The Peace of St. Germains was a severe blow to the foreigners by whom the court was infested. Their interests were entirely opposed to those of France, and their great object was to enrich themselves, by any means however base and unworthy. They were found everywhere—filling up the rich sees, wealthy abbacies, court places—where money could be got without peril to life or toil of body. Their expulsion seemed to be the only means of saving the country and ensuring that permanent concord at which the “Politiques” had aimed in supporting the late treaty.

The chief among these foreigners were Gondi, Birague, and Strozzi. Albert de Gondi—better known in history as Marshal de Retz—was a man of low origin, his mother acting as wet-nurse to Catherine’s children, so that Albert and Charles IX. were foster-brothers, and thus there naturally grew up a strong attachment between them. After the death of Henry II. Albert rose rapidly, and was made successively knight of the orders of St. Michael and of the Holy Ghost, first gentleman of the bed-chamber, privy councilor, general of the galleys, duke, peer, marshal, and governor of Provence, in which he succeeded Marshal Tende, “to the great indignation of the nobility,” says De Thou.[461] It was this man who, appointed governor to the young king Charles, corrupted and perverted all his promising qualities. His latter days were very miserable: for twenty years he lingered on, not living but suffering, and died in 1602, an example of divine justice.[462]

Pierre de Gondi was chancellor to the queen, bishop, Duke of Langres, and then of Paris, the possessor of four abbeys, commander of the order of the Holy Ghost, and cardinal. There was another brother, Charles, also well provided for.

René de Birague, who had succeeded the virtuous L’Hopital in the chancellorship, was a Milanese, and in succession lawyer, soldier, courtier, priest, chancellor, and cardinal. He was a thorough Italian, careless of religion, unscrupulous, fond of intrigue, time-serving, and slavishly submissive to the king’s caprices. Mezeray describes him as “a magistrate without learning or application, who bent like a reed before every breath of wind from the court.” It was he who advised Charles IX. to get rid of the Huguenots, not by the help of soldiers but of cooks—in other words, by poison. Philip Strozzi, son of the brave but unfortunate Marshal Pietro Strozzi, became, at the early age of twenty-two, quarter-master of the French guards, and colonel-general of the French infantry, which gave him almost unlimited authority. The French soldiers murmured at being placed under his orders.[463]

Louis de Gonzaga was another of this Italian band. One historian calls him “a worthy prince,” but his worth was due more to his timidity than to his honesty.[464] These were the principal confidants of the queen-mother, and their only aim was to preserve what they had got. The chief of the Guises was Henry of Lorraine, surnamed “le Balafré.” He was not so good a soldier as his father, but was a tall, handsome man, with keen eye, light beard and curly hair; liberal to profusion, easy in speech, well read in Tacitus, and perfect in all bodily and military exercises. But his good qualities were marred by an insatiable thirst for glory and a desire for authority. When Henry III. asked how it was that Duke Henry enchanted every body, the reply was: “He does good to all and speaks ill of none.” He had succeeded to most of the great charges of his father, as grand master, high chamberlain, and governor of Champagne.

The peace of St. Germains was acceptable to the larger portion of the Huguenot party, many of whom had not visited their homes since the first outbreak of the wars, and their affairs had become so disordered that ruin appeared almost inevitable. The noise of the trumpet and the drum had drowned the quieter voice of religion, the Protestant churches were decaying, discipline was relaxed, and doctrine becoming unsound. A general synod was required to put these matters straight, and this, the seventh, was by the king’s permission held at Rochelle in April, 1571, under the presidency of Theodore Beza. The Queen of Navarre and the young princes of Bearn and Condé were present at the opening ceremony along with the admiral and Count Louis of Nassau. The great work of this synod was to revise the confession of 1559, and issue an authoritative text, of which three copies on parchment were made. One of these standards was to be kept at Rochelle, another at Geneva, and a third at Pau in Bearn. The first and last disappeared during the civil wars.

Very different were the occupations of the court, which an historian, whom I have often consulted with advantage, describes as being “more licentious than that of Francis I., without the varnish of gallantry which conceals the excesses of passion.”[465] Catherine was fond of ease: her voluptuous Italian nature delighted in balls and masquerades, in fêtes and banquets. She could now once more indulge her taste for the arts, and during this period we find her busy with her new palace of the Tuileries, laying out gardens, talking with Bernard Palissy, now a man of note; or with Jean Bullant, whose reputation has been dwarfed by the greater renown of his predecessor Philip de l’Orme. Wherever she went, a gay troop of beautiful women accompanied her. Their charms were employed to convert the queen’s foes into friends, and to learn the secrets of her enemies. “Le bal marcha toujours,” growls that rough old warrior Montluc.

The king’s marriage was an opportunity for gayeties not to be lost. It is said that one of his motives for concluding the treaty of St. Germains was the unwillingness of the Emperor Maximilian to part with his daughter while France was in a state of civil commotion. There may have been other causes of delay, for very unfavorable reports of the king’s health and disposition had got abroad. His character certainly had not improved during the few years he had occupied the throne. He was fond of athletic sports, and excelled in jumping and tennis. He took delight in shoeing horses and working at the forge, like a blacksmith.[466] He was addicted to the chase “even to frenzy,” passing whole days and nights in the woods.[467] This made him “cruel toward beasts, but not toward men.”[468] Sometimes he and his madcap associates would tear along the roads, decapitating any unlucky donkey he might encounter, or transfixing stray pigs with his hunting spear.[469] Then, as if maddened by the sight of blood, he would dabble in their entrails like a butcher. He was fond of practical jokes; often at night he would break into the bedrooms of his young companions, pull them out of bed, and flog them as if they were school-boys. He was not licentious, and Marie Touchet was the object of a sincere passion. Perjury seemed to him nothing but a figure of speech and no crime; he therefore violated his word as often as it seemed profitable to do so. But fortunately for the human race “men are not all evil,” and in his lucid moments—for Charles was at times quite insane—he appears affectionate and desirous of doing what is right. When at Bayonne, he quite disgusted the unscrupulous Alva by saying that to take up arms against his own subjects was quite out of the question, and could only be followed by general ruin. Though no soldier, he had seen service at the sieges of Bourges, Rouen, Havre, and St. Jean d’Angely, and possessed all the ambition of his race to extend the frontiers of his kingdom. There were times when he courted the society of men of letters, and would shut himself up with “his friends” Ronsard, Baif, Passerat, or Theodore Corneille, to compose verses. Nor was he himself a stranger to the Muses, if the fragments ascribed to him are really from his pen. Even his treatise on hunting—La Chasse royale—shows him to have possessed considerable skill. Such was the man to whose word the Huguenots had entrusted their property and lives, and to whom the Emperor of Germany was about to entrust his daughter. Perhaps it was hoped that the amiable Elizabeth would tame him down, as in later years and in another country Peter the Czar was controlled by the low-born Catherine.

