Dr. Cayet is an old French controversial writer, but is better known in
French literature as an historian. His _Chronologie Novenaire_ is full
of anecdotes unknown to other writers. He collected them from his own
observations, for he was under-preceptor to Henry IV. The dreadful
massacre of St. Bartholomew took place in the reign of Charles IX.; on
which occasion the English court went into mourning. The singular death
of Charles has been regarded by the Huguenots as an interposition of
divine justice: he died bathed in his blood, which burst from his veins.
The horrors of this miserable prince on his dying bed are forcibly
depicted by the anecdotes I am now collecting. I shall premise, however,
that Charles was a mere instrument in the hands of his mother, the
political and cruel Catherine of Medicis.
Dr. Cayet, with honest _naïveté_, thus relates what he knew to have
passed a few hours before his death.
"King Charles, feeling himself near his end, after having passed some
time without pronouncing a word, said, as he turned himself on one side,
and as if he seemed to awake, 'Call my brother!' The queen mother was
present, who immediately sent for the Duke of Alençon. The king
perceiving him, turned his back, and again said, 'Let my brother come!'
The queen, his mother, replied, 'Sir, I do not know whom you mean; here
is your brother.' The king was displeased, and said, 'Let them bring my
brother the King of Navarre; it is he who is my brother.' The queen
mother observing the dying monarch's resolute order, sent for him; but,
for reasons known only to herself, she commanded the captain of the
guards to conduct him under the vaults. They went to the King of
Navarre, and desired him to come and speak to the king; at that moment,
this prince has since repeatedly said, he felt a shuddering and
apprehension of death so much that he would not go. But King Charles
persisting on his coming, the queen mother assured him that he should
receive no injury. In this promise, however, he put little trust. He
went, accompanied by the Viscount d'Auchy, on whose word he chiefly
relied. Having, however, observed under these vaults a great number of
halberdiers and arquebusiers in ranks, he would have returned, when the
viscount and the captain reassured him that no harm should happen to
him. The soldiers bowed, and their behaviour was respectful. By a
private staircase he entered the chamber of the king, who, immediately
on perceiving him, turned towards him, and stretched out his arms. The
King of Navarre was affected; he sighed and wept, and fell on his knees
at the side of the bed. Charles embraced, and having kissed him, said,
'My brother, you lose a good master and a good friend. I know it is not
you who occasions me so much trouble; had I believed what they said, you
would not have been alive; but I have always loved you. It is to you
alone I trust my wife and daughter; earnestly do I recommend them to
your care. _Do not trust the queen_; but God protect you!'
"The queen mother here interrupted him, 'Ah, sir, do not say
that!'--'Yes, madam, I must say it; it is the truth. Believe me, my
brother; love me; assist my wife and daughter, and implore God for mercy
on me. Adieu, my brother, adieu!' The King of Navarre remained till his
majesty expired."
The following minute particulars are drawn from the journal of Pierre de
L'Etoile. In the simplicity of his narration, so pleasing in the old
writers, the _nurse_ and the _monarch,_--the religious remorse of the
one, and the artless consolations of the other,--become interesting
objects.
"King Charles, two days before his death, having called for Mazzille,
his chief physician, and complaining of the pains he suffered, asked him
if it was not possible that he, and so many other celebrated physicians
that were in his realms, could give some alleviation to his disorder;
'for I am,' said he, 'cruelly and horridly tormented.' To which Mazzille
replied, that whatever had depended on them had been tried, but that in
truth God only could be the sovereign physician in such complaints. 'I
believe,' said the king, 'that what you say is true, and that you know
nothing else. Draw from me my _custode_ (or large cap), that I may try
to rest.' Mazzille withdrew, and left orders that all should leave the
king except three, viz., La Tour, St. Pris, and his nurse, whom his
majesty greatly loved, _although she was a Huguenot_. As she had just
seated herself on a coffer, and began to doze, she heard the king groan
bitterly, weeping and sighing; she then approached the bed softly, and
drawing away his _custode_, the king said to her, giving vent to a heavy
sigh, and shedding tears plentifully, insomuch that they interrupted his
discourse--'Ah! my dear nurse! my beloved woman, what blood! what
murders! Ah! I have followed wicked advice! O my God! pardon me, and be
merciful. I know not where I am, they have made me so perplexed and
agitated. How will all this end!--What shall I do? I am lost for ever! I
know it.'--Then the nurse thus addressed him:--'Sire, be the murders on
those who forced you to order them; your majesty could not help it, and
since you never consented, and now regret them, believe God will never
impute them to you, and will cover them with the mantle of justice of
his Son, to whom alone you should look for aid. Ah! for the honour of
God, let your majesty cease from this weeping.' Having said this, she
rose for a handkerchief, for his was drenched with tears: Charles having
taken it from her, made a sign that she should retire and leave him to
repose."
The dreadful narrative of the massacre of St. Bartholomew is detailed in
the history of De Thou; and the same scene is painted in glowing, though
in faithful colours, by Voltaire in the Henriade.--Charles, whose last
miserable moments we come from contemplating, when he observed several
fugitive Huguenots about his palace in the morning after the massacre of
30,000 of their friends, took a fowling-piece, and repeatedly fired at
them.
Such was the effect of religion operating, perhaps not on a malignant,
but on a feeble mind!