The 22d of August, 1572, fell on Friday. Early in the morning Coligny had gone to the Louvre on business, and was on his way home, when he met the king coming from chapel. He turned and accompanied Charles to the tennis-court, where he stood a short time watching a match which his son-in-law, Teligny, and another were playing against the king and the Duke of Guise. When he took his leave, it was past ten o’clock, and near his dinner-hour. To reach his hotel[560] in the Rue de l’Arbre Sec, at the corner of the Rue de Bethisy, he had to pass along the Rue des Fossés de St. Germain. As he was turning the corner with De Guerchy on one side and Des Pruneaux on the other, a shot was fired from the latticed window of a house on his right, known as the Hotel de Retz, near one of the large doors of the cloister of St. Germain l’Auxerrois adjoining the deanery. The admiral, who was reading a petition that had just been placed in his hands, staggered backward, exclaiming, “I am wounded,” and fell into the arms of the Sieur de Guerchy. He was hit with two bullets: one carried off the first finger of the right hand, the other wounded him in the left arm. Pointing to the house whence the shot had proceeded, he bade Yolet, one of his esquires, go to the king and tell him what had happened. Des Pruneaux hastily bound a handkerchief round the wounded hand, and assisted the admiral to his hotel, which was fortunately not more than a hundred yards off. Meanwhile some of his attendants broke into the house, but found nobody there except the old woman in charge and a horse-boy, from whom they learned that the assassin Maurevel had escaped through the adjoining cloisters, that the house belonged to Canon Villemur, formerly tutor to the Duke of Guise, and that the horse on which Maurevel rode away came from the duke’s stables. The arquebuse still lay in the window, and on examination proved to belong to one of Anjou’s body-guard.

With this important but unsatisfactory information they returned to the admiral, whom they found lying on his bed. Ambrose Paré, the king’s surgeon-royal, had already amputated the finger and extracted the ball from his arm; but the operation was a painful one, for the famous surgeon’s instruments were not in good order. The admiral bore the torture better than his friends, who could not restrain their tears: “Why do you weep?” he asked; “I think myself blessed to have received these wounds in God’s cause. Pray that he will strengthen me.” Then turning to his chaplain Merlin, who was much distressed: “Why do you not rather comfort me?” he said. “There is no greater or surer comfort for you,” answered Merlin, “than to think continually that God does you a great honor in deeming you worthy to suffer for his name’s sake.” “Nay, dear Merlin, if God should handle me according to my deserts, I should have far other manner of griefs to endure.” The conversation then turned upon the attempted murder: “I forgive freely and with all my heart,” said the admiral, “both him that struck me and those who incited him to do it; for I am sure it is not in their power to do me any evil, not even if they kill me.”

The news of the outrage spread instantaneously through Paris. A messenger, all breathless, burst into the tennis-court, where the king had continued playing after Coligny had left, and shouted: “The admiral is killed! the admiral is killed!” Charles eagerly questioned him, and then turning abruptly away, threw down his racket, angrily exclaiming as he left the ground: “S’death! shall I never have a moment’s quiet? Must I have fresh troubles every day?”[561] He withdrew to his apartments, declaring that he would avenge the admiral, and, writing to Mandelot a few hours later, he said: “I have sent in every direction to try and catch the murderer and punish him, as his wicked act deserves.” Then continuing in language whose sincerity can not be doubted: “And insomuch as the news may excite many of my subjects on one side or the other, I pray you make known everywhere how the affair happened, and assure every body of my intention to observe inviolably my edicts of pacification and to chastise sharply all who infringe them, so that they may be convinced of my sincerity and follow my example.” To La Mothe-Fénelon, Charles wrote that he would investigate this “infamous deed,” and not suffer his edict to be outraged. He ordered Teligny to mount his horse and ride after the assassin,[562] and sent to the Provost of Paris, bidding him take precautions against any outbreak. The municipal council were sitting when the royal messenger arrived, and without delay they took such measures as seemed necessary to preserve the public peace, which at that moment was in far greater danger from the incensed Huguenots than from the amazed Catholics. The civic guards were mustered, the post at the Hotel-de-Ville was strengthened, the sentries at the gates were doubled, the citizens were forbidden to close their shops, and no person was allowed to come armed into the streets.[563]