The betrothal took place at Spires on the 22d of October, and the marriage was solemnized on the 26th of November at Mézières. The festivities by which it was followed lasted all winter. In the following March the new queen entered Paris under a rustic gate-way, “finer than had ever been seen before, and looking quite natural on account of the herbs, snails, and lizards depicted on it.” We could almost fancy it a contrivance of Bernard Palissy’s. The queen rode in an open litter hung with cloth of silver within and without, and the mules that bore it were similarly adorned. Elizabeth herself was covered with jewels, and wore a dazzling crown on her head. The corporation of the city made their usual tiresome harangues, which they followed up by presenting the young queen with a silver gilt buffet, and then invited her to partake of a collation at the Hôtel-de-Ville, at which the refreshments were of the choicest description. “There was every kind of fruit found in the world, and every sort of meat and fish, all made out of sugar and looking quite natural.” The dishes containing these chefs-d’œuvre of the confectionery art were also of silver. Poets and musicians contributed in their respective departments, and the king was so pleased with their performances that they were induced—especially Baif and Theodore Corneille—to propose the founding of an Academy of Music and Poetry.

The decorations of the bridge of Notre Dame will serve to show the magnificence of the age and the feelings entertained by the court with regard to the recent pacification. A triumphal arch had been erected at each extremity, and the roadway covered in by an awning on which the ciphers and heraldic bearings of the royal pair were represented in flowers and evergreens. “It looked like a vision of the Elysian fields.”[470] Between every window on the first floor of the houses were half-figures of nymphs bearing fruits and flowers; above them were wreaths of laurel from which depended the shields of the several members of the royal family with emblematical devices. At the crown of each arch stood a statue on an altar: in one place a Victory, bound to an olive-tree, “indicated allegorically how the marriage of Charles and Elizabeth secured the welfare and repose of their people.” On one of the panels of the base an altar was represented, by the side of which stood a priest in his sacerdotal robes, and near him a lamb for the sacrifice. This was intended to signify that whosoever violated the Edict of Pacification should suffer the fate of the lamb. At the four corners stood four armed men representing the four marshals of France, empowered to carry out and enforce the edict. Fœdus immortelle was the motto. On another panel bees were represented storing honey among a pile of arms, with two lines from Ovid, showing the happy effects of peace.

In another place a spider was seen weaving his web over a bundle of swords, gauntlets, morions, and such like, with an inscription from Theocritus, explaining how sure a sign this was of peace and oblivion of past quarrels. But among the masques given during these nuptial festivities there was one in which Charles IX. appeared as Jupiter, Elizabeth as Minerva, and Catherine as Juno, while the Huguenots were represented as Typhon and the Giants. One of the devices was strikingly suggestive of impending treachery:

It would, however, be unfair to give political importance to what was probably nothing more than the unauthorized language of a court poet. One little incident connected with these rejoicings may be adduced, however, to show the bigoted temper of the Parisians: they were scandalized that the court should amuse itself with balls and banquets, and other festivities during the season of Lent!

One thing was wanting to these rejoicings—none of the Protestant leaders were present. They still kept aloof at Rochelle, endeavoring to give consistency to their affairs. “And they did wisely,” says the Abbé Perau in his Life of Coligny; “for orders had been issued to arrest the principal of them immediately upon their arrival.” This statement, although corroborated by the compiler of the “Mémoires de l’Etat de France,” may well be doubted. The air was thick with suspicions, some of which had evidently reached the German Protestant courts; and to show the interest they took in the condition of their co-religionists in France, the electors-palatine of Saxony and Brandenburg, the dukes of Bavaria, Brunswick, and Wurtemburg, and others, resolved to send an embassy to congratulate Charles on his marriage. Charles received the embassadors at Villars-Cotterets, a magnificent mansion built by Francis I. They began by complimenting him: “Our masters know that your majesty, being so young, was not the author of the late war. It was the work of certain turbulent and wicked men, who take delight in disorders and confusion. Continue to deserve that most august of titles—the Peacemaker—and punish sternly every one who attempts to cause any fresh disturbance in your kingdom.... In the multitude of people, as the Wise Man saith, is the king’s honor (Proverbs xiv. 28), and the principal law imposed by God and nature upon kings and princes is the preservation of their subjects. Those who would induce you to break your faith, saying that it is impossible for a state to exist where there is a diversity of religion, speak differently from what they think, or are ignorant of what has been done in many great and flourishing states.” The embassadors showed him that the Grand Turk permitted Christians to live at peace in his dominions, that the Emperor Charles V. had come to terms with the Protestants of Germany, and that even the pope suffered Jews to settle in his states. “God alone,” they said, “can command the consciences of men; and be assured, Sire, that those are your best subjects and your best friends who urge you to the observance of all you have promised in your edicts of peace.” Charles thanked them for their kind expressions, and said that it was his ardent desire to maintain peace between all his subjects, as the sole means of prosperity to his kingdom. He then dismissed the embassadors in the most courteous manner, embracing them and loading them with presents. Charles used similar language in his address to the Parliament of Paris in March, 1571. “I thank God,” he said “that the troubles are over, and hope above all things to establish peace so surely, that my subjects will never fall again into the calamities from which they have been rescued. I will set to work earnestly, and trust that you will support me.”[471]

