Imagining every one must be as fond of blood as himself, he used to conduct the young king and queen to the ramparts, or to the windows, to witness the executions,[124] pointing out the most illustrious of the victims and mocking at their agony. As they died almost all of them with firmness and serenity, he bade Francis II. “look at those insolent men, whom even death can not subdue. What would they not do with you, if they were your masters?” One afternoon, for these executions usually took place after dinner, for the amusement of the court, the Duchess of Guise was present, but she could not endure the ghastly spectacle. She nearly fainted away, and entering all pale and trembling into the queen-mother’s closet, she exclaimed: “Oh, madame, what horrors! I fear that a curse will come upon our house, and the innocent blood rest upon our heads!”

The Duke of Longueville, who had been invited to Amboise, stayed away under pretext of illness, but sent one of his gentlemen to make his excuses. Guise was at table when the messenger arrived, and took advantage of the opportunity to strike terror into the duke and all who opposed the Lorraine faction. “Tell your master I am very well,” he said, “and report to him the viands in which I indulge.” At the word a tall, fine-looking man was brought in, a rope was immediately put round his neck, and he was hanged to a bar of the window before the eyes of the astonished gentleman.[125]

Whatever may have been the temporary success procured by this ferocious victory, it disappointed the expectations of the Guises.[126] The moral world is so constituted that crime sooner or later works out its own punishment. “The butchers,” as the two Lorraine brothers were called, had converted their victims into martyrs, and all over France a feeling of resistance began to spring up that could not fail ere long to have a violent termination. Most of those who suffered at Amboise were of the Reformed religion; but there were others of the old faith who joined the conspiracy out of dislike to the duke and the cardinal, and who now began to think that no hope remained except in their swords. In the market-place of Amboise, where most of the victims had been put to death, Theodore Agrippa d’Aubigné was sworn, like young Hannibal, to avenge the cause of his party. The elder D’Aubigné was taking the boy to Paris, and passing through Amboise one fair-time, he saw the ghastly heads of the conspirators still grinning horribly on the walls and gates. Moved with indignation, he spurred his horse into the midst of the assembled crowd, exclaiming: “The murderers! they have beheaded France.” Being recognized as a Calvinist, he had to ride for his life, and when he was out of danger he touched his son’s right hand: “My boy,” he said, “do not spare your head to avenge the heads of those honorable gentlemen. If you do, your father’s curse be upon you.” Young Theodore never forgot this lesson, and his life was one long heroic, if not always wise, devotion to the Reformed cause.

During the first terror inspired by the news of the conspiracy, an attempt had been made to secure the neutrality of the Reformed by issuing a proclamation to the effect, that “all persons (saving such as be preachers) detained in prison on account of their religion, should be immediately released”—on condition, however, that they lived as good Catholics like the rest of the people. This act of grace was issued (15th March) by the advice of Coligny, who having been hastily summoned to Amboise (partly to try how far he was cognizant of the plot), told the queen-mother plainly in a private audience that “the Huguenots had so increased in number and were so exasperated that they could not be induced to return to their duty, unless the persecutions and violent measures of the administration were suspended.” Chancellor Olivier was of the same opinion. “It is better to use mild measures than strong ones,” he said. At the same time instructions were sent to the Parliaments to make secret protests while registering the edict, so as to render it nugatory. Six days after it was issued, the Duke of Guise was named lieutenant-general (17th March, 1560). The pope sent a special envoy to France complaining of the amnesty, and to point out that “the true remedy for the disorders of the kingdom was to proceed judicially against the heretics, and if their number was too great, the king should employ the sword to bring his subjects back to their duty.” He offered to assist in so good a work to the extent of his ability, and to procure the support of the King of Spain and the princes of Italy.

It was not Catherine’s policy to crush the Huguenots entirely, and she appears to have taken some pains to conciliate them. In this tumult of Amboise (which could hardly have been displeasing to her, considering her antagonism to the Guises) she saw her opportunity, and sent for Regnier de la Planche, that she might learn his opinion as to the state of affairs. Regnier, who was a man of great political experience and moderation, told her frankly that the religious persecutions had armed many of the Huguenots, while the favor shown to the Guises had increased the number of the discontented. He also argued that a national council was the only means for settling the religious differences. The advice was not very well received, and La Planche nearly suffered for his plain-speaking. Coligny, who had left Amboise to try and pacify Normandy, then almost in open rebellion, wrote to the same effect to the queen-mother, advising also the assembling of the States-General.

