THE MARRIAGE.
1568-1572
Emotions of Henry.--His military sagacity.--Enthusiasm inspired by
Jeanne.--The failure of Catharine.--The second defeat.--The wounded
friends.--The reserve force.--Misfortunes of Coligni.--His
letter.--The third army.--The tide of victory changed.--The treaty
of St. Germaine-en-Laye.--Perfidy of Catharine.--The court at
Rochelle.--The two courts.--Marriage of Elizabeth.--The Princess
Marguerite.--Effects of the connection.--A royal match.--Repugnance
of Jeanne d'Albret.--Objections overcome.--Perjury of Charles
IX.--Displays of friendship.--Indifference of Marguerite.--Preparations
for the wedding.--Death of Jeanne.--Demonstrations of grief.--Different
reports.--The King of Navarre.--Indifference.--Coligni lured to
Paris.--He is remonstrated with.--The nuptial day.--The scene.--Small
favors gratefully received.--Mass.--National festivities.--The
tournament.--Strange representations.--Regal courtesy.--Impediments
to departure.--Mission from the Pope.--The reply.
Young Henry of Navarre was but about fourteen years of age when, from
one of the hills in the vicinity, he looked upon the terrible battle
of Jarnac. It is reported that, young as he was, he pointed out the
fatal errors which were committed by the Protestants in all the
arrangements which preceded the battle.
"It is folly," he said, "to think of fighting, with forces so divided,
a united army making an attack at one point."
For the security of his person, deemed so precious to the Protestants,
his friends, notwithstanding his entreaties and even tears, would not
allow him to expose himself to any of the perils of the conflict. As
he stood upon an eminence which overlooked the field of battle,
surrounded by a few faithful guards, he gazed with intense anguish
upon the sanguinary scene spread out before him. He saw his friends
utterly defeated, and their squadrons trampled in the dust beneath the
hoofs of the Catholic cavalry.
The Protestants, without loss of time, rallied anew their forces. The
Queen of Navarre soon saw thousands of strong arms and brave hearts
collecting again around her banner. Accompanied by her son, she rode
through their ranks, and addressed them in words of feminine yet
heroic eloquence, which roused their utmost enthusiasm. But few
instances have been recorded in which human hearts have been more
deeply moved than were these martial hosts by the brief sentences
which dropped from the lips of this extraordinary woman. Henry, in the
most solemn manner, pledged himself to consecrate all his energies to
the defense of the Protestant religion. To each of the chiefs of the
army the queen also presented a gold medal, suspended from a golden
chain, with her own name and that of her son impressed upon one side,
and on the other the words "Certain peace, complete victory, or
honorable death." The enthusiasm of the army was raised to the highest
pitch, and the heroic queen became the object almost of the adoration
of her soldiers.
Catharine, seeing the wonderful enthusiasm with which the Protestant
troops were inspired by the presence of the Queen of Navarre, visited
the head-quarters of her own army, hoping that she might also
enkindle similar ardor. Accompanied by a magnificent retinue of her
brilliantly-accoutred generals, she swept, like a gorgeous vision,
before her troops. She lavished presents upon her officers, and in
high-sounding phrase harangued the soldiers; but there was not a
private in the ranks who did not know that she was a wicked and a
polluted woman. She had talent, but no soul. All her efforts were
unavailing to evoke one single electric spark of emotion. She had
sense enough to perceive her signal failure and to feel its
mortification. No one either loved or respected Catharine. Thousands
hated her, yet, conscious of her power, either courting her smiles or
dreading her frown, they often bowed before her in adulation.
The two armies were soon facing each other upon the field of battle.
It was the third of October, 1569. More than fifty thousand combatants
met upon the plains of Moncontour. All generalship seemed to be
ignored as the exasperated adversaries rushed upon each other in a
headlong fight. The Protestants, outnumbered, were awfully defeated.
Out of twenty-five thousand combatants whom they led into the field,
but eight thousand could be rallied around their retreating banner
after a fight of but three quarters of an hour. All their cannon,
baggage, and munitions of war were lost. No mercy was granted to the
vanquished.