Such an appeal was quite necessary, for the conciliatory Edict of St. Germains—a mere repetition of the articles of the treaty—had not always been scrupulously carried out. This depended in great measure upon the views the provincial governors took of the edict; some rendering it almost nugatory by the way in which they interpreted it, others giving it the most liberal construction. Thus in the regulations published at Gap (10th February, 1571), Montmorency-Damville, relying upon the Thirteenth Article of the treaty, forbade the Reformers to assemble to the number of more than ten at the funeral of one of their co-religionists. And yet this was considered a pacificatory order. He also assigned the town of Chorges, four leagues north of Gap, as the authorized place of worship for the Upper Alps. It was a long distance for the Reformers to go every Sunday; but these were times of religious fervor, and as the Huguenots walked along, singing their hymns, they forgot the fatigues of the way.[472]

In many places, the clergy in their pulpits pandered to the worst passions of their ignorant flocks. The king and the queen-mother were denounced as traitors—one was a Judas, the other a Jezebel—because they did not order the “rascally heretics” to be slaughtered. The fires of Sodom and Gomorrah were invoked upon the heads of the Huguenots. “Arise, Joshua, and smite Makkeddah with the edge of the sword.” Joshua was Anjou, and Makkeddah Rochelle. These ravings did not fall to the ground.[473] On Sunday, the 4th March, 1571, as the Protestants of Rouen were going to divine worship outside the city walls, they were attacked and beaten, and fifteen were killed. Still greater atrocities had been perpetrated at Orange in the preceding month, the murders continuing for three days, during which the popular fury spared neither women nor children. Such things naturally tended to make the Huguenot chiefs suspicious, and to perpetuate the division of the people into two hostile camps.

The great object of the Politicians who had brought about the Treaty of St. Germains, was to make France independent at home and respected abroad; above all things, to get rid of Spanish influence in their domestic affairs. That patriotic party knew well how Philip II. had fomented their civil dissensions,[474] and they saw that a long continuance of peace was hopeless unless the foreign intriguers could be got rid of. The king himself had a glimpse of this truth, and was besides very jealous of the position assumed by his brother of Anjou. The queen-mother also expressed her dislike of the attitude taken by Philip; but she was so thoroughly false that no reliance could be placed upon any thing she said. It is not necessary to go back to the Treaty of Cateau-Cambresis in 1559, which contained nothing particularly humiliating, and had been condoned by the subsequent intercourse between the two countries, although it must have been very galling to French pride—as indeed to the pride of any nation—to surrender its conquests. The active interference of Spain in the politics of France began with the criminal intrigues of the house of Lorraine. Their fanatical and spurious orthodoxy was, as we have seen, ardently supported by Philip II., who never ceased personally, or through his embassador, to urge the complete destruction of the Huguenots. He even went so far, on more than one occasion, as to threaten war, if the court made any concession to the heretics. We have seen the result: France had been rent in pieces by civil war, and Protestantism was as strong as ever. To this Spain had brought them: might it not be possible, by reversing the policy, to reverse the results? The opportunity was not unfavorable, and there were grievances to be redressed. The Flemings were still in open revolt: the cruelties of the blood-thirsty Alva had given an intensity to their hatred, which nothing but total extermination could subdue. It would not be prudent to allow the duke to go too far, and if by a word from France the insurgents could be stimulated to farther sacrifices, Philip II. would be so weakened that he would cease to be a dangerous neighbor. It must not be forgotten that Spain was at this time the first power in Europe. The successes of Alva, the expulsion of the Moors, the victory of Lepanto, and the conquests in Northern Africa, showed that her vigor was undiminished; and though her humiliation was at hand, nothing at this time indicated any failure of her resources. It was the image of Daniel: gold, silver, brass, and iron, but with feet of clay; and the small stone destined to smite it was one of the smallest powers in Europe. Had France seen her own true interest, she, and not England, might “have become a great mountain and filled the whole earth.”

The Venetian embassador, Correro, writing on the prospect of war with Spain, represents, as one of the many grounds of hatred between the Spaniards and the French, that Flanders naturally belongs to France, and that a campaign to recover it would give employment to the cadets of the noble families. It would not cost a drop of blood, if France were only to promise “the same liberty of conscience which her own subjects enjoyed.” Add to this, Charles was offended: “Spain seemeth to set the king here very light, which engendreth in him a great desire of revenge, but lacketh treasure to make open demonstration thereof.”[475]

These were the ideas, not of Protestants only, but of undoubted Catholics, men of whose orthodoxy there can be no suspicion. L’Hopital had once been the directing spirit of this moderate party; but, since his retirement from public life, Marshal Francis Montmorency, eldest son of the constable, became their leader. Philip knew him well, and feared him as the most formidable of his enemies in France. He was seconded by his brother Damville, by Cossé, Biron, and others. It was Montmorency who (according to Tavannes) had saved the Huguenots at Moncontour by preventing the victory from being followed up; and, according to Walsingham, the Peace of St. Germains was his work. By the mere force of personal character, he had become a very influential man, and Charles showed him the greatest affection. One day, when the king had visited him at his castle of Chantilly, he told his royal master that there could be no lasting peace, unless Protestants and Catholics could be persuaded to live together in harmony: that, or the extermination of one of the parties, was the only alternative. But how was the present hostile state of things to be remedied? By uniting both parties against their common enemy, Spain.[476] It is not known with whom the idea arose, whether with Montmorency or Cossé; but it was eagerly taken up by the king, who hoped in the coming war to gather laurels that would shame those won by his brother of Anjou.