No sooner was the panic over and the Guises once more felt secure, than the religious persecutions were renewed with all their former severity. The old edicts against the Christaudins or Sacramentarians were revived, and commissions were appointed to receive secret evidence. To make the persecution more effectual, the Cardinal of Lorraine tried once more to introduce all the forms of the Inquisition without the name, and obtained a resolution of the royal council entrusting the entire cognizance of heresy to the prelates of the Church, and ordering that their sentence should be final, the heretics being handed over to the secular arm for punishment. L’Hopital, the new chancellor, resisted the encroachment on the broad grounds that the right of trial and punishment of all offenses—whether against person, property, or religion (except in the case of ecclesiastics)—lay with the king; that the right of appeal to the royal tribunals could not be taken away; and that the judgment on those appeals should be delivered by lay judges. He succeeded thus far in establishing the axiom, that “no power in the state possessed sovereign authority of life or death over the subjects of such state, except the king.” But he was compelled to yield in other points, and being of opinion that it is politic to permit a small mischief to escape a greater, he gave an unwilling consent to the edict of Romorantin (May, 1560), which declared that the cognizance of heresy should remain with the bishops, who were to proceed in the usual manner. This was a great sacrifice to intolerance, but it really gave the bishops no new power. Other clauses declared all persons attending conventicles guilty of high treason, and assigned a reward of 500 crowns to informers; to which the singular provision was appended, that all calumnious informers should be subjected to the peine du talion, in other words, suffer the punishment to which their victims were liable. To a certain extent this edict recognized the complaints of the Reformers by ordering the bishops to reside in their dioceses, and the parish priests to tend their flocks more carefully, teach them properly, and live among them. The new chancellor might well be proud of his work, the first hesitating step in the path of toleration. The Parliament of Paris refused to register the decree on the ground that it encroached on the civil power, and L’Hopital had to struggle for ten days before he could overcome their resistance. The fear of a repetition of the “tumult of Amboise” had frightened the Cardinal of Lorraine into accepting the edict; but his brother Francis bluntly declared he would never draw the sword in its defense. This was quite in his style, for he hated the Reformed not only because they were rebels against the Church, but because they were attached to the Bourbon princes. Navarre, indeed, was not very formidable, it being always possible to hold him in check by playing upon his selfishness; but his brother, the Prince of Condé, was a high-spirited, clever, resolute man, one to be kept down by all means.

In reading the history of this period it must be constantly borne in mind, that the religious malcontents were often political malcontents also,[127] their number being increased by all who hated the monopoly of power so tenaciously held by the Guises. The small gentry, who in a spirit of opposition had accepted the Reformed doctrines, brought a new and fatal element into the movement. Despising Calvin’s advice to bear injuries, and that opposition to lawful authority is a crime, they were secretly preparing the means of resistance, which their ecclesiastical organization greatly facilitated. The impetuous gentlemen and soldiers returned insult for insult, and blow for blow. Thus day by day the political character of the Huguenots[128] (as the Reformers were called after the affair of Amboise) became more prominent. It was a deplorable but almost inevitable result of the combination against the house of Lorraine, and it proved the temporary destruction of French Protestantism. Ere long France was divided into two hostile camps; and although this will not excuse the harshness with which the Huguenots were treated, it will in some measure account for it. The Romish party were contending not only for religion but for supremacy, for place, for authority. Who should govern the king and the state was a question now quite as important as which faith was right, that of Geneva or of Rome? The age was one of great superstition and ignorance, and the foulest rumors were circulated against the Protestants, and greedily swallowed. Claude Haton, who has left us a striking and truthful picture of his time, supplies us with a curious illustration of the popular faith touching the Huguenots. He says that mad dogs had decreased so much during the last two years that people believed the devils had left the dogs and entered into the Reformers.[129] The Catholics were by no means scrupulous as to the weapons they employed to exasperate the fierce passions of the lower classes. There were few who could read the pamphlets, ballads, or broadsides which the printers poured forth with astonishing profusion; but all could understand the rude wood-cuts in which the Huguenots were represented as nailing iron shoes on the bare feet of a pious hermit, or making a target of a priest nailed to a cross. The pulpit was turned into an arena for abuse, whence the monks, who were far more inveterate against the Reformers than the secular clergy, inveighed with all the power of their lungs, and the copiousness of their abusive vocabulary, against the new doctrines and its professors. The Huguenots and their allies were not slow to retaliate, and in fierce invective were by no means inferior to their persecutors. The most notorious of their satires, or “libels,” was that known as The Tiger,[130] written against the Cardinal of Lorraine, and for selling which in the ordinary course of business, a poor Parisian book-seller[131] was arrested in June, 1560, tortured to make him give up the name of the author, which probably he did not know, and then hanged. An unfortunate spectator, a merchant of Rouen, who had manifested some compassion for the fate of poor Martin Lhomme, was arrested and executed four days after as an accomplice.[132]