Meanwhile the King of Navarre, accompanied by some 600 or 700 Huguenot gentlemen, visited the admiral, threatening vengeance upon the assassins. Marshals Damville and Cossé came in together. “Never in my life,” said the former, “have I suffered such a heavy blow. Tell me what I can do to serve you. I wonder who could be the contriver of so foul an outrage.” “I suspect no one,” replied the admiral, adding after a pause, “unless it be the Duke of Guise, and that I dare not say for certain. I am grieved to find myself kept to my bed, as I wished to show the king how much I would have done for his sake. Would God I might talk a little with him, for there are certain things which he ought to know, and I am afraid there is no one who dares tell him.” Teligny immediately proceeded to the Louvre, where he met Henry of Navarre and the Prince of Condé, who had just left the royal presence. They had gone to ask permission to leave the court on the ground that they could no longer remain there in security. Charles was greatly excited, and earnestly begged them to stay. Breaking into one of his tempestuous passions he declared, with his usual blasphemous oaths, that the admiral’s blood should be atoned for; that he would punish all concerned in the outrage, “so that the child unborn should rue the vengeance of the day.” Even Catherine was alarmed at this burst of fury, and, with tears in her eyes, exclaimed, that if this bloody deed were suffered to pass unavenged, the king would not be safe in his palace. Teligny delivered his message that the admiral desired to see the king before he died, and Charles promised to visit his old friend. It seems pretty clear that Charles suspected whence the blow proceeded. His sister Margaret, whose memory on this point at least is likely to be faithful, says that “if M. de Guise had not kept out of the way that day, he would have been hanged.” And no doubt the king, in the first burst of passion, would have carried out his threats.

All this time the queen-mother and Anjou were in a dreadful state of agitation. The blow had failed, and if the victim recovered from his wounds, their participation in the plot could not be concealed. “Our notable enterprise[564] having miscarried,” says the duke, “my mother and myself[565] had ample matter for reflection and uneasiness during the greater part of the day.” There was still hope, for the bullets might be poisoned, or the wounds mortal. There was danger all around them; Paris was in a terrible ferment; the Huguenots were angry and suspicious. The Queen of Navarre had been poisoned (they said), and now their old leader was assassinated. Who would be the next victim? Murmuring crowds filled the streets, and it seemed almost impossible to prevent an outbreak.

About two o’clock in the afternoon, Charles, accompanied by his mother and his brother Henry, and attended by many who were a few hours later to stain their hands in innocent blood, went to see Coligny. The king walked in moody silence, so absorbed with his own thoughts as to omit lifting his hat to an image of the Virgin at a street corner. He hardly responded to the salutations of the people who crowded the street in front of the admiral’s hotel, which also was filled with anxious and uneasy friends. Up the wide staircase, lined with veterans who had fought by the side of Coligny on many a bloody field—through the antechamber, where the Huguenot gentry frowned defiance at Catherine and Anjou, whose enmity to the admiral was well known—into the large chamber whose windows overlooked the court-yard—passed the royal party. Charles went to the admiral’s bedside, and calling him by the affectionate name of “father,” asked him how he felt. “I humbly thank your majesty,” he replied, “for the great honor you have done me, and the great trouble you have taken on my account.” Charles desired him to cheer up, and hoped he would soon be well of his wounds. “There are three things about which I longed to talk with your majesty. The first is my own faithfulness and allegiance toward your highness. So may I have the favor and mercy of God, at whose judgment-seat this mischance will probably set me ere long, as I have ever borne a good heart toward your majesty’s person and crown. And yet I am well aware that malicious persons have accused me to your highness, and condemned me as a troubler of the State.[566] But God will judge between me and my slanderers, and decide according to his righteousness.... Now as to the Flanders matter, a straw can scarcely be stirred in your secret council but it is by and by carried to the Duke of Alva. Sire, I would very fain that you had a care of this thing.[567]... The last which I would wish you to have no less care of, is the observing of your Edict of Pacification. You know you have oftentimes confirmed it by oath, and you know that not foreign nations only, but also your neighbors and friends are witnesses of the oft renewing of the same oath. Oh, Sire, how unseemly is it that this your oath should be counted but for a jest and a mockery. Within these few days past, a nurse was carrying home a young babe from baptism, not far from Troyes in Champagne, after attending a sermon in a certain village, by you assigned for the same purpose, when certain persons, who lay in wait by the way, killed both the nurse and the child, and some of the company which had been bidden to the christening. Consider, I beseech you, how terrible that murder was, and how it may stand with your honor and dignity to suffer such great outrages to go unrevenged and unpunished in your kingdom.”