A feeling of uneasiness and distrust had for some time past been growing up between France and Spain. When the Duke of Alva had asked permission to recruit volunteers in France for the Flemish war, it was refused, lest the Huguenots should think it “a device to reach themselves.”[477] To the demand that certain ships, supposed to be fitting out at La Rochelle against Spain, should be seized, Mondoucet, the French agent to Alva, replied that some of the ships were intended to act against the pirates who infested the narrow seas, and as for those which belonged to private persons, the crown could not interfere. St. Goar, the embassador at Madrid, was instructed to make similar explanations. This was a mere evasion, for the power of the crown had never been so limited in France. As William of Orange was in want of funds to carry on his heroic struggle in Flanders, his brother Louis of Nassau endeavored to procure a loan from Duke Cosmo I. of Florence. Charles supported the scheme by offering to recognize the duke’s title to the crown of Tuscany, and aid him in his attempt on Corsica, provided he would assist the Flemish insurgents with money.[478] The duke refused, but the king still continued faithful to his idea of a war against Spain. The diplomatic correspondence of the period is full of references to it. During all this time Coligny was actively corresponding with Montmorency; and at his suggestion a private interview was arranged between Charles and Count Louis, which took place in a garden of the castle of Lumigny, about a league from Fontenay-en-Brie, where the king had gone on the pretense of rabbit hunting. Its object was kept a secret from the royal councilors; for Charles was well assured that if they became acquainted with it, they would communicate it to the court of Spain. We may imagine that the count spoke of his recent conversations with the admiral, and that, as a Protestant, he would not start objections to any plan of assisting his fellow-countrymen which the king might entertain. He gave weight to his prayer for aid by offering in return the valuable provinces of Flanders and Artois (for which promise he had no authority from his brother William); and hinted that, at the next vacation of the empire, the choice of the electors might fall upon Charles. Louis succeeded in convincing him that his former advisers had counseled him unwisely, and that he had narrowly escaped falling into the same position as Philip II. held toward his Flemish subjects. The king promised to take into his most serious consideration all that the count had told him, reserving to himself the right to disavow any projects that might be ascribed to him, until the time for action had arrived.[479] The secret interview soon became known, and the Spanish embassador, Alava, threatened the displeasure of his royal master. Charles and his mother both answered evasively, adding: “As for fearing us with wars, you do mistake us; let every one do therein what best liketh him.”[480] Affairs were hurrying on more quickly than Charles had anticipated; Spain was threatening war, and no preparations had been made. A matrimonial alliance between Anjou and Elizabeth, which would place the resources of England at the disposal of France, was the key of the position; but the queen was coy, and refused to give a decided answer. Without such close alliance war with Spain was impossible; for England cast a longing eye on Flanders, and would regard the French conquests in that quarter with suspicion. What was to be done? Should Charles give way, or brave the consequences? There was only one man in France competent to advise on such a point, and he still remained aloof at Rochelle.

When Louis of Nassau left that city to confer with Charles, he bore a letter from the admiral, complaining of a plot that had been got up to treat the Huguenots worse than before, and that no attempt had been made to punish the perpetrators of the outrages at Orange and Rouen. He then went on to justify his suspicions and his absence from the court: “It will be difficult for those of the religion to believe that your majesty desires things should go on well, so long as they see the authors of the tumults about him.” He followed up this side-blow at the Guises by suggesting that all suspicions would be allayed were the king to punish the perpetrators of the outrages at Rouen and Orange. Charles IX. acted upon the advice: he sent a commission of inquiry to Rouen. Many of the rioters were hanged, but the ringleaders escaped and found shelter among the Catholics, who seem to have received them rather as heroes than as criminals; much in the same way as a murderer is still harbored among the Irish peasantry. The king also manifested great displeasure toward his brother of Anjou, and so openly insulted the Duke of Guise that he had no alternative but to leave the court.

Count Louis returned to Rochelle strongly impressed with the king’s gracious demeanor, and urged Coligny to accept his sovereign’s invitation to court. He spoke of the projected matrimonial alliance between England and France, which was manifestly hostile to Spain, and would strengthen the Huguenot cause; and showed the draft of a treaty, by which Charles promised to attack Flanders on one side, while the Prince of Orange attacked it on the other. Marshal Cossé, one of the “Politicians,” confirmed this report. The admiral’s son-in-law, Teligny, had also returned from the court with a flattering account of the king’s demeanor. Charles at this time was seen in a most favorable light, and it was evident that the quiet influence of his amiable wife was beginning to be felt in his character. He was less boisterous in his amusements, less changeable in temper, and seemed to have buried the past in oblivion. Indeed he went so far in his display of good-will toward the Huguenots as to raise a suspicion that he supported them designedly against his mother, his brother Henry, and the Guises. “I am no longer so young,” he said, “as to need a governor. I am willing to listen to advice, but will receive no orders. I am sick of war, and my peace shall be observed. I have been deceived all along about the Huguenots, and for the future will keep the factions in order myself.” He complained to Teligny, for whom he had conceived a strong liking,[481] that his mother kept him in thraldom, and preferred Anjou to him; that she governed the realm in such a way that he was of no account; and that to remedy this he was resolved to send both of them away from the court; and that he wanted Coligny’s advice, especially with regard to the proposed war in Flanders. In fact every thing seemed now to turn upon the admiral’s presence at court.

While these negotiations were in progress, the little Huguenot court at Rochelle was the scene of nuptial festivities, the admiral having taken a second wife, and given his daughter Louisa to Teligny.[482] Coligny’s marriage had a tinge of romance in it that could hardly have been expected. Jacqueline of Montbel, Countess of Entremont, and widow of Claude, Baron of Anthon, who was killed at Dreux (or, as others write, at St. Denis), was so captivated by his heroism that she made him an offer of her hand, having the ambition (as she said) to be the Marcia of the new Cato.[483] As if he were of royal lineage, the admiral was married by proxy. When the bride approached Rochelle, escorted by fifty gentlemen of her kindred, the bridegroom went out a league to meet her. Cannon roared a noisy salute, and all the bells which the Huguenots had spared rang merrily from the steeples, as the noble lady entered the city. To show their esteem for the admiral, the citizens mustered under arms and lined the streets from the gate to the Hôtel Coligny, where a great concourse of nobles and gentlemen had assembled to do him honor. The marriage was a happy one, despite the inversion of the ordinary mode of courtship. On becoming a widow once more, Jacqueline returned to Savoy, where she was imprisoned on a charge of witchcraft, her wealth being the real crime. Henry IV. ineffectually interceded for her, and she died insane at the castle of Nice, 1599.

