of the age. The Parliament of Paris was characteristically obstinate. To the first summons they replied, Nec possumus nec debemus; and when they yielded at last to a threat of physical force, they would only register the edict under protest, “considering the urgent necessity of a temporary measure.” The Cardinal of Lorraine accepted it, acknowledging to Throckmorton that some reformation was necessary, but he seemed to think that the reform should come from above, and not from “men of their own authority.”[269]

The Huguenots received the edict with gratitude, if not with exultation. Limited as were the privileges it granted, still it was a victory over their opponents. The right of assembling was conceded to them, and for such a right the blood of their martyred brethren had not been shed in vain. The preachers took immediate advantage of the liberty given them by the edict, and preached more boldly than ever in fields and gardens or any open space, and, if the weather was bad, in such sheds and barns as they could find. “The people,” says Castelnau, “curious about every thing new, crowded to hear them, Catholics as well as Protestants.” The Romish party, who undoubtedly formed the great majority of the nation, and the most ignorant portion of it, were greatly disgusted with this Edict of Pacification, imperfect as it was, and began to range themselves in opposition to the crown. Brulart only echoed the public opinion when he declared the Edict of January to be “the most pernicious possible for the repose and welfare of the state, and the support of the kingdom,” and “a wholesale approval of that wretched Calvinistic sect.” Tn certain provinces it had been well received; but, in Burgundy, Tavannes would hear of no toleration. He drove a large number—report says more than 2000—of the Reformed out of Dijon, and issued an order to the neighboring peasantry “to massacre all who prayed elsewhere than in the churches, and to refuse drink, food, and shelter to the expelled rebels.” At Aix, the Protestants had been accustomed to worship under a fir-tree outside the walls. Every morning for weeks men and women were seen hanging from its branches; they had been seized in the night, and executed without trial, on the mere denunciation of an enemy.

The Cardinal of Lorraine and the Duke of Guise had retired from the Privy Council in December, in order that they might take no part in deliberations in which they knew the majority would be against them. Such a silent protest added largely to their popularity, and they were already looked upon as the heads of an anti-Huguenot league. They placed orthodoxy before loyalty, and were ready to oppose the crown whenever it showed any toleration to heretics. Nearly twelve months before this date the duke had told the queen-mother in answer to her question, that the Catholics would not obey the king if he changed his religion. Still there are good reasons to believe that all would have gone on quietly but for the defection of the weak-minded Anthony of Navarre, whose ruling passion was to change his nominal sovereignty of Navarre for a real crown and real subjects. The Guises played upon this weakness; Philip II. gave him a choice of several thrones; and the pope’s legate “very cleverly” offered to divorce him from his excellent wife Joan of Albret, so that he might marry the widowed Mary Stuart. But there was one condition: he must apostatize. By such a man as Anthony, who had no principle, that little obstacle was soon surmounted; and in February, 1562, he sold himself to the enemy. Davila’s language leaves no doubt as to the motives of his conversion.[270]

Anthony’s secession brought a great increase of power to the side of the Triumvirate by placing at their disposal the troops that obeyed him as lieutenant-general of France. The insolence of the Guises increased with success. Their pride and contempt for all who did not belong to their family or dependents almost bordered on insanity. They could brook no opposition, and that the Huguenots should think for themselves was a crime to be expiated only by death. They aimed at political supremacy, and Coligny, now the acknowledged Huguenot chief, though Condé was the nominal head, stood in the way of their ambition. The Triumvirate, therefore, decided upon carrying matters to extremity, and willingly accepted the aid proffered them by the King of Spain. Philip II., the self-constituted champion of Romanism, the “démon du midi,”[271] was trying to crush the Reform in Flanders by a persecution unparalleled for its merciless severity in the history of the world. He saw clearly that if France were reformed, or even if the Reformers were tolerated, success would be impossible; and he had therefore instructed his embassador, Chantonnay, as early as the 16th October, 1561, to tell the regent that if religious matters were not arranged—by which he meant, unless the late proscriptions were renewed—he would send troops to the aid of the Catholics. Catherine was not the woman to submit to such an unsolicited intervention, even at the hands of her royal son-in-law, and she answered the ambassador haughtily, that “she did not know what his Spanish Majesty meant, but the king had troops enough to enforce obedience from his subjects, and that she would severely punish any who sought for foreign aid without the authority of the crown.” There can hardly be a doubt that, at this time, Catherine was sincere in her determination to maintain a religious toleration, even at the risk of hostilities with Spain; and she appears to have consulted Coligny as to the number of men the Reformed churches could bring into the field.[272] But events moved so swiftly that she had for the time no alternative but to go with the stream.