The king replied that he had never doubted the admiral’s loyalty, but had always taken him for a good subject and excellent captain, without his peer in the whole realm. “If I had any other opinion of you,” he exclaimed, “I should never have done what I have.” He made no reference to the Flemish war, but promised that the Edict of Pacification should be kept faithfully and strictly; for which purpose he had sent commissioners into all parts of the kingdom, appealing to the queen-mother for confirmation. “My lord, there is nothing truer,” she said; “commissioners have been sent into all parts.”—“Yes, madam, I know it,” returned Coligny, “and of that sort of men who valued my head at 50,000 crowns.” Charles now interposed: “My lord admiral, we will send others; you are getting too excited. It is better that you should be quiet. You bear the wound, but I the smart.[568] I swear by God’s life that I will take such terrible revenge, that it shall never be forgotten.” He added that two persons were already in custody, and inquired whether the admiral desired to have any of his friends in the commission of investigation. “I refer it to your majesty’s discretion and justice, but as you ask my opinion, I could desire to see Cavaignes, Masparault, and another appointed. Surely there needs no great search be made for the culprit.” Upon this the king and Catherine drew nearer the admiral’s pillow, and talked with him so low that none in the room could hear what passed. At the end the queen-mother said: “Although I am only a woman, yet I am of opinion that it is to be looked to betimes.”

The Duke of Anjou gives a somewhat different account of this portion of the interview: “As the admiral desired to speak privately with the king, his majesty made a sign to my mother and to myself to retire.[569] We accordingly quitted the bedside, and stood in the middle of the chamber, full of suspicion and uneasiness. We saw ourselves surrounded by more than 200 Huguenot captains, who filled the adjoining chamber and also the hall below. Their countenances were melancholy, and they showed by their gestures how disaffected they were, omitting to pay us due reverence, as if they suspected us of having caused the admiral’s wound. We began to feel great apprehension, so much so that the queen determined to put a stop to the conversation between the king and the admiral under some plausible pretext. Approaching the king, she said: ‘Your majesty is wrong in permitting the admiral to excite himself by talking; pray put off the rest until another day.’” The king with great reluctance broke off the conversation. As he was leaving, he proposed that the admiral should be removed to the Louvre, lest there should be any commotion in the city. The surgeons protested against the step, and with regard to the possible tumult, some one, probably Teligny, answered: “The Parisians are no more to be feared than women, so long as the king continues his faithful good-will toward the admiral.” The speaker knew little of the temper of the inhabitants of that turbulent city.

Before he quitted the room, Charles asked to see the ball, and praised the admiral for the firmness with which he had endured the pain of the operation. The queen-mother then took the bullet, and poising it in her hand, said slowly and significantly: “I am very glad that it is not still in the wound, for I remember that when the Duke of Guise was killed before Orleans, the surgeons told me that if the ball had been extracted, even though poisoned, his life would not have been in danger.” Why did Catherine revert to the duke’s murder? Was it to remind Coligny that he had been suspected of a guilty knowledge of Poltrot’s designs, and that the son was but the minister of the father’s vengeance?

On their way back to the palace, the queen-mother asked Charles to tell her what the admiral had said to him in private.[570] At last, annoyed by her importunity, he answered, “short and angrily,” with his usual oath: “S’death, madam, the admiral only told me the truth. He said that kings are respected in France only so long as they have the power to reward and punish their subjects, and that the power and administration of the whole realm had slipped into your hands, and that such a state of affairs might one day be prejudicial to me and my kingdom. Of this he wished to warn me, as a faithful servant and subject, before he died. And now you know what the admiral said to me.” Anjou and the queen-mother were greatly vexed; but, hiding their feelings, they tried to excuse and justify themselves all the way to the Louvre. Leaving the king in his closet, Anjou went to his mother, whom he found in great agitation, fearing that Coligny’s advice would lead to some change in her position, and in the administration of public affairs. Catherine, usually so fertile in resources, was quite confounded: she could think of nothing, devise nothing that could extricate them from their embarrassed position; and the two conspirators separated for the night, hoping that the morrow would bring them the means of deliverance.