Coligni, at the very commencement of the battle, was struck by a
bullet which shattered his jaw. The gushing blood under his helmet
choked him, and they bore him upon a litter from the field. As they
were carrying the wounded admiral along, they overtook another litter
upon which was stretched L'Estrange, the bosom friend of the admiral,
also desperately wounded. L'Estrange, forgetting himself, gazed for a
moment with tearful eyes upon the noble Coligni, and then gently said,
"It is sweet to trust in God." Coligni, unable to speak, could only
_look_ a reply. Thus the two wounded friends parted. Coligni afterward
remarked that these few words were a cordial to his spirit, inspiring
him with resolution and hope.
Henry of Navarre, and his cousin, Henry of Conde, son of the prince
who fell at the battle of Jarnac, from a neighboring eminence
witnessed this scene of defeat and of awful carnage. The admiral,
unwilling to expose to danger lives so precious to their cause, had
stationed them there with a reserve of four thousand men under the
command of Louis of Nassau. When Henry saw the Protestants giving way,
he implored Louis that they should hasten with the reserve to the
protection of their friends; but Louis, with military rigor, awaited
the commands of the admiral. "We lose our advantage, then," exclaimed
the prince, "and consequently the battle."
The most awful of earthly calamities seemed now to fall like an
avalanche upon Coligni, the noble Huguenot chieftain. His beloved
brother was slain. Bands of wretches had burned down his castle and
laid waste his estates. The Parliament of Paris, composed of zealous
Catholics, had declared him guilty of high treason, and offered fifty
thousand crowns to whoever would deliver him up, dead or alive. The
Pope declared to all Europe that he was a "detestable, infamous,
execrable man, if, indeed, he even merited the name of man." His army
was defeated, his friends cut to pieces, and he himself was grievously
wounded, and was lying upon a couch in great anguish. Under these
circumstances, thirteen days after receiving his wound, he thus wrote
to his children:
"We should not repose on earthly possessions. Let us place
our hope beyond the earth, and acquire other treasures than
those which we see with our eyes and touch with our hands.
We must follow Jesus our leader, who has gone before us. Men
have ravished us of what they could. If such is the will of
God, we shall be happy and our condition good, since we
endure this loss from no wrong you have done those who have
brought it to you, but solely for the hate they have borne
me because God was pleased to direct me to assist his
Church. For the present, it is enough to admonish and
conjure you, in the name of God, to persevere courageously
in the study of virtue."
In the course of a few weeks Coligni rose from his bed, and the
Catholics were amazed to find him at the head of a third army. The
indomitable Queen of Navarre, with the calm energy which ever
signalized her character, had rallied the fugitives around her, and
had reanimated their waning courage by her own invincible spirit.
Nobles and peasants from all the mountains of Bearn, and from every
province in France, thronged to the Protestant camp. Conflict after
conflict ensued. The tide of victory now turned in favor of the
Reformers. Henry, absolutely refusing any longer to retire from the
perils of the field, engaged with the utmost coolness, judgment, and
yet impetuosity in all the toils and dangers of the battle. The
Protestant cause gained strength. The Catholics were disheartened.
Even Catharine became convinced that the extermination of the
Protestants by force was no longer possible. So once more they offered
conditions of peace, which were promptly accepted. These terms, which
were signed at St. Germaine-en-Laye the 8th of August, 1570, were more
favorable than the preceding. The Protestants were allowed liberty of
worship in all the places then in their possession. They were also
allowed public worship in two towns in each province of the kingdom.
They were permitted to reside any where without molestation, and were
declared _eligible_ to any public office.
Coligni, mourning over the untold evils and miseries of war, with
alacrity accepted these conditions. "Sooner than fall back into these
disturbances," said he, "I would choose to die a thousand deaths, and
be dragged through the streets of Paris."
The queen, however, and her advisers were guilty of the most extreme
perfidy in this truce. It was merely their object to induce the
foreign troops who had come to the aid of the allies to leave the
kingdom, that they might then exterminate the Protestants by a general
massacre. Catharine decided to accomplish by the dagger of the
assassin that which she had in vain attempted to accomplish on the
field of battle. This peace was but the first act in the awful tragedy
of St. Bartholomew.