Anthony’s defection had destroyed that balance of parties which the queen-mother had so diligently labored to maintain. As rash and violent now as he had previously been dilatory and weak, he had hastened to Paris, whence he wrote, inviting Guise to join him, and make a combined attack upon the Protestants. The Duke was at the castle of Joinville in Champagne, having just returned from Saverne in Alsace, where the Lorraine princes had met Duke Christopher of Wurtemberg. Their object in visiting Germany was to mislead the Protestants of that country, and alienate them entirely from the Calvinists of France, thinking that, if the latter were deprived of all external support, they must soon be crushed.[273] The Cardinal of Lorraine twice preached sermons so Lutheran in spirit, that his open adoption of the Confession of Augsburg was eagerly looked for;[274] and the language of the Duke of Guise and his brother Charles, in their conferences with Duke Christopher and his chancellor, Brentz, is so extraordinary, and, as regards Duke Francis, so unlike what we read of him at other times, as almost to shake our faith in the genuineness of the report of the conference.[275] Brentz entreated the cardinal to put an end to the persecutions in France. “I will do so,” he replied, adding with a solemn look, “that he had not put one single man to death on account of his religion.” Francis corroborated his brother’s words, and said: “We will do the Reformed no injury.” We shall see how well the two Lorraine princes kept their promise.

Vassy is a small fortified town of Champagne (Haute Marne), on the river Braise, about sixty leagues from Paris. It now contains a population of little more than 3000, and, three centuries ago, probably did not contain half that number. The Reformed Church, however, must have been strong in that quarter, for on Christmas Day, 1561, as many as 3000 persons are reported to have assembled for divine worship, of whom 900 partook of the Holy Communion.[276] Such an assertion of liberty of thought greatly offended Antoinette de Bourbon, the dowager duchess of Guise. She could not understand how her vassals—or, to speak more correctly, the vassals of Mary Stuart, her granddaughter—should dare choose a religion for themselves, and urged her son Francis to punish their presumption. The duke, notwithstanding what he had promised at Saverne, needed no stimulants to the discharge of so agreeable a duty. His way to Paris lay through Vassy, and as he came near the town on Sunday morning (1st March, 1562), he heard the sound of a bell. “What noise is that?” he asked. “They are calling the Huguenots to their sermon,” was the reply. “Huguenots! Huguenots!” he swore; “S’death! I will huguenotize them before long.” He rode into the town, alighted at the convent where he dined, and after dinner—for that meal was then eaten in the forenoon—he ordered out his soldiers, between 200 and 300 in number, and marched them to the barn in which the Huguenots, trades-people for the most part, had assembled to hear a new preacher who had just been sent to them from Geneva. The ducal retainers began the strife by abusing the congregation as “heretics, dogs, and rebels,” murdering three, and wounding several who attempted to close the door. The Huguenots endeavored to defend themselves with such weapons as they could snatch up: two, who were probably gentlemen, drew their swords, others flung stones, one of which struck the duke in the cheek as he stood near the door. In a whirlwind of rage he gave his followers orders to spare nobody, and these orders were but too faithfully carried out.[277] Such as escaped the sword were killed by the arquebuse as they were making their way through the windows or over the roof. For one hour the bloody work continued, during which time between fifty and sixty of the Huguenots were murdered on the spot, and about two hundred wounded, some of them mortally. “There were left forty-two poor widows burdened with orphan children,” wrote Beza. Many who succeeded in escaping from the barn, were pursued and killed in the town, and probably none would have been spared but for the Duchess of Guise, who, remembering the bloody scenes at Amboise, interceded for the women. When all was over a book was brought the duke; he looked at it contemptuously, he had never seen such a volume before. “Here,” said he, handing it to the cardinal, “here is one of the Huguenot books.” “There is no harm in it,” his brother answered; “it is the Bible.” It was probably the one used in public worship. “S’blood! how is that? This book has only been printed a year, and they say the Bible is more than fifteen hundred years old.” “My brother is mistaken,” quietly observed the cardinal, as he turned away to hide a smile of contempt at the duke’s ignorance.[278]

The news of the “blood-bath of Vassy” spread like wild-fire through France, everywhere creating the deepest agitation. Such an outrage was not only an infringement of the Edict of January, the ink of which was scarcely dry, but a direct defiance of it; the act (as it were) of a man who, in pursuance of his own ends, had resolved to trample upon all law.[279] If the offense were not punished, no one would be safe hereafter; no law would be binding. As soon as the tidings of the massacre reached Paris, Marshal Montmorency, the governor, who was not unfriendly to the Huguenots, advised the ministers to adjourn their preachings for a few days, lest there should be a riot; but with characteristic obstinacy they refused, as it would be “acknowledging they were in the wrong.” They farther asked for a guard to protect them in their ministrations. Meanwhile Beza went to Monceaux, and appealed personally to the queen-regent. The apostate Anthony of Navarre attempted to defend the Duke, and, throwing the blame on the Huguenots, said that Beza ought to be hanged.[280] Beza replied that the Church of Christ was more apt to receive blows than to inflict them, adding, in words that have since passed into a proverb, “Remember, Sire, it is an anvil on which many a hammer has been broken.” The queen-mother made a gracious answer, and promised that the edict should be enforced. She bade Navarre watch over the safety of the king, and summoned Guise to court, “unattended by any men-at-arms.” Marshal St. André was ordered to repair to his government at Lyons, but refused to go.