Not long after the royal visitors had left Coligny’s room, Ferrers, vidame of Chartres, entered and congratulated the admiral that his enemies dared not assail him openly: “Blessed and happy are you that the memory of your prowess has extended so far.” “Nay,” replied the wounded man, “I think myself blessed because God has vouchsafed to pour out his mercy upon me; for they are rightly happy whose sins God forgiveth.” The vidame presently withdrew to a lower room, where the King of Navarre, Condé, and other Huguenot lords had met to consult on the course to be adopted. “Let us arm ourselves and garrison the house; for this is only the beginning of the tragedy,” said some. “To horse, and away from Paris,” said others; “and we will take the admiral with us.” This the physicians[571] declared to be impossible, unless they wished to kill him outright. The more reasonable gentlemen argued that it would be unwise to do more than demand justice at the king’s hands upon the murderers—an opinion which Teligny warmly supported. “I know the king’s mind thoroughly,” he said; “you will only offend him if you doubt his desire to do justice.” For a long while the more violent party would not give way, and at last the meeting broke up without coming to any decision farther than that they should consult his majesty, whether the admiral should be removed or the Huguenots collect round him. As they marched off in military array through the streets, threatening the Guises, Anjou, the queen-mother, and even the king himself, or thundering out one of the Huguenot psalms, such as they had often sung as a war-song on the eve of battle, the prospect of an armed collision must have struck many thoughtful observers. The position was very dangerous: an explosion might take place at any moment. Indeed, the only doubt among the fiercest spirits of both parties was when to begin. That very evening a body of Huguenot gentlemen, headed by those “stupid clumsy fools”[572] De Pilles and the Baron of Pardaillan, paraded tumultuously through the streets to the Louvre. As they passed before the Hotel de Guise, in the Marais,[573] they shouted loud defiance, flourishing their swords, and some are reported to have discharged their pistols at the windows. When admitted to the presence, while the king was at supper, they fiercely demanded vengeance, and by their looks did not spare Anjou, who was at his brother’s side. “If the king refuses us justice,” they cried, “we will take the matter into our own hands.”

The night of the 22d was the turning-point of Catherine’s policy. The threats of the Huguenots had so alarmed her, that her nerves were quite unstrung; visions of danger started up before her wherever she turned. Treacherous herself, she may have believed the tales (if they were not of her own invention) of Huguenot conspiracies, which she afterward employed so effectually to exasperate the impetuous king. Her policy of “trimming” no longer seemed possible. Early the next morning Anjou had another interview with his mother. The night had not brought wisdom, but doubt. Catherine still wavered between contending schemes. On one point alone she had made up her mind—that the admiral must be got rid of at any sacrifice, now that Maurevel had so unluckily failed.[574] Had the assassin’s bullet struck a vital part, Catherine’s trouble would have been at an end.[575] She had nothing to fear from the Huguenots without a leader: Condé and Navarre were young; they were in her power, and could do nothing. There might be a street riot between the partisans of Guise and of the admiral; perhaps the duke himself might be killed in the fray. But now, if Maurevel were caught, his employers would be known to a certainty. Had not the rack forced Poltrot to confess? Then what would become of her beloved Henry, against whom Charles was already so violently angered? It was not probable that the Duke of Guise would endure the odium, or silently put up with the king’s displeasure. He was too powerful to be made the scape-goat of another’s crimes, and was such a favorite with the Parisians that to give him up might be perilous to herself and her sons. As she had not strength to control and restrain both parties, she must side with one of them. Yet there was danger either way—even had her hands been pure from Coligny’s blood. The victory of the Huguenots might lead to the establishment of a republic; the victory of the Guises (as she afterward learned to her sorrow) might lead to the deposition of her son. There was no escape: Catherine was caught in the meshes of her own crime. Maurevel’s work must be completed. But how? “Ruse and finesse,” says Anjou, “were now out of the question.” The murder must be done openly. There were serious difficulties in the way. Coligny was under the king’s protection, and how could Charles be prevailed upon to sacrifice his “friend and father?”

There are three different narratives of the proceedings at the Louvre on Saturday, 23d August. The Calvinist account, given in the “Mémoires de l’Etat de France,” may be dismissed without a word; Margaret’s statements are almost as unreliable; so that none remains but that which bears the name of the Duke of Anjou. Even with his help it is very difficult to trace the real order of events, or to make his narrative coincide with the entries in the register of the City of Paris. One thing alone is clear, that Anjou (or his reporter Miron) is not telling the whole truth.

In order to escape observation, the queen-mother summoned her intimate advisers to meet her at the Tuileries.[576] The Louvre was too crowded, too open to Huguenot observation; but in the private gardens of her country house beyond the city walls, they could talk without danger. Anjou, Tavannes, Birague, De Retz, and Nevers were present, but of their deliberations no record exists, and they can only be imagined from the result. They agreed that there was not a moment to be lost. The admiral was out of danger: to-morrow he might be removed beyond their reach. He must be got rid of that very night. If he and five or six other Huguenot chiefs were dispatched, all would be well.[577] There is a worthless story of a sort of proscription list having been drawn up, at the head of which stood the names of Henry of Navarre and the Prince of Condé. The younger Tavannes claimed for his father the credit of saving their lives; but they really owed their safety to the queen-mother, who feared that their deaths would make the Guise party too strong. But nothing could be done without the king’s consent, and to obtain that would be no easy matter, for “he was very fond (says Margaret) of the admiral, La Rochefoucault, Teligny, La Noue, and other Huguenot leaders, whom he hoped to make use of in Flanders.”