Peace being thus apparently restored, the young Prince of Navarre now
returned to his hereditary domains and visited its various provinces,
where he was received with the most lively demonstrations of
affection. Various circumstances, however, indicated to the Protestant
leaders that some mysterious and treacherous plot was forming for
their destruction. The Protestant gentlemen absented themselves,
consequently, from the court of Charles IX. The king and his mother
were mortified by these evidences that their perfidy was suspected.
Jeanne, with her son, after visiting her subjects in all parts of her
own dominions, went to Rochelle, where they were joined by many of the
most illustrious of their friends. Large numbers gathered around them,
and the court of the Queen of Navarre was virtually transferred to
that place. Thus there were two rival courts, side by side, in the
same kingdom. Catharine, with her courtiers, exhibited boundless
luxury and voluptuousness at Paris. Jeanne d'Albret, at Rochelle,
embellished her court with all that was noble in intellect, elegant in
manners, and pure in morals. Catharine and her submissive son Charles
IX. left nothing untried to lure the Protestants into a false
security. Jeanne scrupulously requited the courtesies she received
from Catharine, though she regarded with much suspicion the adulation
and the sycophancy of her proud hostess.
The young King of France, Charles IX., who was of about the same age
with Henry, and who had been his companion and playmate in childhood,
was now married to Elizabeth, the daughter of the Emperor Maximilian
II. of Austria. Their nuptials were celebrated with all the
ostentatious pomp which the luxury of the times and the opulence of
the French monarchy could furnish. In these rejoicings the courts of
France and Navarre participated with the semblance of the most
heartfelt cordiality. Protestants and Catholics, pretending to forget
that they had recently encountered each other with fiendlike fury in
fields of blood, mingled gayly in these festivities, and vied with
each other in the exchange of courtly greetings and polished
flatteries. Catharine and Charles IX. lavished, with the utmost
profusion, their commendations and attentions upon the young Prince of
Navarre, and left no arts of dissimulation unessayed which might
disarm the fears and win the confidence of their victims.
The queen mother, with caressing fondness, declared that Henry must be
her son. She would confer upon him Marguerite, her youngest daughter.
This princess had now become a young lady, beautiful in the extreme,
and highly accomplished in all those graces which can kindle the fires
and feed the flames of passion; but she was also as devoid of
principle as any male libertine who contaminated by his presence a
court whose very atmosphere was corruption. Many persons of royal
blood had most earnestly sought the hand of this princess, for an
alliance with the royal family of France was an honor which the
proudest sovereigns might covet. Such a connection, in its political
aspects, was every thing Henry could desire. It would vastly augment
the consideration and the power of the young prince, and would bring
him a long step nearer to the throne of France. The Protestants were
all intensely interested in this match, as it would invest one,
destined soon to become their most prominent leader, with new ability
to defend their rights and to advocate their cause. It is a singular
illustration of the hopeless corruption of the times, that the
notorious profligacy of Marguerite seems to have been considered, even
by Henry himself, as no obstacle to the union.
A royal marriage is ordinarily but a matter of state policy. Upon the
cold and icy eminence of kingly life the flowers of sympathy and
affection rarely bloom. Henry, without hesitation, acquiesced in the
expediency of this nuptial alliance. He regarded it as manifestly a
very politic partnership, and did not concern himself in the least
about the agreeable or disagreeable qualities of his contemplated
spouse. He had no idea of making her his companion, much less his
friend. She was to be merely his _wife_.
Jeanne d'Albret, however, a woman of sincere piety, and in whose bosom
all noble thoughts were nurtured, cherished many misgivings. Her
Protestant principles caused her to shrink from the espousals of her
son with a Roman Catholic. Her religious scruples, and the spotless
purity of her character, aroused the most lively emotions of
repugnance in view of her son's connection with one who had not even
the modesty to conceal her vices. State considerations, however,
finally prevailed, and Jeanne, waiving her objections, consented to
the marriage. She yielded, however, with the greatest reluctance, to
the unceasing importunities of her friends. They urged that this
marriage would unite the two parties in a solid peace, and thus
protect the Protestants from persecution, and rescue France from
unutterable woe. Even the Admiral Coligni was deceived. But the result
proved, in this case as in every other, that _it is never safe to do
evil that good may come_. If any fact is established under the
government of God, it is this.