The excitement was so great in Paris that each party took up arms, declaring they did so in self-defense; and had there been a reckless leader on either side, the streets would have run with blood shed in civil strife. The hotels of Montmorency and of Guise were turned into fortresses, and strongly garrisoned by their respective partisans. The constable, as representative of the oldest barony of France, was urged by his wife to act up to his motto, and defend the faith; and he would possibly have been induced to adopt an extreme course but for his son Marshal Montmorency, who advised moderation, and urged that it would be wiser to conciliate the queen-mother than attempt to coerce her.

The slaughter at Vassy was as much exulted over by the ignorant and fanatical Catholic populace as it was bewailed by the Calvinists. Priests in the pulpit declared Duke Francis to be a second Moses, a Jehu, who “by shedding the blood of the wicked had consecrated his hands, and avenged the Lord’s quarrel.” Ballads were made upon it, and the orthodox street-singers extolled the Duke of Guise in very laudatory if not very polished strains:

The Calvinists replied in coarse and more vigorous terms:

Meanwhile the duke, escorted by a body of 1200 gentlemen on horseback, continued his journey to Paris, which he entered in triumph by the St. Denis gate—a gate usually reserved for kings.[281] The multitude cheered him loudly as he passed down that long narrow street, hailing him as a second Judas Maccabæus; the trades harangued him, and called upon him to extirpate heresy. On the same day—or on the next, as others write—Beza preached a sermon beyond the city walls, which the Prince of Condé attended with three or four hundred men, horse and foot, armed with pistols and arquebuses, to protect the preacher, who also wore a breastplate. The prince had gone to Paris to support the governor and obtain justice for the massacre. He charged the duke with attempting to seize the government, and advised Catherine to accept the aid of the Protestants. The queen-mother did not know how to act, fearing to trust herself wholly to either party. At last she prevailed upon Condé and Guise to leave the capital so as to avoid all chances of collision. The duke readily consented, feeling secure of the citizens; on the other hand, Condé clearly foresaw that he would lose the city if he quitted it; but being too weak to hold his ground, he withdrew to his estate at La Ferté-sous-Jouarre, on the Marne, to the north-east of Paris.

The queen-mother soon found out that she had made a great mistake in urging Condé to leave the capital: she saw that the power had passed out of her hands, and that the Guises were preparing to make a tyrannous use of it. She feared the Triumvirate, for herself as well as for her son; and there is a story that she overheard St. André proposing to throw her into the Seine. To preserve her freedom of action she quitted Monceaux in great secrecy, and removed to Melun, taking Charles IX. with her,[282] having apparently made up her mind to act with decision. She appealed to Condé to protect her and the young king “from the greatest enemy France can have, and who is also yours:” and the prince lost no time in summoning Coligny, Andelot, La Rochefoucauld, and other chiefs of the Huguenot party to meet him at Meaux, to take the queen’s letters into consideration. As they were not strong enough to force their way back to Paris, they resolved to get possession of the king’s person, and carry him off to Orleans, knowing well the great strength their cause would derive from the royal presence among them. But the Triumvirate were equally clear on this point, and being more prompt became masters of the coveted prize.

Meanwhile the Parisians had begun to murmur at the absence of their sovereign, and to quiet their remonstrances the queen-mother removed at Easter to Fontainebleau, which was farther from Condé’s head-quarters at Meaux. The Guises, suspecting her intentions, determined to anticipate them by a coup-de-main. The King of Navarre was dispatched with a strong body of Catholic gentlemen, including the constable, to escort the young king to Paris, on the ground that he was not safe so long as the Huguenots were at Meaux. Anthony, as first prince of the blood, was to a certain extent the guardian of his infant master, and no doubt he would have asserted that right had Catherine resisted. She held out indeed for a time, but gave way at last, saying, “I know how useless it is to speak to you of your duty; but alone, deserted, and betrayed as I am, I shall defend the liberty of my son—your king.” Being thus “benetted round with villains,” she yielded only when Navarre had actually issued orders for dismantling the royal apartments; for such were the scanty comforts even of royalty in those days, that when the court moved from place to place, carpets, tapestry, beds and furniture were moved also. The queen-regent sent off a hasty express to Condé, in the hope that he would be able to rescue her on the road; but the hope was vain. The journey to Paris—or, to be verbally accurate, to Melun and Vincennes—was a sad one; Catherine hardly spoke a word to the escort during the three days it occupied; and the boy-king, who imagined they were taking him to prison, wept several times with all the violence of childish grief.

Condé came at last, but only to see the king and his mother carried off in triumph; his force was not strong enough to rescue them, even had the attempt been safe. Henceforth the regent was in the hands of the reactionists, and must follow wherever they led. With contemptuous politeness they assured her, if we may believe Chantonnay, “that they had never thought of depriving her of the government, and would not attempt it, so long as she gave her hand to the support of true religion and of the king’s authority.”[283] Supporting true religion meant depriving the Huguenots of their privileges, the first step toward which was to interdict the Reformers of Paris from meeting to worship within the walls of the capital—a deprivation partly justifiable under the circumstances. The mutual jealousy of the triumvirs prevented the exercise of any harsh measures toward Catherine: each intrigued against the other, and hoped to make use of her for his own private ends. Each was aware that if she were removed, his own position would be imperiled by the rival ambitions of his colleagues.