All that Saturday Paris continued in a very restless state. People feared some great catastrophe; and yet their fears took no definite shape. Suspicion was in the air, and the wildest stories were circulated. There was “much huffling and shuffling in the city;” guards had been posted at unusual places, and there was “much carrying to and fro of arms and armor,” so that the Huguenots felt it expedient “to consult of the matter betimes, for no good was to be looked for of such turmoiling.” There was a great assemblage at the hotel of the Duchess of Guise, and to the Huguenots nothing seemed more likely than that the duke would make a sudden attack upon Coligny, and finish what had been so inauspiciously begun. The admiral’s friends accordingly dispatched Cornaton to the king, with a request that his majesty would be pleased to order a guard to be posted at the admiral’s house. Charles would scarcely believe the messenger, and desired the presence of the queen-mother. Catherine had hardly entered the room when the king, “being in a great chafe,” burst out: “What means all this? This man tells me that my people are in commotion and arming themselves.” “They are doing no such thing,” she calmly replied; “you know you gave orders that every man should keep in his own ward, as a security against tumult.” “That is true,” said Charles, who manifestly did not believe his mother’s denial; “yet I gave charge that no man should take up arms.” The Parisians had been disarmed some time before the court had returned to the Louvre; but the weapons which had been taken away were now being removed from the stores in the arsenal to the Hôtel-de-Ville, that they might be ready when needed. If, as the Huguenot narrative implies, this removal of the arms took place in the early part of the day, it may have been an innocent measure of precaution, but its wisdom is doubtful under any circumstances; if in the latter part of the day, it was probably in connection with the projected massacre.

Coligny’s messenger having repeated the request for a guard, Anjou, who had come in with his mother, said: “Very well, take Cosseins and fifty arquebusiers.” “Nay, my lord, it will be enough for us if we have but six of the king’s guard with us; for they will have as much influence over the people as a greater number of soldiers.” The king rejoined: “Take Cosseins with you; you can not have a fitter man.” Cosseins was the admiral’s mortal enemy; but he was also at variance with the Guises, and it might have been supposed that in case of any outbreak of the latter, the marshal would not spare them. As Cornaton left the presence, Thoré, the brother of Marshal Montmorency, whispered in his ear: “You could not have had a more dangerous keeper.” “What could I do?” was the rejoinder; “you saw how absolutely the king commanded it. We have committed ourselves to his honor, but you are a witness of my first answer to the king’s appointment.” A few hours later Cosseins posted his fifty soldiers in two houses close to the admiral’s;[578] and orders came from the king—other authorities say from the Duke of Anjou—commanding the inhabitants to remove out of the street in order to accommodate the friends of Coligny. It is not known how far this order was carried out: probably not at all; but it has usually been regarded as a very Machiavellian contrivance to get all the Huguenots together, that they might be killed the more easily. On the other hand, by collecting a little Huguenot garrison around him, the admiral would be safer than if he had remained alone in the street. Had there been the slightest resistance at first, the plot would have miscarried, and neither Anjou nor his mother would have been so weak as to put obstructions in the way of their own success.

Meanwhile the government was busily occupied in sending dispatches all over the country and abroad, describing the events of the previous day. It was most important to prevent a rising of the Huguenots, whose suspicions had been so cruelly confirmed by the attempt on the admiral’s life. In order to calm them, the provincial governors and magistrates were directed to assure them that justice should be executed on the perpetrators and abettors of the crime. The letter to D’Esquilly, governor of Chartres, may be taken as a sample of the whole. In it the king ascribes the attempt to the Guise faction, adding that it arose out of a private quarrel between the two houses of Chatillon and Guise, which he had tried all in his power to arrange. He orders the edict to be observed “as strictly as ever,” for fear the recent outrage should provoke his subjects to rise against each other, and great massacres be perpetrated in the cities, for which he would feel “a marvelous regret.”[579] Coligny also wrote to the Protestant churches, desiring them to be calm, for his wounds were not mortal, and the assassins were being pursued.

During the forenoon of Saturday the Duke of Guise, having heard of the king’s angry speeches against him, went to the Louvre with his uncle Aumale, and pretending to fear the violence of the Huguenots, begged his majesty’s permission to leave the court for awhile. Charles, scarcely condescending to look at them, bade them begone: “If you are guilty, I shall know where to find you.” Collecting his suite together, the duke rode ostentatiously out of one of the gates, and stealthily re-entered by another, keeping himself ready for any emergency.