The Queen of Navarre, in her extreme repugnance to this match,
remarked,
"I would choose to descend to the condition of the poorest damsel in
France rather than sacrifice to the grandeur of my family my own soul
and that of my son."
With consummate perjury, Charles IX. declared, "I give my sister in
marriage, not only to the Prince of Navarre, but, as it were, to the
whole Protestant party. This will be the strongest and closest bond
for the maintenance of peace between my subjects, and a sure evidence
of my good-will toward the Protestants."
Thus influenced, this noble woman consented to the union. She then
went to Blois to meet Catharine and the king. They received her with
exuberant displays of love. The foolish king quite overacted his part,
calling her "his great aunt, his all, his best beloved." As the Queen
of Navarre retired for the night, Charles said to Catharine, laughing,
"Well, mother, what do you think of it? Do I play my little part
well?"
"Yes," said Catharine, encouragingly, "very well; but it is of no use
unless it continues."
"Allow me to go on," said the king, "and you will see that I shall
ensnare them."
The young Princess Marguerite, heartless, proud, and petulant,
received the cold addresses of Henry with still more chilling
indifference. She refused to make even the slightest concessions to
his religious views, and, though she made no objection to the
decidedly politic partnership, she very ostentatiously displayed her
utter disregard for Henry and his friends. The haughty and dissolute
beauty was piqued by the reluctance which Jeanne had manifested to an
alliance which Marguerite thought should have been regarded as the
very highest of all earthly honors. Preparations were, however, made
for the marriage ceremony, which was to be performed in the French
capital with unexampled splendor. The most distinguished gentlemen of
the Protestant party, nobles, statesmen, warriors, from all parts of
the realm, were invited to the metropolis, to add lustre to the
festivities by their presence. Many, however, of the wisest counselors
of the Queen of Navarre, deeply impressed with the conviction of the
utter perfidy of Catharine, and apprehending some deep-laid plot,
remonstrated against the acceptance of the invitations, presaging
that, "if the wedding were celebrated in Paris, the liveries would be
very crimson."
Jeanne, solicited by the most pressing letters from Catharine and her
son Charles IX., and urged by her courtiers, who were eager to share
the renowned pleasures of the French metropolis, proceeded to Paris.
She had hardly entered the sumptuous lodgings provided for her in the
court of Catharine, when she was seized with a violent fever, which
raged in her veins nine days, and then she died. In death she
manifested the same faith and fortitude which had embellished her
life. Not a murmur or a groan escaped her lips in the most violent
paroxysms of pain. She had no desire to live except from maternal
solicitude for her children, Henry and Catharine.
"But God," said she, "will be their father and protector, as he has
been mine in my greatest afflictions. I confide them to his
providence."
She died in June, 1572, in the forty-fourth year of her age. Catharine
exhibited the most ostentatious and extravagant demonstrations of
grief. Charles gave utterance to loud and poignant lamentations, and
ordered a surgeon to examine the body, that the cause of her death
might be ascertained. Notwithstanding these efforts to allay
suspicion, the report spread like wildfire through all the departments
of France, and all the Protestant countries of Europe, that the queen
had been perfidiously poisoned by Catharine. The Protestant writers of
the time assert that she fell a victim to poison communicated by a
pair of perfumed gloves. The Catholics as confidently affirm that she
died of a natural disease. The truth can now never be known till the
secrets of all hearts shall be revealed at the judgment day.