Coligny, happy in his domestic life, had little desire to leave Rochelle for the treacherous atmosphere of the court. But Charles could not do without him, and Elizabeth of England felt that his presence was necessary for the success of the delicate negotiations then in hand. Walsingham had written to her, recommending that she should hint to La Mothe-Fénelon, the French embassador, that she would like to see Charles “calling the princes and admiral to court, and that so rare a subject as the admiral is, was not to be suffered to live in such a corner as Rochelle.” Walsingham adds that the king was now “very well affected toward him” (Coligny). In another letter he says he is going to Blois, where the princes and the admiral are to meet, and that all “opposition was vain.” “I am most constantly assured that the king conceiveth of no subject he hath better than of the admiral, and great hope there is that the king will use him in matters of greatest trust; for of himself he beginneth to see the insufficiency of others: some for that they are more addicted to others than to himself; other, for that they are more Spanish than French.... The queen-mother, seeing her son so well affected toward the admiral, laboreth by all means to cause him to think well of her.”[484] Catherine had assured Teligny and Count Louis that she earnestly desired the Treaty of St. Germains to be observed for the repose and welfare of the kingdom; that the king needed the admiral’s advice; and that it was a sad thing for the princes of the blood to keep aloof from the court. Coligny gave way at last; and when the Queen of Navarre expostulated with him he replied: “Madame, I confide implicitly in the word and honor of my royal master. It is not life to exist in the midst of perpetual alarms; and I would rather die by one effectual blow, than live a hundred years subject to cowardly apprehensions.” He received many warnings, but took no heed of them.

The admiral left Rochelle escorted by fifty gentlemen, “not because he doubted the king’s word, but to be secure against private enemies,” and arrived at Blois on the 12th September, where he was received with the most flattering attentions. Being conducted into the audience-chamber he fell on his knees, but Charles raised him up saying, as he embraced him, “Father, we have you at last; you shall not escape when you wish. This is the happiest day of my life. You are more welcome than any one I have seen these twenty years.” The queen-mother kissed him, and took him into Anjou’s apartments, for the young duke was just then “a little indisposed.”[485] The admiral was quite charmed with his youthful sovereign: they were so much together, and so often in private conference, that Catherine grew jealous: “He sees too much of the admiral,” she said, “and too little of me.”[486] The chief topic of their conversation was the proposed war in Flanders. It was a maxim with Coligny, that France could not be quieted down except by engaging in a foreign war. When Brantome was at Rochelle he told the gossiping abbé, that if “the Huguenots were not occupied and amused abroad, they would certainly begin their quarrels again at home; such restless fellows are they, and so fond of plunder.” In the Low Countries he saw a field for their activity. Warming at the thoughts of the sufferings which the Protestants of Flanders had endured so long, he expatiated to the king on the heroic patience of William of Orange, and the glorious opportunity then presented of repaying Spain for the evils she had inflicted on France. Charles caught fire at the eloquent appeal: the martial ardor of his race broke out in him: “I too shall win battles—in my own name—with my own sword.” He entered into the scheme with his whole heart, and promised effectual help to the Prince of Orange, to whom he had already restored his little principality on the banks of the Rhone. Nor did he forget the admiral, whose property had been confiscated: he was reinstated in his seat at the council-board, and received a present of 100,000 crowns, “not so much a wedding-gift as a tribute to the first captain of the age.” Charles farther promised to use his influence with the Duke of Savoy to restore the estates of his wife which had been sequestered. He also interceded in behalf of certain Vaudois, who for fighting under Coligny had been stripped of their property and expelled from their homes. “I wish to make you a request,” wrote the king to the duke, “and it is on a matter that I have very much at heart. At my special prayer and recommendation, pray receive these poor creatures into favor again, and restore them to their homes and their goods. The cause is so just and so earnestly desired on my part, that I feel assured you will listen to me. Written at Blois, 28th September, 1571.”

After a brief stay at court the admiral went to Chatillon, where he tried to restore order to his affairs. The king regularly corresponded with him, chiefly on his favorite subject, the war with Spain. Meanwhile the Duke of Guise was in Paris, and the rumor of his proceedings and conversations became so threatening, that Coligny petitioned for a guard of soldiers to protect him. Charles replied with his own hand, that he would be pleased to see the admiral “using all diligence in providing for his personal safety,” and permitted him to have the guard he needed.[487] Coligny stayed five weeks at Chatillon, receiving many warnings as to the treachery of the court, but paying no attention to them, making the same answer to all which he had given to his wife before leaving Rochelle: “I must not upon ill-grounded suspicion cause the king to change the good feeling he entertains for us into a hatred which it would be impossible to make him lay aside again.” At the end of October he went to Paris, whither he had been summoned. Catherine took him in her arms and kissed him, and Charles received him as if honoring him above all his subjects.[488] The object of the visit was to consult about the marriage of Henry of Bearn with Margaret of Valois, the king’s sister.

While Charles was on a visit to Chantilly, Francis of Montmorency had suggested that the best means of conciliating the hostile parties would be to unite his sister Margaret to Prince Henry of Bearn.[489] This union between the two branches of the royal house was no new scheme. The prince, while yet a child, was presented to Henry II., who was so pleased with the boy that he asked him if he would be his son. “This is my father,” replied the child in the Bearnais patois, pointing to the King of Navarre. “Well then,” said the king, “will you be my son-in-law?” “Oh! with all my heart,” answered the sturdy little fellow, and from that time his marriage with Margaret, a princess four years old, was resolved upon. Anthony of Navarre was delighted, and wrote to his sister the Duchess of Nevers (Margaret of Bourbon), that “this alliance was the thing in the world he most desired to obtain, and which from thenceforward placed both his repose and prosperity upon a secure basis.” Joan also wrote to an old friend: “To cheer and console you in your sickness, I send you the news ... that his majesty has been pleased to grant this favor, for which I will not try to conceal the joy and satisfaction I feel.” This was in 1557; and in 1560, soon after the death of Francis II., Catherine wrote to the Queen of Navarre, pressing her to visit the court, and proposing to connect the families still closer by a marriage between “little Catherine” of Bearn and Henry Duke of Anjou: “Such an alliance,” she said, “will render our union indissoluble.” This, however, never came to any thing; but in 1562 we find the project revived, when Catherine feared that Anthony of Navarre was slipping out of her control.[490]