It was a time of almost universal lawlessness. “Every day,” writes Throckmorton to Cecil, “there are advertisements of new stirs.”[133] There was no public protection, no law enforced; every man had to protect himself as best he could. In Paris the insecurity of life and property was notorious. The Catholics armed themselves against the Huguenots, and these in their turn procured arms in self-defense. Even priests and monks shouldered the spear and arquebuse, and became captains of companies. And when the war did really break out, such victors would not be very merciful, especially when the vanquished had imported a new element into the strife by defiling the churches, destroying the images, and ridiculing the ceremonies. There were many Huguenots who disgraced the name they assumed; but had they all been pious, the triumphant Romanist would not have spared them. The cause of pure religion suffered much from the violence of these hot-headed partisans. At Rheims the “Lutherans” ate meat publicly in Lent, broke the lanterns before the image of the Virgin over the great door of the cathedral, and prowled about at night defacing the crosses and pictures. One Gillet, a lawyer, drove a priest from a chapel, seized the alms in the poor-box, and gave the sacerdotal robes to his wife, who made caps and other articles of feminine attire out of them. At Rouen, when a Catholic priest spoke of purgatory in his sermon, the Huguenots called him “a fool,” and the children who had been trained for the purpose, imitated the amorous noises of cats. The Reformed doctrine was introduced into Brittany in 1558 by Andelot. At Croisic the “new apostles” were so bold as to preach in the principal church, Notre Dame de Pitié, of which the people and clergy complained as soon as Andelot’s back was turned. The bishop of the diocese marched in solemn procession through the streets, after which the clergy attacked with a large culverine a house in which the preachers had taken refuge. The inmates, nineteen in number, escaped during the night, and the prelate was very properly condemned by the government, “such violent practices being unusual in the kingdom,” which certainly was not a correct statement.

It was supposed that a general council by restoring unity to the Church would cure many of the evils under which France suffered. The queen-mother supported this opinion, and we may imagine we hear her speaking in a letter written by Francis II. to the Bishop of Limoges: “The Church of God,” he says, “will never enjoy peace or rest, never shall we see the end of the troubles and calamities which this religious division is bringing over all the Christian world, unless a general council be convened.... It is notorious that the Council of Trent has not been received or approved by Germany or by the Protestants, who have attacked its authority, as having been held without them.... We Christian princes ought to try by all means to invite the Protestants and Germans to the council, ... it being my opinion that it had better not open at all, if the Germans and Protestants are not invited, for it would be labor in vain.” Such was the tone in which the king wrote to the pope, and such were the sentiments he desired Limoges to lay before the King of Spain. He even went so far as to threaten to hold a national council, if the pope were obstinate. “It is undeniable,” he said, “that there are so many abuses in the manners of churchmen, that there are but few of them who do their duty. Now this neglect breeds that contempt for divine things, by which men are led to forsake God and fall into those errors wherein we now see them.” In a similar strain he wrote to the Bishop of Rennes, his embassador at the imperial court.[134]

In a somewhat similar tone wrote the Cardinal of Lorraine to the same bishop, urging the necessity of a council, and blaming the coldness of the pope. He complains of the “pitiful condition into which religion had fallen,” and declares a council to be “the only remedy for all our ills.” In nearly the same words writes Florimond de Robertet, secretary of state, adding that the king was resolved at all events “to convoke an assembly of notables.”

These opinions compared with the instructions given to the French prelates at the Council of Trent may be taken as evidence that the court was sincere in its desire to purify the national church. Those ecclesiastics were to demand that the ceremonial should be corrected and all other things whereby the ignorant might be abused under a show of piety; that the cup should be restored to the laity; that the sacraments should be administered in the vulgar tongue; that during mass the Word of God should be read and interpreted, and the young people should be catechised, to the end that all might be instructed in what they should believe, and how they should live so as to please God; that prayers should be offered up in French, and that certain times should be appointed, as well at high mass as at vespers, wherein it might be lawful to sing psalms in the church. The prelates were also instructed to complain of the unchaste lives of the clergy.[135]

There can be little doubt, therefore, that in the summer of 1560 France was on the brink of a great religious change, perhaps of a national reformation. Catherine de Medicis inclined toward it, not that she cared much about creeds, but because it seemed an admirable political weapon ready to her hand. The Cardinal of Lorraine did not oppose it, probably hoping to increase his wealth by the plunder of the Church, after the English example. All moderate-minded people wished for a reformation that did not involve separation from Rome. Even the violent Gaspard de Saulx-Tavannes listened for once to the voice of common sense: “Mass ought not to be said in French, no change or reform should be introduced into the ceremonies without the approval of a general council. Nevertheless, I must confess (he added) that the people would be much more stirred up to devotion, if they heard in their own tongue the chants of the priests and the psalms that are sung in church.”

While these conciliatory measures were under discussion in the royal council-chamber, the difference between the two creeds was growing wider. The Reformers had increased so greatly in many of the large towns, particularly in the south and west (as we shall presently see), that in defiance of the edicts they gave up their secret meetings in woods and barns, and worshiped in public. The king wrote to Tavannes respecting the troubles in Dauphiny, ordering him to collect troops and “cut the religious rebels in pieces.... There is nothing I desire more than to exterminate them utterly, and so tear them up by the roots that no fresh ones may arise.... Chastise them without mercy.”[136] Six months later (Oct., 1560) the king sent Paul de la Barthe, marshal of Termes, to Poitiers with 200 men-at-arms to check heresy, and particularly to “catch the ministers and punish them soundly.” They were to be hanged without trial. He was to permit no assemblies, and if any were held, he was to fall upon them with the sword. “I beg of you, cousin,” he wrote, “to sweep the country clear of such rabble who disturb the world.”[137] Such orders were the fruit of the Guise government; it is but just, however, to say, that it is doubtful whether this letter was sent to the marshal, probably because on reflection it appeared too cruel. The Count of Villars, describing the effect produced by this merciless persecution, writes: “Part of the inhabitants of Nismes, to the number of 3000 or 4000, have retired into the mountains of the Gevaudan, whence they threaten to descend into the plain, in which case those who appear the most submissive will infallibly join them. The heresy extends every day.” As for the prisoners, he continues, their number is so great that it is impossible to put them all to death. On the 12th October, 1560, he informs the constable that he has burned two mule-loads of books from Geneva, valued at 1000 crowns, and set free a number of women on their promise “to live in obedience to God, the Roman Church, and the King.”[138] In the same month the magistrates of Anjou complain to the cardinal, that “the seditious remnants of Amboise, uniting with the depraved nobility to the number of 1000 or 1200, celebrate the communion and disturb the country.”[139]