The commotions in the city were but a faint copy of the tumults by which the bosom of the queen-mother was agitated. She had staked every thing upon the hazard of a throw. Nothing farther could be done without the king’s consent, and that must be obtained per fas et nefas. According to Anjou’s evidence, Charles retired into his cabinet after dinner, and, as the dinner-hour was eleven, the time must have been about midday. He was followed by his brother, the queen-mother, Nevers, Tavannes, Retz, and Birague. It was an ordinary council meeting, and they assembled to consult as to what should be done to preserve tranquillity. Catherine immediately began a long story about the Huguenots arming against the king on account of the admiral’s wound. “From letters that have been intercepted, I learn that they have sent into Germany for 10,000 reiters and to Switzerland for 6000 foot. Many Huguenot officers have already started for the provinces to raise soldiers, and the mustering-places have been all arranged. Such a force as the Huguenots will soon have under arms, your majesty’s troops are not strong enough to resist. Before long the whole kingdom will be in revolt under the pretext of the public good, and, as your majesty has neither men nor money, I see no place of security for you in France.... Your majesty should also know that a still greater danger threatens your person. They have conspired to place Henry of Navarre on the throne.” The latter statement, although supported by Alva’s bulletin,[580] is unworthy of a moment’s credit. Margaret’s silence is conclusive evidence against it. The former statement is equally opposed to the truth. Walsingham writes that Montgomery paid him a visit between nine and ten on Friday night, and told him, “that as he and those of the Reform had just occasion to be right sorry for the admiral’s hurt, so had they no less cause to rejoice to see the king so careful [anxious], as well for the curing of the admiral, as also for the searching out of the party that hurt him.”[581]

The queen-mother continued: “There is another matter of great importance that ought not to be kept from you. The Catholics are thoroughly tired of the long wars, and of being crushed by all sorts of calamities, and they will endure it no longer. They will make an end of this state of things, once for all.”

“What would they have?” interrupted Charles. “I am as weary of war as any of them, and as determined that my peace shall be kept. What better hope of success have they now than at Moncontour or Jarnac? I will hang the first man that draws a sword.”

Catherine.—But your majesty has not the power; things are gone too far. They have resolved to elect a captain-general and make a league offensive and defensive against the Huguenots. Your majesty will thus stand alone, without power and authority. France will be divided into two great camps, over which you will have no control. There will be danger to all of us, and certain death and destruction to many thousands, all of which may be prevented by a single stroke of the sword.

King.—I do not understand you, ma mère; you speak in riddles.

Catherine.—To speak plainly, then, we must cut off the head and author of the civil wars. M. de Chatillon must be disposed of.

At these words the king burst into one of his fits of passion, which so alarmed the council that none of them ventured to interpose a word. The queen-mother allowed Charles to exhaust himself, and then resumed in her most insinuating manner: “The remedy, I confess, is desperate, but there is no other. The Huguenot plans, now ripe for execution, will die with their leader. The Catholics, satisfied by the sacrifice of two or three men, will remain obedient, and all will be well.”

Other arguments were used, to which the king listened moodily, turning from one to another of his councilors, as if to ask whether his mother was speaking the truth. But their trained looks confirmed the cunning tale. Still he was not convinced, and once more giving way to a burst of passion, he swore he would not have M. de Chatillon touched: “Woe to any one who injures a hair of his head! He is the only true friend I have; all the rest are knaves, they are all sold to the Spaniard—all, except my brother of Navarre.”

Still the queen-mother did not flinch; she had too much at stake. “Do what you will,” she appears to have said, “the attack on the admiral will be laid at our door, unless M. de Guise is punished, and he is too strong for us—at least in Paris. France will again be torn by civil war, and I see but one way of escape. If we must fight, let us strike the blow at once, while the enemy is still in Paris and unorganized.” And probably thinking of Alva’s advice nine years before, she added: “If we cut off the chiefs, the others are powerless. We must either have the Guises with us or against us. Our only safety is to call Duke Henry to our side, make him our tool, and ... (here she paused, as if to watch the effect of her words) ... and afterward ruin him forever by throwing all the blame upon him.” As Charles was still unmoved by such reasoning, and divided between love for Coligny and respect for his mother, he asked the advice of his council. They gave their opinions separately, and all agreed with Catherine, except De Retz, who, to their great astonishment, said: “No man can hate the admiral and his party more than I do; but I will not, at the expense of the king my master, avenge myself on my private enemies by a counsel so dangerous to him and to his kingdom, and so dishonorable to all. We shall be taxed with perfidy and disloyalty, and by one act shake all confidence in the faith and word of a king, and consequently of treating afterward for the pacification of the kingdom in the case of future wars. We shall be deceived if we think to escape foreign armies by such a treacherous act, and we shall never see the end of the calamity and ruin it would bring upon us.”[582] This answer quite staggered the queen-mother and her advisers; but as no one supported De Retz, his opinion had no weight, and that may be why he gave utterance to it.