Henry, with his retinue, was slowly traveling toward Paris,
unconscious of his mother's sickness, when the unexpected tidings
arrived of her death. It is difficult to imagine what must have been
the precise nature of the emotions of an ambitious young man in such
an event, who ardently loved both his mother and the crown which she
wore, as by the loss of the one he gained the other. The cloud of his
grief was embellished with the gilded edgings of joy. The Prince of
Bearn now assumed the title and the style of the King of Navarre, and
honored the memory of his noble mother with every manifestation of
regret and veneration. This melancholy event caused the postponement
of the marriage ceremony for a short time, as it was not deemed
decorous that epithalamiums should be shouted and requiems chanted
from the same lips in the same hour. The knell tolling the burial of
the dead would not blend harmoniously with the joyous peals of the
marriage bell. Henry was not at all annoyed by this delay, for no
impatient ardor urged him to his nuptials. Marguerite, annoyed by the
opposition which Henry's mother had expressed in regard to the
alliance, and vexed by the utter indifference which her betrothed
manifested toward her person, indulged in all the wayward humors of a
worse than spoiled child. She studiously displayed her utter disregard
for Henry, which manifestations, with the most provoking
indifference, he did not seem even to notice.
During this short interval the Protestant nobles continued to flock to
Paris, that they might honor with their presence the marriage of the
young chief. The Admiral Coligni was, by very special exertions on the
part of Catharine and Charles, lured to the metropolis. He had
received anonymous letters warning him of his danger. Many of his more
prudent friends openly remonstrated against his placing himself in the
power of the perfidious queen. Coligni, however, was strongly attached
to Henry, and, in defiance of all these warnings, he resolved to
attend his nuptials. "I confide," said he, "in the sacred word of his
majesty."
Upon his arrival in the metropolis, Catharine and Charles lavished
upon him the most unbounded manifestations of regard. The king,
embracing the admiral, exclaimed, "This is the happiest day of my
life." Very soon one of the admiral's friends called upon him to take
leave, saying that he was immediately about to retire into the
country. When asked by the admiral the cause of his unexpected
departure, he replied, "I go because they caress you too much, and I
would rather save myself with fools than perish with sages."
At length the nuptial day arrived. It was the seventeenth of August,
1572. Paris had laid aside its mourning weeds, and a gay and brilliant
carnival succeeded its dismal days of gloom. Protestants and
Catholics, of highest name and note, from every part of Europe, who
had met in the dreadful encounters of a hundred fields of blood, now
mingled in apparent fraternity with the glittering throng, all
interchanging smiles and congratulations. The unimpassioned bridegroom
led his scornful bride to the church of Notre Dame. Before the massive
portals of this renowned edifice, and under the shadow of its
venerable towers, a magnificent platform had been reared, canopied
with the most gorgeous tapestry. Hundreds of thousands thronged the
surrounding amphitheatre, swarming at the windows, crowding the
balconies, and clustered upon the house-tops, to witness the imposing
ceremony. The gentle breeze breathing over the multitude was laden
with the perfume of flowers. Banners, and pennants, and ribbons of
every varied hue waved in the air, or hung in gay festoons from window
to window, and from roof to roof. Upon that conspicuous platform, in
the presence of all the highest nobility of France, and of the most
illustrious representatives of every court of Europe, Henry received
the hand of the haughty princess, and the nuptial oath was
administered.
Marguerite, however, even in that hour, and in the presence of all
those spectators, gave a ludicrous exhibition of her girlish petulance
and ungoverned willfulness. When, in the progress of the ceremony, she
was asked if she willingly received Henry of Bourbon for her husband,
she pouted, coquettishly tossed her proud head, and was silent. The
question was repeated. The spirit of Marguerite was now roused, and
all the powers of Europe could not tame the shrew. She fixed her eyes
defiantly upon the officiating bishop, and refusing, by look, or word,
or gesture, to express the slightest assent, remained as immovable as
a statue. Embarrassment and delay ensued. Her royal brother, Charles
IX., fully aware of his sister's indomitable resolution, coolly walked
up to the termagant at bay, and placing one hand upon her chest and
the other upon the back of her head, compelled an involuntary nod. The
bishop smiled and bowed, and acting upon the principle that small
favors were gratefully received, proceeded with the ceremony. Such
were the vows with which Henry and Marguerite were united. Such is too
often _love in the palace_.
[Illustration: THE MARRIAGE.]