As the barbarous orders of the court could not be kept secret, they only served to exasperate the Huguenots. Becoming more aggressive, they appropriated many of the churches to their own use, turning out the priests, whom they often cruelly maltreated. The sacred edifices they purified, as they called it, by destroying the pictures, breaking down the roods, throwing away the relics, and giving the consecrated wafer to swine. We can hardly picture to ourselves the horror excited in Catholic minds by such outrages. It may be compared with the thrill of agony that ran through England, when the atrocities of the Sepoy mutiny became known. The Duke of Guise retaliated with unrelenting ferocity. He was governor of Dauphiny, and, to intimidate that province, he ordered one Maugiron, a creature of his and afterward governor of Lyons, to make an example of the people of Valence and Romans. These places were taken by a foul stratagem, two of the Huguenot ministers were beheaded, and the principal citizens were hanged, and their houses given up to pillage. One ferocity begot another. Two Reformed gentlemen, Montbrun and Mouvans, raised the country, destroying or defiling churches, opening convents and turning out the inmates, especially the nuns, and ill-using the priests, and defiantly celebrating public worship under arms. The subsequent history of Anthony Derichiend, seigneur of Mouvans, furnishes a striking illustration of the lawlessness and insecurity of the times. Being tired of war, he and his brother Paul returned to their homes at Castellane in Provence, intending to pass the remainder of their days in God’s service. They did not, however, find the quiet they had expected. They were much annoyed by their neighbors, and during Lent a grey friar went into the pulpit and so inflamed the people against them that they were besieged in their own house by a mob of several hundred men. They escaped this peril, and Anthony appealed to Henry for protection, which was granted (1559). While he was on his way to Grenoble, to lay his case before the Parliament, as the king had bidden him, he halted at Draguignan. The children, instigated by certain priests, began to hoot at him as “a Lutheran,” and in a short time a fierce mob crowded round the house in which he had taken shelter. Hoping to save his life, he surrendered into the hands of the officers of justice, who were too weak, and probably not over-anxious, to protect him. The mob tore him out of their hands, beat him to death, and inflicted brutalities on his corpse which it is impossible to describe. Among other things they plucked out his heart and other portions, and carried them on sticks triumphantly round the town. One of the wretches offered a morsel of the liver to a dog which refused to touch it. With a kick and an oath the man howled out: “Are you too a Lutheran like Mouvans?”[140] An inquiry was ordered into the outrage, but the passions of all the province were too much excited to permit justice to be done. “You have killed the old one,” said one of the royal commissioners, “why don’t you kill the young one? I would not give a straw for your courage. Down with all these rascally Lutherans, kill them all.” Paul now took up arms, and after inflicting much damage upon his adversaries, was finally compelled to take refuge at Geneva.

Of the morals of these “rascally Lutherans” in this part of France, we have the unimpeachable testimony of Procureur Marquet of Valence, who says that, for the eight years he held the office of town-clerk, not a day passed but his registers were full of complaints of outrages of every kind committed during the night. The streets were unsafe after dark, and the citizens were not secure from robbery and violence even in their own houses. Then he adds: “But after the preaching of the Gospel, all that was altered, as if a change of life had accompanied a change of doctrine.” No one was found bold enough to contradict such testimony.

One of the first persons to raise his voice against the persecution of the Huguenots was L’Hopital, the chancellor. In his inaugural address to the Parliament of Paris (5th July, 1560) he boldly declared the Church to be the cause of the religious disorders through its evil example; the soldiers were unpaid and justified their violence; the mass of the people both in town and country were ignorant and wicked, because the priests preached to them about tithes and offerings, and said nothing about godly living; and that the only remedy was a general council. He went on to argue that the diseases of the mind are not to be healed like those of the body, adding, that “though a man may recant, he does not change his heart.”[141]

In this address L’Hopital spoke the sentiments of a small but increasing party which, under the name of the “politicians,” tried to hold a balance between the Huguenots and the Romanists. They might indeed be called “constitutionalists,” for there is no doubt their secret desire was to put an end to the ministerial usurpation and despotism of the Guises. They maintained that the dissidents had a right to be heard; but their arguments would have been ineffectual had the exchequer been in a flourishing condition. The government was in extreme want of money, the annual expenditure exceeding the income by nearly three millions of livres. Loans could only be raised at exorbitant rates of interest, and to impose new taxes would only increase the disorders of the country and perhaps drive the peasants into another Jacquerie. Thus all parties came at last to agree in the necessity of calling the States-General together; preliminary to which letters patent were issued, convening an assembly of Notables at Fontainebleau, these Notables being persons of rank and influence among the nobles and clergy, knights of the order of St. Michael, and lawyers.