Still the king was not convinced: he sat moody and silent, biting his nails as was his wont. He would come to no decision. He asked for proofs, and none were forthcoming, except some idle gossip of the streets and the foolish threats of a few hot-headed Huguenots. Charles had learned to love the admiral: could he believe that the gentle Teligny and that Rochefoucault, the companion of his rough sports, were guilty of the meditated plot? He desired to be King of France—of Huguenots and Catholics alike—not king of a party. Catherine, in her despair, employed her last argument. She whispered in his ear: “Perhaps, Sire, you are afraid.” As if struck by an arrow, he started from his chair. Raving like a madman, he bade them hold their tongues, and with fearful oaths exclaimed, “Kill the admiral if you like, but kill all the Huguenots with him—all—all—all—so that not one be left to reproach me hereafter. See to it at once—at once; do you hear?”[583] And he dashed furiously out of the closet, leaving the conspirators aghast at his violence.

But there was no time to be lost: the king might change his mind; the Huguenots might get wind of the plot. The murderous scheme must be carried out that very night, and accordingly the Duke of Guise was summoned to the Louvre. And now the different parts of the tragedy were arranged, Guise undertaking, on the strength of his popularity with the Parisian mob, to lead them to the work of blood. We may also imagine him begging as a favor the privilege of dispatching the admiral in retaliation for his father’s murder. The city was parted out into districts, each of which was assigned to some trusty officer, Marshal Tavannes having the general superintendence of the military arrangements. The conspirators now separated, intending to meet again at ten o’clock. Guise went into the city, where he communicated his plans to such of the mob-leaders as could be trusted. He told them of a bloody conspiracy among the Huguenot chiefs to destroy the king and royal family and extirpate Catholicism; that a renewal of war was inevitable, but it was better that war should come in the streets of Paris than in the open field, for the leaders would thus be far more effectually punished and their followers crushed. He affirmed that letters had been intercepted in which the admiral had sought the aid of German reiters and Swiss pikemen, and that Montmorency was approaching with 25,000 men to burn the city, as the Huguenots had often threatened. And, as if to give color to this idle story, a small body of cavalry had been seen from the walls in the early part of the day.

Such arguments and such falsehoods were admirably adapted to his hearers, who swore to carry out the duke’s orders with secrecy and dispatch. “It is the will of our lord the king,” continued Henry of Guise, “that every good citizen should take up arms to purge the city of that rebel Coligny and his heretical followers. The signal will be given by the great bell of the Palace of Justice. Then let every true Catholic tie a white band on his arm and put a white cross on his cap, and begin the vengeance of God.” Finding upon inquiry that Le Charron, the provost of the merchants, was too weak and tender-hearted for the work before him, the duke suggested that the municipality should temporarily confer his power on the ex-provost Marcel, a man of a very different stamp.

About four in the afternoon Anjou rode through the crowded streets in company with his bastard brother Angoulême. He watched the aspect of the populace, and let fall a few insidious expressions in no degree calculated to quiet the turbulent passions of the citizens. One account says he distributed money, which is not probable, his afternoon ride being merely a sort of reconnaissance. The journals of the Hotel-de-Ville still attest the anxiety of the court—of Catherine and her fellow-conspirators—that the massacre should be sweeping and complete. “Very late in the evening”—it must have been after dark, for the king went to lie down at eight, and did not rise until ten—the provost was sent for.[584] At the Louvre he found Charles, the queen-mother, and the Duke of Anjou, with other princes and nobles, among whom we may safely include Guise, Retz, and Tavannes. The king now repeated to him the story of a Huguenot plot, which had already been whispered abroad by Guise and Anjou, and bade him shut the gates of the city, so that no one could pass in or out, and take possession of the keys. He was also to draw up all the boats on the river-bank and chain them together, to remove the ferry, to muster under arms the able-bodied men of each ward under their proper officers, and hold them in readiness at the usual mustering-places to receive the orders of his majesty. The city artillery, which does not appear to have been so formidable as the word would imply, was to be stationed at the Grève to protect the Hotel-de-Ville, or for any other duty required of it. With these instructions the provost returned to the Hotel-de-Ville, where he spent great part of the night in preparing the necessary orders, which were issued “very early the next morning.”[585] There is reason for believing that these measures were simply precautions in case the Huguenots should resist, and a bloody struggle should have to be fought in the streets of the capital. The municipality certainly took no part in the earlier massacres, whatever they may have done later. Tavannes complains of the “want of zeal” in some of the citizens, and Brantome admits that “it was necessary to threaten to hang some of the laggards.”