At one time it had been proposed to give Margaret to Sebastian of Portugal, the same romantic king who died battling valiantly against the Moors in Africa. But that match failing through the hostility of Philip II., who grossly insulted the French court, an alliance was sought nearer home. Margaret tells us how the matter was first broached, and what was her reply: “I begged my mother to remember that I was very Catholic.” Joan of Navarre, who had since adopted the Reformed creed, was not so eager for the marriage as she had once been. Far from being dazzled by the prospect of such a brilliant alliance for the heir of the petty house of Navarre, she said: “I would rather descend to be the lowliest woman in France, than sacrifice my son, or my son’s soul, to grandeur.”[491] It would have been well for Prince Henry had the obstacles raised against the marriage proved insurmountable. It was naturally opposed by the Guises; not, as some write, because the duke aspired to Margaret’s hand; for he had been married several months to Catherine of Cleves, the widow of Prince Porcien;[492] but because it would strengthen the throne, and make the Huguenot influence predominant. The nuncio and the Spanish embassador also opposed the match;[493] but Charles was not to be diverted from his purpose.[494]

Thus the summer of 1571 passed away: on the one side, Spain, the pope, and the house of Lorraine striving to prevent a reconciliation between the two religious parties; on the other the “Politicians,” with Coligny and the English embassador, trying to bring about two marriages that would, it was hoped, counterbalance the influence of the Catholic powers. Catherine was ostentatiously sincere,[495] and Charles anxious to do what was right, and in his weakness leaning on Coligny, whom he had learned to trust as a child trusts his father. There was much in the admiral to attract the king: he was a man of probity and honor, actuated by no mean or selfish motives, but by the purest desire for the greatness of France. Charles had never possessed such a friend before. What he thought of those about him may be conjectured from his remarks one day to Teligny: “Tavannes is a good councilor, but jealous of any encroachment upon his fame; Vieilleville loves nothing but good wine; Cossé is a miser, who would sell every thing for ten crowns; Montmorency is a good man, but then he is always away with his hawks and hounds; Retz is a Spaniard in heart, and the rest of my court and council are fools. My secretaries are traitors, so that I do not know whom to trust.”[496] The censure is too sweeping; but the language shows how weary Charles had grown of his old councilors, and how he clung to the new. At another time, conversing with the admiral about the Flemish campaign, he said: “Father, there is another matter which you must carefully heed. The queen, my mother, is always poking her nose everywhere, as you well know, and she must not be told of this enterprise, at least not in detail. She would mar our design.” “As you please, Sire; nevertheless I hold her majesty for so good a mother, that even if she were told all, she would offer no obstacle; on the contrary, she might naturally aid our design; while I apprehend many difficulties in hiding the matter.” “You are quite wrong,” rejoined the king; “leave the matter to me. My mother is the greatest mischief-maker on the face of the earth.”

If this anecdote were authenticated, it would show that the king and the admiral were actually plotting against the government; for, whatever may have been Coligny’s position as private adviser to his sovereign, he was not a minister, although in the council, and held no responsible position. But it is scarcely credible that Catherine, with her influence and means of procuring information, could have been kept in the dark; and, besides, it is quite clear from her language to the Spanish embassador, that she knew all about the proposed war in Flanders. Nor does she appear at any time to have objected to it. If the English matrimonial alliance was the key of her policy, the war against Spain was an inevitable pendant. Union between France and England in the sixteenth century necessarily meant armed opposition to the policy of Philip II.

During the winter an event occurred which has tended very much to complicate this period of history. The king had gone to Bourgueil on the Loire, about ten miles from Saumur, to receive a Protestant deputation. Their chief spokesman, Briquemaut, after complaining of the infringement of the Edict of St. Germains, more by omission than commission, imprudently added that, unless their grievances were remedied, it was to be feared that the Huguenots would take counsel of despair, and once more rush to arms. The king listened calmly and dismissed the deputation graciously; but as soon as they had retired, he burst into a violent passion, and indulged in sanguinary threats. Lignerolles, one of the “mignons” of the Duke of Anjou, drawing near, whispered in his majesty’s ear: “Be patient, Sire, a little while longer, and you will have them all in your net.” The king was startled to hear another give utterance to his own secret thoughts, and resolved to make away with a man whom he suspected of knowing the particulars of a plot which had been craftily devised to get rid of the admiral and the chief Huguenots at one blow. The authenticity of this very circumstantial story is more than doubtful. All we know for certain is, that Lignerolles was murdered, and that the assassins were imprisoned, and would have been punished, had not the great massacre intervened, when they were liberated. Five versions of the story are current, the most probable of all being Walsingham’s, namely, that Lignerolles was an instrument employed by the Guise faction to prevent the English marriage.[497] He represents the death “as no small furtherance to the cause.” But why was he murdered? Perhaps the following passage from a letter written by the queen-mother to the French embassador in England may supply an answer: “We strongly suspect Villequier, Lignerolles, or Sarret; and it is possible that all three may be the authors of these fancies [Anjou’s refusal to marry Elizabeth]; if I were sure of it, I give you my word they should repent it.”

If this foul murder be supposed to tell against the king, the affair of the Gastine Cross should be taken as a proof of his desire to conciliate his Protestant subjects. In the Rue St. Denis at Paris there lived a wealthy tradesman, Philip Gastine by name, who with his son Richard was accused and hanged for heresy and lending money to the rebels; another son was sentenced to the galleys for life; and the third banished (30th June, 1569). His house was pulled down, and in its place was erected a huge cross, with an inscription to the effect, that they had suffered “principally because they had celebrated the Lord’s Supper in that place.” According to the thirty-second article[498] of the Third Edict of Pacification, this cross was to be destroyed. The king gave the necessary orders, and Claude Marcel, provost of the merchants, fearing opposition, began to pull it down one dark night in December. He was interrupted by the populace, who paraded the city calling to arms. “The common people,” said Walsingham, “ease their stomachs only by uttering certain seditious words.” They went however beyond words, for there was a fierce riot, during which the mob burned two houses and killed a “sermoner.” The provost seems to have been rather faint-hearted in the matter, and the parliament actually wrote to remonstrate with the king for keeping his promise. Charles, who was then at Amboise, returned a very sharp answer (15th December, 1571): “I have received your remonstrance, which I will always listen to graciously so long as you show me due obedience. But seeing how you have behaved since my accession, and that you imagine I will suffer my orders to be despised, I will let you know that there never was a king more determined to be obeyed than I am.”[499] The captain of the watch was sent to Amboise to explain: he found the king very excited. “I am thoroughly vexed,” said Charles, “that the cross has not been pulled down or removed. I will have no delay: it is time it were down and over.[500] If you catch any rioter, hang him up at once with a label of Séditieux round his neck.” The parliament apologized, and said very falsely that they had had nothing to do with the riots. On the night of the 19th December the cross was taken down and re-erected in the cemetery of the Innocents;[501] but the people were in such a mutinous state, and it was so difficult to keep the peace, that, on the 21st, the Duke of Montmorency hurried to Paris with a strong force of soldiers to put down the rioters. Some were killed, many ran away, and the mob was cowed at last by the exemplary punishment of a coster-monger, who was hanged from the window of a house he had just plundered.