The king was escorted to the place of meeting by a strong guard, in addition to the troops under the command of the Guises. The general distrust and insecurity were shown by the number of armed men who accompanied the great chieftains of each party. The constable was attended by his two sons, Marshals Montmorency and Damville, and followed by eight hundred gentlemen on horseback. Coligny, Andelot, the Vidame of Chartres, and Prince Porcien entered with nine hundred of the inferior nobility. The meeting was opened on the 21st August, in the apartments of Catherine de Medicis. Grouped around the young king were his brothers and their mother; the Cardinals of Bourbon, Lorraine, Guise, and Chatillon; the Dukes of Guise and Aumale, the Constable and the Admiral; Marshals St. André and Brissac, the knights of the order, and other privy councilors. The two princes of the blood (Navarre and Condé) were absent, having (it is said) come to an arrangement with Coligny never to be present at the same place with him lest they should all be caught in the trap at once. Francis II. opened the proceedings with a few complimentary phrases, and then deputed his chancellor to lay before the members the condition of the country. L’Hopital, who had succeeded Olivier through the influence of the Duchess of Montpensier, a special favorite of Catherine’s, was not a man of illustrious birth; but by industry, integrity, and learning, he had risen step by step to the highest office in the state. On this occasion, with rather less prolixity than was customary in those days, he described the state as being sick, the Church corrupted, justice weakened, the nobles disorderly, and the zeal and loyalty which the people were wont to show the king wonderfully cooled; and that the remedy for all these evils was hard to find. He did not so much as venture to hint at one of the remedies; but at the second sitting, two days later (22d August), Coligny boldly opened up the matter by presenting a petition from the Huguenots, in which they justified their faith by Scripture, asserted their loyalty and love for the king, professed that they had never understood their duty so well toward their sovereign as since they had been converted to the new doctrine, prayed that a stop might be put to the cruel persecutions under which they were suffering, and asked permission to read the Bible and hold their meetings in open day, offering in return “to pay larger tribute than the rest of His Majesty’s subjects.” Strange to say, the prayer of the petition was supported by two high ecclesiastical dignitaries—John de Montluc, Bishop of Valence, and Charles de Marillac, Archbishop of Vienne. Montluc was an eloquent speaker, much esteemed for his experience in public affairs and knowledge of sacred literature. He denounced the severities and tyranny of the judges toward the Lutherans, and charged the Guises with violating the laws of the kingdom and sowing dissensions between the king and his subjects. He described the superior clergy as “idlers not having the fear of God before their eyes, or that they would have to give an account of their flocks,” adding that their only care was for the revenue of their sees, and that thirty or forty of them were non-resident, leading scandalous lives in Paris; the inferior clergy he characterized as ignorant and avaricious. He went on to say: “Let your majesty see that the word of God be no more profaned, but let the Scriptures be everywhere read and explained with purity and sincerity. Let the Gospel be preached daily in your house, so that the mouths of those may be shut who say that God’s name is never heard there.” Then turning to the two queens, Mary Stuart and Catherine de Medicis, he continued: “Pardon me, ladies, if I dare entreat you to order your damsels to sing not foolish songs, but the Psalms of David and spiritual hymns; and remember that the eye of God is over all men and in all places, and is fixed there only where his name is praised and exalted.” The remedy he proposed, and which had been mentioned in the petition presented by Coligny, was a general council.

In one part of his speech, when giving a sketch of the progress of Reform in France, he passed a noble compliment on its ministers: “The doctrine,” he said, “which finds favor with your subjects has not been sown in one or two days, but has taken thirty years: it was brought in by 300 or 400 ministers, men of diligence and learning, of great modesty, gravity, and apparent holiness, professing to detest all vice, especially avarice; fearing not to lose their lives so that they might enforce their teaching, having Jesus Christ always on their lips ... a name so sweet that it opens the closest ears and sinks easily into the hearts of the most hardened. These preachers, finding the people without pastor or guide, with no one to instruct or teach them, were received readily, and listened to willingly. So that we need not be surprised if great numbers have embraced this new doctrine, which has been proclaimed by so many preachers and books.” On the other hand, he said that bishoprics were frequently bestowed upon children, and benefices conferred upon cooks, barbers and lacqueys.