That evening the king had supped in public, and the hours being much earlier than with us, the time was probably between six and seven. The courtiers admitted to witness the meal appear to have been as numerous as ever, Huguenots as well as Catholics, victims and executioners. Charles, who retired before eight o’clock, kept Francis, Count of La Rochefoucault, with him for some time, as if unwilling to part with him. “Do not go,” he said; “it is late. We will sit and talk all night.” “Excuse me, Sire, I am tired and sleepy.” “You must stay; you can sleep with my valets.” But as Charles was rather too fond of rough practical jokes, the count still declined, and went away, suspecting no evil, to pay his usual evening visit to the dowager Princess of Condé. He must have remained some time in her apartments, for it was past twelve o’clock when he went to bid Navarre good-night. As he was leaving the palace, a man stopped him at the foot of the stairs, and whispered in his ear. When the stranger left, La Rochefoucault bade Mergey, one of his suite, to whom we are indebted for these particulars, return and tell Henry that Guise and Nevers were about the city. During Mergey’s brief absence, something more appears to have been told the count, for he returned up stairs with Nançay, captain of the guard, who, lifting the tapestry which closed the entrance to Navarre’s antechamber, looked for some time at the gentlemen within, some playing at cards or dice, others talking. At last he said: “Gentlemen, if any of you wish to retire, you must do so at once, for we are going to shut the gates.” No one moved, as it would appear, for at Charles’s express desire, it is said—which is scarcely probable—these Huguenot gentlemen had gathered round the King of Navarre to protect him against any outrage of the Guises.[586] In the court-yard Mergey found the guard under arms. “M. Rambouillet, who loved me (he continues) was sitting by the wicket, and as I passed out, he took my hand, and with a piteous look said: ‘Adieu, Mergey; adieu, my friend.’ Not daring to say more, as he told me afterward.”

In the apartments of the queen-mother all was not equally calm. Margaret had no suspicion of the terrible tragedy that was preparing. “The Huguenots,” she writes in her Memoirs, “suspected me because I was a Catholic, and the Catholics doubted me, because I had married the King of Navarre: so that between them both I knew nothing of the coming enterprise.” She was sitting by her sister Claude, who appeared pensive and sorrowful, when her mother ordered her to retire to her own room. She rose, and was about to obey, when the Duchess of Lorraine caught her by the arm, exclaiming: “Sister, for the love of God, do not leave us.” Catherine sternly rebuked the duchess, and bade her be silent; but Claude, with true sisterly affection, would not let Margaret go. “It is a shame,” she said, “to send her to be sacrificed, for if any thing is discovered, they [meaning the Catholics] will be sure to avenge themselves upon her.” Still Catherine insisted: “No harm will befall the Queen of Navarre, and it is my pleasure that she retire to her own apartments, lest her absence should create suspicion.” Claude kissed her sister, and bade her good-night with tears in her eyes. “I departed, alarmed and amazed,” continues Margaret, “unable to discover what I had to dread.” She found her husband’s apartments filled with Huguenot gentlemen. “All night long,” says Margaret, “they continued talking of the accident that had befallen the admiral, declaring that they would go to the king as soon as it was light, and demand justice on the Duke of Guise, and if it were not granted, they would take it into their own hands.... I could not sleep for fear,” she continues; but when day-light came, and her husband had gone out with the Huguenot gentlemen to the tennis-court, to wait for his majesty’s rising, she fell off into a sound slumber.

Coligny’s hotel had been crowded all day by visitors; the Queen of Navarre had paid him a visit, and most of the gentlemen in Paris, Catholic as well as Huguenot, had gone to express their sympathy. For the Frenchman is a gallant enemy, and respects brave men; and the foul attempt upon the admiral, whom they had so often encountered on the battle-field, was felt as a personal injury. A council had been held that day, at which the propriety of removing in a body from Paris and carrying the admiral with them, had again been discussed. Navarre and Condé opposed the proposition, and it was finally resolved to petition the king “to order all the Guisians out of Paris, because they had too much sway with the people of the town.” One Bouchavannes, a traitor, was among them, greedily listening to every word, which he reported to Anjou, strengthening him in his determination to make a clean sweep that very night.

As the evening came on, the admiral’s visitors took their leave. Teligny, his son-in-law, was the last to quit his bedside. To the question whether the admiral would like any of them to keep watch in his house during the night, he answered, says the contemporary biographer, “that it was labor more than needed, and gave them thanks with very loving words.” It was after midnight when Teligny and Guerchy departed, leaving Ambrose Paré and Pastor Merlin[587] with the wounded man. There were besides in the house two of his gentlemen, Cornaton (afterward his biographer) and La Bonne; his squire Yolet, five Switzers belonging to the King of Navarre’s guard, and about as many domestic servants. It was the last night on earth for all except two of that household.