A report from the Provost of the Trades to the king shows the condition of the capital in the winter of 1571: “After curfew, there is much stabbing in the streets. A great number of dead bodies have been fished up at St. Cloud, or found on the river-bank near Chaillot.... In consequence of this hugonotry, trade is almost dead, manufacturers are frightened away by our divisions, and cross the mountains to settle in Italy. The Catholics want to have an end of it.... Would your majesty but reflect; your crown is endangered, Paris alone can save it.” But Charles knew the Parisians well, and desired to have his crown upheld by trustier supporters than the unruly populace of the capital.

Before the end of the year, Coligny paid another visit to Blois, when the war in Flanders and the marriage of the Prince of Bearn became once more the chief subjects of deliberation. It is not necessary to trace the proceedings day by day. The admiral’s arguments were very cogent, but the most pressing matter was the marriage. On this subject Coligny wrote to the Queen of Navarre, praying her not to oppose a union wherein the Reformed would have the advantage. “It will be,” he said, “a seal of friendship with the king; and the greatest mistake you can fall into will be to show suspicion.” The king too was very earnest in the matter. “I have made up my mind,” he said to one of Joan’s agents, “to give my sister to my good brother Henry; for by this means I hope to marry the two religions.” When it was again objected that the proposal could hardly be regarded as sincere, so long as the Guises continued about the court: “They are my subjects,” Charles replied, “and I will make them conform to my behests.” Catherine wrote to the Queen of Navarre: “I pray you gratify the extreme desire we have to see you among us. You will be loved and honored as you deserve to be.” Biron was the bearer of this letter, and Joan gave way at last. In the month of February she started for Blois, and, traveling slowly, reached that city early in March.[502] The king gave her a hearty welcome, calling her “his dear good aunt, his best beloved, his darling,” and so on, just as he had been wont to do in earlier days. He kept by her side, and was so demonstrative in his marks of affection, that, according to the gossiping chronicler, “every one was astonished.” In the evening, after Joan had retired, Charles turned to Catherine laughing, and said: “Now, mother, confess that I play my little part well.”—“Yes, you play it well enough, but you must keep it up.”—“Trust me for that,” said the king; “you shall see how I will lead them on.”[503] Many of these stories are nothing but idle street gossip, and some of them, in which we may include the one before us, were invented in after years to support the theory of a long-premeditated plot. But the words, even if accurately reported, will hardly bear such a formidable superstructure: they may refer to the marriage, which was yet unsettled, as well as to the projected massacre. Farther, if Charles compassed the death of Lignerolles because the wretched man was supposed to have become master of the king’s secret, would Charles (with his presumed craft and reticence) have spoken thus openly of what he desired to keep in utter obscurity?[504]

Never had the little town of Blois been more gay than it was in the spring of 1572. Banquets, balls, and fêtes followed each other in rapid succession, much to the discomfort of Joan, whose principles and sober taste did not harmonize with such gayeties. The king, who was delighted at the share his young queen took in these amusements, was among the liveliest of the court, and was seen to the best advantage.

If the marriage of Henry and Margaret was part of the scheme by which the Huguenots were to be lured to their destruction, there was very little probability in March, 1572, that it would ever be accomplished. Even the mere rumor of it had aroused all the antagonism of Spain and Rome; but now that it appeared certain, those powers tried every means to thwart it. The pope ordered his nephew, then legate at the court of Portugal, to hasten to France and stop the marriage. Alessandrino actually reached Blois before the Queen of Navarre, having rudely passed her on the road. The particulars of his interviews with Charles are given by several contemporary writers, but all are manifestly derived from the same source. The cardinal, one of the most accomplished and eloquent men of his day, pressed the king to give Margaret to the King of Portugal, as had been once proposed, and enter into the holy alliance then forming against the Turks. The connection between these proposals is not very clear; but Alessandrino probably hoped that the excitement of war, which might bring increase of territory to France, would divert Charles from subjects nearer home. “It would be ruinous to your realm and to the Catholic Church,” urged the nuncio, “to form any alliance with the Huguenots.”

At the close of one of these interviews, when Alessandrino had been more than usually pressing, Charles took him by the hand: “What you say is very good, and I thank you and the pope for it. If I had any other means of being revenged upon my enemies, I would not go on with this marriage; but I have not.” When Alessandrino heard of the August massacre, he exclaimed: “This, then, is what the King of France was preparing. God be praised, he has kept his promise.”[505] At the close of the interview, Charles drew a valuable ring from his finger, and pressed the nuncio to accept it, as a pledge of his good faith and obedience to the holy see. He declined, saying, with a bitterness of manner that greatly displeased the king: “The most precious of your majesty’s jewels are but mud in the eyes of the faithful, since your zeal for the Catholic religion is so cold.”[506] Sir Thomas Smith, who was at Blois, wrote to Burghley: “The foolish cardinal went away as wise as he came: he neither brake the marriage with Navarre, nor got no dimes, ... and the foolishest part of all his going away, he refused a diamond which the king offered him of 600 crowns.”[507]