Marillac, who had learned experience as embassador at the court of Charles V., used similar but stronger language: he spoke of the “corrupted discipline of the Church, of multiplied abuses, frequent scandals, and licentious ministers,” and agreed that the only remedy lay in a national council. “To prepare the way for that council,” he said, “three or four things are necessary. Firstly, all the bishops, without exception, must be forced to reside in their dioceses. Secondly, we must show by our actions that we are determined to reform ourselves, and to that end we must put down simony. For spiritual things are given by God freely without money: gratis accepistis, gratis date. Thirdly, we must fast and confess our sins, which is the first step toward a cure. Fourthly, both factions must lay down their arms.” The next day Coligny defended the petition he had presented. “The king,” he said, “was beloved and not hated; and the people did not like to be kept from him. All the discontent was against those who managed affairs, and would easily be quieted, if they would rule according to the laws of the kingdom.” He advised the assembling of the States-General and the dismissal of the guard, which was not required for the protection of the sovereign. He also suggested the relaxation of the persecutions until the assembling of a council. “But your petition,” said Francis II., “has no signatures.” “That is true, Sire,” replied the admiral; “but if you will allow us to meet for the purpose, I will in one day obtain in Normandy alone 50,000 signatures.” “And I,” said the Duke of Guise,[142] interrupting him, “will find 100,000 good Catholics to break their heads.” He then contended that a royal guard had become necessary since the affair of Amboise. “My brother and I,” he said, “have never offended or given cause of discontent to any as regards their private affairs.” The Cardinal of Lorraine argued that, to permit the Reformed to have their temples and the right of public worship was to approve of their “idolatry,” which the king could not do without the risk of eternal damnation.[143] He denied the loyalty of the petitioners, “who are obedient only on condition that the king should be of their opinion and their sect, or at least approves of it.” He gloried in the animosity of the Huguenots, adding (as if aside) “there are twenty-two of their libels against me now on my table, and I intend to preserve them very carefully.” In conclusion he called for the severest measures against such “of the religion” as should take up arms; but as for those who went unarmed to the sermon, sang psalms, and kept away from mass, he did not advise their punishment, seeing that all severity hitherto had been useless. He even expressed regret that they should have been so cruelly treated, and offered his life if that could bring the stray sheep back to the fold. He ended with an exhortation to the clergy to reform themselves, and desired that the bishops and others should inquire into the abuses of the Church and report thereon to the king. Of good words and good resolutions the cardinal always had an ample store upon which he could draw at will. They were mere counters with which to play the game of politics.

The discussion, which also embraced the subject of the tumult of Amboise, the severity of the retaliation, and the alarming increase of the royal body-guard (which was denounced in nearly the same terms as our ancestors complained of a standing army), resulted in a decision to convene, first, the States-General, and, afterward, a national council, to decide upon the religious faith of the French people. The King of Spain remonstrated through his embassador against the meeting of the States, on the ground that it would “puff up the Huguenots;” and offered his aid to chastise them. But money was wanted, and the court was prepared to make any temporary sacrifice in order to procure supplies. The Venetian embassador saw the importance of this official recognition of the Reformed party. “Either their desires will be satisfied,” he says, “or else, if any attempt is made to keep them obedient to the pope, the court must resort to force, shed pitilessly the blood of the nobility, divide the kingdom into two parties, and come to a civil war, which will destroy both country and religion.... Religious changes always lead the way to political changes;”[144] an assertion which is only partially true. Political and religious changes, when national and not merely personal, are produced by the operation of similar causes; and which change shall come first depends upon circumstances that appear to vary in every case. In 1560 the Venetian embassador certainly had not sufficient data from which to draw so sweeping a conclusion. The court saw no danger in the proposed assemblies, and writs were issued for the States-General to meet in December, 1560, at Meaux in Brie, and for a national council of bishops and other church dignitaries to assemble at Pontoise on the following month of January. The letters of convocation ran that “they were to confer together and resolve what should be laid before a general council; and until that should assemble, the clergy were to suspend all proceedings against heretics, and correct the abuses that had gradually crept into the house of God.”[145]

After the Amboise failure, Anthony of Navarre kept himself aloof at Nerac in Gascony, where he was joined by his brother Condé, who had openly professed the new religion. The latter succeeded in inspiring the king with some of his own spirit, but could not induce him to take any step that would commit him with the Lorraine party. Meanwhile the little town on the Baise became the general rendezvous of all the discontented, who, undismayed by the past, were quite as ready to act as to speak. But there was no one to lead them, for the eldest of the Bourbon line still hesitated. It was supposed that a remonstrance from the whole Huguenot body might move him, and with that intent the chiefs of the Protestant party laid before him “a supplication,” in which they (to the number of more than a million) offered him the disposal of their lives and fortunes, provided he would make common cause with them by putting himself at their head; threatening, in case of refusal, to choose another leader, native or foreign. The supplication was nominally addressed to both princes, but was really intended for Navarre alone, who however was not bold enough to act upon it.