The Roman Catholic wife, unaccompanied by her Protestant husband, who
waited at the door with his retinue, now entered the church of Notre
Dame to participate in the solemnities of the mass. The young King of
Navarre then submissively received his bride and conducted her to a
very magnificent dinner. Catharine and Charles IX., at this
entertainment, were very specially attentive to the Protestant nobles.
The weak and despicable king leaned affectionately upon the arm of the
Admiral Coligni, and for a long time conversed with him with every
appearance of friendship and esteem. Balls, illuminations, and
pageants ensued in the evening. For many days these unnatural and
chilling nuptials were celebrated with all the splendor of national
festivities. Among these entertainments there was a tournament,
singularly characteristic of the times, and which certainly sheds
peculiar lustre either upon the humility or upon the good-nature of
the Protestants.
A large area was prepared for the display of one of those barbaric
passes of arms in which the rude chivalry of that day delighted. The
inclosure was surrounded by all the polished intellect, rank, and
beauty of France. Charles IX., with his two brothers and several of
the Catholic nobility, then appeared upon one side of the arena on
noble war-horses gorgeously caparisoned, and threw down the gauntlet
of defiance to Henry of Navarre and his Protestant retinue, who,
similarly mounted and accoutred, awaited the challenge upon the
opposite side.
The portion of the inclosure in which the Catholics appeared was
decorated to represent heaven. Birds of Paradise displayed their
gorgeous plumage, and the air was vocal with the melody of trilling
songsters. Beauty displayed its charms arrayed in celestial robes, and
ambrosial odors lulled the senses in luxurious indulgence. All the
resources of wealth and art were lavished to create a vision of the
home of the blessed.
The Protestants, in the opposite extreme of the arena, were seen
emerging from the desolation, the gloom, and the sulphurous canopy of
hell. The two parties, from their antagonistic realms, rushed to the
encounter, the fiends of darkness battling with the angels of light.
Gradually the Catholics, in accordance with previous arrangements,
drove back the Protestants toward their grim abodes, when suddenly
numerous demons appeared rushing from the dungeons of the infernal
regions, who, with cloven hoofs, and satanic weapons, and chains
forged in penal fires, seized upon the Protestants and dragged them to
the blackness of darkness from whence they had emerged. Plaudits loud
and long greeted this discomfiture of the Protestants by the infernal
powers.
But suddenly the scene is changed. A winged Cupid appears, the
representative of the pious and amiable bride Marguerite. The demons
fly in dismay before the irresistible boy. Fearlessly this emissary of
love penetrates the realms of despair. The Protestants, by this
agency, are liberated from their thralldom, and conducted in triumph
to the Elysium of the Catholics. A more curious display of regal
courtesy history has not recorded. And this was in Paris!
Immediately after the marriage, the Admiral Coligni was anxious to
obtain permission to leave the city. His devout spirit found no
enjoyment in the gayeties of the metropolis, and he was deeply
disgusted with the unveiled licentiousness which he witnessed every
where around him. Day after day, however, impediments were placed in
the way of his departure, and it was not until three days after the
marriage festivities that he succeeded in obtaining an audience with
Charles. He accompanied Charles to the racket-court, where the young
monarch was accustomed to spend much of his time, and there bidding
him adieu, left him to his amusements, and took his way on foot toward
his lodgings.
The Pope, not aware of the treachery which was contemplated, was much
displeased in view of the apparently friendly relations which had thus
suddenly sprung up between the Catholics and the Protestants. He was
exceedingly perplexed by the marriage, and at last sent a legate to
expostulate with the French king. Charles IX. was exceedingly
embarrassed how to frame a reply. He wished to convince the legate of
his entire devotion to the Papal Church, and, at the same time, he did
not dare to betray his intentions; for the detection of the conspiracy
would not only frustrate all his plans, but would load him with
ignominy, and vastly augment the power of his enemies.
"I do devoutly wish," Charles replied, "that I could tell you all; but
you and the Pope shall soon know how beneficial this marriage shall
prove to the interests of religion. Take my word for it, in a little
time the holy father shall have reason to praise my designs, my piety,
and my zeal in behalf of the faith."