There are serious objections to this story—especially to Catena’s version of it—which is in contradiction to documents above all suspicion. One of these is a letter from Charles to his embassador at Rome, with instructions about the dispensation. On the 31st July he recapitulates to De Ferrails the four conditions on which the pope is willing to grant the said dispensation, and says that Henry will never concede them.[508] He then argues that the marriage will be the best means of converting the prince, and hopes the pope “will not risk every thing by holding the cord too tight in matters which belong much more to state policy than to religious scruples.” He threatens that he will do without a dispensation, if he should be driven to consult on the best means of tranquilizing his kingdom and proceeding to the said marriage. In a postscript the king adds, that he has just seen Salviati, the papal nuncio, to whom he had communicated the substance of the dispatch, and begged him to write to the pope to the same effect. Did Salviati write as requested? He did, and all his correspondence shows that up to the very day of the massacre he was entirely ignorant of any treachery being contemplated. On the very day of the massacre the king gave instructions to Beauville, who was going to Rome, to the effect that the marriage was justifiable on the ground that it would bind the Huguenots to the crown, and he also wrote to De Ferrails on the same date, that the marriage was necessary, and therefore it had been solemnized without waiting for the dispensation, “to the great satisfaction of all his subjects.” That no allusion is made to a plot in these dispatches is proof that none such existed.[509] We must not, therefore, lay too great stress upon Ossat’s letter, which, after all, only repeats hearsay.[510] The strongest evidence in favor of Alessandrino’s story is found in the mysterious ending of a letter in which he alludes to matters that had passed between him and Charles, and that he had reserved for the pope’s ear alone.[511] The veil of this mystery—if there really was any mystery—has never been uplifted.

Joan’s arrival at Blois did not accelerate the negotiations for the marriage so much as had been anticipated. The queen-mother appeared of late to have grown indifferent, if not averse, to the proposed union, and every possible obstacle was thrown in the way. Her inventive faculties were severely tested by the good faith of the Queen of Navarre.[512] She could have managed a diplomatist of her own stamp, but honesty was a weapon she did not understand. “Certes,” says an old writer, “her majesty’s adulterations of truth were of the most amazing extent and description.” Joan, who heartily disliked Catherine, at last refused to treat with her, and the negotiations were almost broken off, when it was agreed to appoint three commissioners on each side, by whom the final arrangements should be made. Margaret—whose “Memoirs” must be read with extreme caution—interested herself but little in the marriage.

In those days young maidens, whether of high or low degree, had little voice in the selection of a husband. Of her proposed daughter-in-law, Joan writes thus to her son on the 8th March: “Madame is handsome, graceful, and discreet, but she has been brought up in the midst of the most vicious and corrupt court that can be imagined. Your cousin [afterward wife of Prince Henry of Condé] is so changed by it, that there is no appearance of religion in her save thus far, that she does not go to mass; but as to the rest of her mode of living, except idolatry, she does the same as the Papists, and my sister [the Princess of Condé] still worse.” In a pregnant phrase she describes the corrupt nature of court life: “It is not the men here who entice the women, but the women who entice the men.” To this Catherine and her “flying squadron” of gay damsels had brought the court. The Queen of Navarre was a rigid Calvinist, and her opinions on court amusements and pleasures were probably rather austere. At another time she writes to Henry: “Madam Margaret has paid me every honor and welcome in her power to bestow, and frankly owned to me the agreeable ideas she has formed of you. [They had not seen each other since the meeting at Bayonne.] With her beauty and wit, she excites great influence over the queen-mother and the king.”[513]

The difference of religion was long an almost insuperable obstacle. Catherine pretended scruples of conscience on behalf of her daughter; and Joan of Navarre, who was really anxious on the matter, hesitated so much, that up to the 29th March the marriage continued doubtful. “I have now the wolf by the ears,” said the Queen of Navarre, “for in concluding or not concluding the marriage, I see danger every way.” “But,” adds the English embassador, “I do not think assuredly that hardly any cause will make them break—so many necessary causes there are why the same should proceed.”[514] The Huguenot ministers, like unpractical divines as they were, looked more coldly upon the projected union than the nobility and gentry, who valued it as a great stroke of policy. There were some even of these who foreboded nothing but evil. Rosny, father of the illustrious Sully, refused to take any part in the ceremony, declaring that “the wedding-favors would be crimson.” His party stoutly advocated a marriage with Elizabeth of England. What would have been the fortunes of the two countries had they been thus united?

At length all the negotiations were ended, the settlements drawn up, and the contract signed by the plenipotentiaries on each side (11th April, 1572). A few days later Charles expressed to La Mothe-Fénelon his satisfaction at the happy conclusion of the tedious business, adding that “if the queen had been a little more strengthened against those ailments, which are usual to women in her condition, the wedding-day would have been already fixed. We shall depart hence [Blois?] to go toward Paris and Fontainebleau, where my wife will lie in.” The only obstacle now was the dispensation, which Pius V. refused to grant: “I would rather lose my head than grant a marriage dispensation to a heretic.”[515] Charles determined to proceed in spite of the pope: “If he tries it on too far, I will take Margaret by the hand and see her married in open conventicle.”[516] His written answer to Pius V. was to the same effect, but in more courtly strain. He expressed his sincere love for the Catholic Church, but urged that the country and the exchequer were exhausted by civil war. As for the marriage and the heresy, he continued: “Mild remedies are usually more efficacious than sharp ones in curing this disease, especially in the minds of princes. I am persuaded that Henry will not only become all that you can wish him, but will some day be a great ornament and help to the Church.... If he who is now the chief of the wanderers should be brought back to the true fold, how great the advantage!” Charles then proceeded to indulge in that ambiguous language which has made this period of history so difficult to understand: “I confess that I am under necessity, and have had to put up with many disagreeable things; but I swear I would rather imperil my kingdom than leave the outrages against God unpunished. But what my designs are can not yet be told.”[517] To the Cardinal of Lorraine, then in Rome, he wrote that whether the pope’s answer was favorable or not, he should go on with the marriage.[518] To his friends he repeated his assurance that he married his sister not only to the Prince of Bearn but to the whole Protestant party: “It will be the strongest bond between my subjects,” he said, “and a sure evidence of my good-will toward those of the religion.” It was Joan’s desire that the wedding should be celebrated at Blois, on account of the fanatical temper of the inhabitants of the metropolis; but as Charles objected with reason to a solemn state ceremony being performed anywhere but in the capital, the Queen of Navarre gave way. It is a curious coincidence that the Parisians should have been equally adverse to the celebration of the marriage within their walls. “They feared,” says Claude Haton, “that they would be robbed and despoiled in their own houses by the seditious Huguenots.”[519]