At the same time the Guises, repenting that they had permitted Condé, “the dumb chief,” to leave Amboise, began to strengthen their hands. Duke Francis, now lieutenant-general of the kingdom, having full control over the military resources of the country, increased the royal body-guard by the addition of several regiments, the command of which he gave to the infamous Du Plessis-Richelieu, one time a monk but now a soldier. He also received troops from Scotland, kept up the veteran regiments of Brissac, which had just returned from Italy, and negotiated for the assistance of Swiss and German mercenaries. This step, as we shall see, necessarily drove the Huguenots to seek foreign help. Meanwhile the King of Navarre and his brother appear to have entered into a new plot against the Guises, of which a general Huguenot insurrection formed a part. It was to begin with the seizure of Lyons, an important town close to the Swiss frontier and on the northern border of the most Protestant portion of France. Here Condé was to rally all the disaffected nobility and gentry, while Navarre headed a similar rising in the west. This plot, even more obscure than that of Amboise, came to nothing, beyond implicating the two Bourbon princes, whose share in it is, nevertheless, somewhat doubtful. This was another triumph for the house of Lorraine, who determined to crush their rivals at once and forever. Francis II. proceeded to Orleans escorted by a numerous guard. The Prince of Roche-sur-Yon was made governor for the occasion; the garrisons from the neighboring towns were called in, which, added to the king’s escort of 4000 foot, composed a force of nearly 10,000 men. Hither the two brothers were summoned to explain their conduct, and the Count of Crussol, the bearer of the letters, was instructed to hint that resistance was hopeless, as the king could bring against them 48,000 French troops besides Swiss and German lansquenets. Moreover the King of Spain had promised to assist with two large armies, one entering France by Picardy, the other by the Pyrenees. Anthony at first held back, despite these hints, and had he been as enterprising as his brother, he might soon have been at the head of a force as strong as any that the Guises could muster against him, and for a time it was believed at court that he could do so. But he was always mean-spirited, always crouching, and cringing, and thinking of himself. Some time before this, in order to contradict a report coming from Spain that he favored the Amboise conspirators,[146] he fell upon some Protestant insurgents at Agen and cut them to pieces. Both he and his brother had been warned of the impending danger. The Princess of Condé wrote to her husband: “Every step you take toward the court brings you nearer to destruction. If your death is inevitable, it is surely more glorious to die at the head of an army than to perish ignominiously on the scaffold.” Catherine also intimated to him circuitously that “it was death for him to come to court.”[147]

After he had made up his mind to go to Orleans, Anthony moved so slowly and irresolutely that the journey occupied him a month. On the road he dismissed the little band of Huguenot gentlemen who had gathered round him with the words: “I must obey, but I will obtain your pardon from the king.” “Go,” said an old captain, “go and ask pardon for yourself: our safety is in our swords.”[148] On the 31st October, 1560, he reached Orleans. It was nearly dark when he entered the city, accompanied by his brother Louis, the Cardinal of Bourbon, and a few servants. No one dared go out to meet him, and extraordinary precautions had been taken to guard against a hostile attack. Immediately on the arrival of Francis II. the city had (to use a modern term) been put under martial law. Artillery brought from Compiègne was mounted on the walls, the sentries were doubled, and the citizens ordered, under the severest penalties, to deliver up their arms, even including such knives as were of unusual length. Numerous arrests had been made of suspected persons, and among them was the high-bailiff of the city. And now from the gates to the castle where the king lodged armed men lined the streets in double file—an imposing but idle show. When Anthony reached the royal quarters, he desired, according to his privilege as a prince of the blood, to ride into the court-yard; but the great gates were shut against him, and he had to dismount and enter by a wicket. The Venetian embassador, Giovanni Michieli, thus describes his appearance about this time:—“He is now between forty-four and forty-five years of age. His beard is getting grey, his demeanor is much more imposing than that of his brother, whose stature is low, and figure awkward. He is tall, robust, and well-made, and his courage in battle is highly extolled, though he is rather a good soldier than a skillful general.” Another embassador mentions with astonishment the rich ear-rings and other ornaments Anthony delighted to wear.

Francis received him frowningly, not condescending to raise his hat, as he was wont to do to the meanest gentleman. After kneeling, Anthony said he had come thither in obedience to the royal command, to vindicate his character against calumnious charges; to which the king replied that it was well, at the same time forbidding him to quit Orleans without permission. As Condé did not utter a word, the king angrily reproached him with conspiracy and rebellion. The prince replied calmly that these were slanders invented by his enemies, and that he would take care to justify himself; to which Francis made answer that, to give him an opportunity of so doing, he would be kept in prison until trial. The king then ordered the captains of his guard, Chavigny and Brezay, to arrest the prince. As they were leading him away, he said to the Cardinal of Bourbon, who had persuaded him to trust the king: “By your exhortations you have betrayed your brother to death.”[149] He was guarded very strictly; the windows of the house in which he was confined were closely barred, sentinels were posted round it, and no one was allowed to have access to him. “The King of Navarre,” says Throckmorton, “goeth at liberty, but as it were a prisoner, and is every other day on hunting.”[150] He was under strict surveillance; all his words and acts were closely watched.

The Chatillons had been duly summoned to attend at Orleans. Andelot, suspecting treachery, retired to Brittany; while his brother the admiral, who was equally suspicious of the Guises, determined to be present in his place. He bade farewell to his wife, shortly to become a mother, as if he was never to see her face again, desiring her to have the babe christened by the “true ministers of the word of God.” Catherine received him cordially, and indeed put him on his guard, it being her interest thus to play off one party against the other.

And now once more the Guises were triumphant, and their hands were strengthened by the acts of those who had plotted their ruin. Now that the prey was in their grasp, they would show no mercy. But first they must be revenged on the Huguenots, “those silly folks who bring such scandal on the honor of God,” as the cardinal wrote to De Burie. “We must make a striking example of them, so that, by the punishment of a few bad men, the good may be preserved.” The pastors were especially singled out, that their fate might be a warning for the future. Condé was to be tried before a packed commission, of whose verdict and sentence there could be no doubt. His brother’s fate was equally certain,[151] and as soon as the two princes of the blood were dispatched, the admiral with Montmorency and all the opponents of the Lorraine family were to be got rid of. Such a scheme of wholesale murder is hardly credible, though supported by the strong testimony of the Spanish embassador, who feared the Guises were going a “little too fast.”[152] Anthony of Navarre was to be the first victim. One day he was summoned to an audience with the king, at which it had been arranged that a quarrel should be got up between him and Francis II.; that the latter should draw his sword as in self-defense; and that the creatures of the Guises should then rush in and murder the prince. It is alleged that Anthony had been informed of the plot, but nevertheless would not shrink from the audience. As he was leaving his quarters, he said to Captain Renty, one of his faithful followers: “If I perish, strip off my shirt and carry it to my wife, and bid her take it to every Christian king in Europe, and call on him to avenge my death.” As soon as Anthony entered the presence-chamber, the door was closed behind him. Francis made some insulting observations, but hesitated—was it through fear or pity?—to give the signal for his uncle’s murder. “The coward!” muttered the Duke of Guise, who stood watching on the other side of the door. Anthony survived the perilous interview.[153]

The Chancellor L’Hopital and five judges were appointed as a commission to try Condé in prison, and although he refused to plead before them, it availed him nothing. This protest and such answers as he did make having been laid before the king in council, the prince was found guilty of high treason, and condemned to lose his head. But before the sentence could be carried out, great changes took place in France. About the middle of November the king, whose health had never been very robust, “felt himself somewhat evil-disposed of his body, with a pain in his head and one of his ears.”[154] He rapidly grew worse; all means of relief were tried, but tried in vain. He was suffering from internal abscess. While he lay between life and death, the Guises made a desperate effort to get rid of the only antagonist whom they really feared. They urged Catherine to make away with their common enemy before it was too late; but Catherine, knowing that, in the strife of parties, the enemy of Guise must be a friend to her, refused to do any thing without consulting the chancellor. L’Hopital found the queen “weeping among her women, who surrounded her in deep silence, their eyes fixed on the ground.” It did not give him much trouble to show the illegality as well as the impolicy of the proposed act, and Condé was saved. On the 5th of December Francis II. expired in great agony, and as it was part of the popular faith to believe that no great personage could die a natural death, Ambrose Paré, the famous surgeon, was accused of poisoning the youthful king by pouring “a leporous distillment” into his ear, by command of the queen-mother.[155] Coligny, as one of the chief officers of the crown, had the melancholy charge of watching the dying king, and did not leave the bedside until Francis had breathed his last. Then—turning to the courtiers who were present, and who had gathered round the Duke of Guise—he said, with the pious gravity that was natural to him: “Gentlemen, the king is dead; let that teach us how to live.” Returning to his quarters as soon as he could leave the king’s chamber, he sat in deep thought before the fire, his tooth-pick, as usual, in his mouth, and his feet on the embers. Fontaine, one of his suite, observing his abstraction, caught him by the arm: “Sir, you have been wool-gathering enough. You have burned your boots.” “Ah! Fontaine,” replied the admiral, “only a week ago you and I would have thought ourselves well off with the loss of a leg each, and now we have only lost a pair of boots. It is a good exchange.”

The Huguenots were accused of exulting at the king’s death; and we can almost excuse them, considering what they had suffered during his brief reign. Calvin looked upon it as the judgment of God. “Did you ever hear or read of any thing so opportune as the death of the little king,” he said. “Just when there was no remedy for our extreme evils, God suddenly appeared from heaven, and he who had pierced the eye of the father struck the ear of the son.”[156] Beza also regarded it in the same light. He says, the sword was already at our throats when “the Lord our God rose up and carried off that miserable boy by a death as foul as it was unforeseen. No royal honors were paid his corpse, and the enemy of the Lutherans was buried like a Lutheran.”[157]

The people were but little attached to Francis, and called him “the king without vices,” to which the Huguenots added, “and without virtues.” He was in fact just what the persons about him made him. He was educated by Jacques Amyot, the learned translator of Plutarch, in an age when translating had not become a mechanical art. He had always been a sickly child, and there is a letter extant of his father’s, from which we learn, not only that Henry II. loved his children, but also the weakness of the dauphin’s constitution.[158] Voltaire very fairly describes him as a