by? What peculiar calamity is it? or what vice? or, rather, what
calamitous vice? To see a vast number, not obey, but serve! Not
governed, but tyrannized! With neither property, nor parents, nor
children, nor yet their own lives that they may call their own!
Suffer plunderings, pillagings, cruelties, not at the hands of an
army, not at the hands of a camp of barbarians, against which one
would shed his blood and risk his life--but endure all that from
ONLY ONE! Not from a Hercules, or a Sampson, but from a single
mannikin, generally the most cowardly, the most effeminate of the
nation, at that! Not accustomed to the powder of battles, but even
hardly to the dust of tourneys! Can we give to that the name of
cowardice? Are we to say that those who remain in subjection are
poltroons? That two, that three, that four should fail to defend
themselves against ONE, that would be singular enough, yet
possible; in which case we could justly say it is
faint-heartedness. But when a hundred, when a thousand endure
everything from ONLY ONE, can it then be said that they do not
want, that they dare not lay hands upon him, and that it is not a
case of cowardice, but rather of disdain and contempt? If so, what
monstrous vice is this that deserves not the title of cowardice,
that finds no name villainous enough to designate it by, that
nature disowns having brought forth, and that the tongue of men
refuses to name?"
The eloquent malediction of the blindness of subjugated peoples drew a
unanimous cry of admiration from the Lebrenn family. Antonicq
interrupted his reading for a moment.
"Oh, the book is right!" gravely observed Odelin's widow. "What
monstrous vice can that be that bends under the yoke of ONLY ONE? It is
not cowardice! The most cowardly, when they see they are a thousand
against one, will not be afraid to attack him. That book is right. What
may be the name of the nameless vice?"
Antonicq proceeded:
"It is the people who subjugate themselves; who cut their own
throats; who, having the choice between being subject or free,
leave their freedom for a yoke; who give their consent to their own
ruin, or rather purchase the same. If the recovery of their freedom
would have to cost something, it is not I who would press them to
the act, although that which man should hold dearest is the
recovery of his natural rights, or, to be accurate, from beast to
return to man's estate.
"But no! I do not demand such boldness from the people. What! If,
in order to have its liberty, the people need but to will it, can
there be a nation on earth to consider the price too dear, being
able to regain the boon by wishing? Who would hesitate to recover a
boon that should be redeemed with the price of his blood, a boon,
which if lost, all honorable men must esteem life a burden and
death a relief?
"But no! The more do tyrants pillage, the more do they exact, the
more do they ruin, the more do they destroy,--all the more are they
paid to do it, all the more are they served, and all the more do
they fortify themselves.
"And yet, if nothing were to be allowed to them, if no obedience
were to be yielded to them, and that without combat, without
striking a blow, they would remain naked, undone, and would cease
to be anything--like roots, that, lacking nourishment, become a
dry, dead branch."
"Right!" put in the Franc-Taupin. "Again that book is right. There are
donkey-men and lion-men. Say to a donkey: 'Roar, jump, bite your enemy!'
He will not listen. Say to the brute: 'Donkey you are, donkey you will
be, remain donkey. One does not even expect of you that you rise to the
Caesarian heroism of a kick! No, you peaceful beast! All that we ask is
that you remain quiet, motionless, stubborn, and do not go to the mill!
Aye, my donkey friends, what could the millers do, and their helpers,
if, despite all their cudgels, the millions of donkeys, having passed
the word along the line, refused point blank to march? Will the millers
and their helpers shower blows upon you? Perhaps, but are you spared any
blows when you do march? Beaten whether you march or stand still, you
might as well stand still and ruin the miller.' Yes," added the
Franc-Taupin, his face assuming a sad expression; "but how was this
unhappy people even to conceive the bare thought of such an inert
resistance? Have the monks not monked their brains from the cradle to
the grave: 'Go, thou beast of burden, lick the hand that smites
you--bless the burden that crushes your limbs, and galls your spine to
the quick--thy salvation hereafter is to be bought by the torments you
endure on earth--to the monks belong thy broad back--they straddle it in
order to lead you to paradise!' And," proceeded the Franc-Taupin, more
and more incensed, "should anyone attempt to wrest the besotted wretches
from the grip of the monkery, why, then, quick, and quicker than
quick!--the jail, the cutlass, the pyre, and torture! Thus came my
sister Bridget to die in prison, and her daughter to be burned alive,
and Christian to die of grief, and Odelin, his son, to have his throat
cut by his own brother, Fra Herve, the Cordelier! That is the long and
short of it!"
These words, which recalled so many painful losses to the memory of the
Lebrenn family, were followed by a mournful silence. Tears rolled down
the cheeks of Marcienne, Odelin's widow; her wheel stopped whirring; her
head dropped upon her breast and she muttered:
"My mourning will be like my sorrow, eternal! Oh, my children, there are
two places that will ever remain vacant at our hearth--your father's and
your sister's. The poor girl doubted our indulgence and our love for
her!"
"Oh, Catherine De Medici! Infamous Queen! Mother of execrable sons! Will
the hour of vengeance ever sound!" exclaimed Captain Mirant. "Even the
perversest of people shudder at the crimes of the crowned monsters!
Their acts are endured, and yet a breath could throw them down! Oh, well
may we ask in the language of La Boetie's book: 'What is the nameless
vice that causes millions of people to submit voluntarily to a power
that is abhorred?'"
"We Huguenots, at least, showed our teeth to the monsters," put in
Barbot the boilermaker. "Nevertheless, to talk shop, I must confess our
mistake. It was our duty to throw into the furnace and melt once for all
that old royal boiler in which for a thousand and odd years the Kings
have been boiling Jacques Bonhomme, and serving him up in all manner of
sauces for their repasts. Once that boiler is melted, the devil's
kitchen would be done for!"
"Yes, indeed, comrade," replied Captain Mirant, "we made that mistake,
and yet we were the most daring among the oppressed! And we made the
mistake notwithstanding we were repeatedly imposed upon and betrayed by
treacherous edicts. May it please God that this last edict do not fare
like the previous ones, and that Louis Rennepont may speedily bring us
tidings from Paris to dispel our apprehensions!"
"Brother," observed Marcienne, "I can not but mistrust the pledges of
Charles IX and his mother. Alas, I can not forget the revelations made
in the letter to her father by my poor daughter before she leaped
voluntarily to death at the battle of Roche-la-Belle. Catherine and her
sons are well capable of scheming the massacre that she confided to the
Jesuit Lefevre. At the same time we must not forget that Admiral
Coligny, so prudent, so wise, so experienced a man, in short, better
qualified than anyone else to appreciate the situation, seeing he is in
close touch with the court, reposes full confidence in the peace. Did
he not give us positive proof of his sense of security by inducing the
Protestants to restore to the King, before the date fixed by the edict,
the fortified towns of asylum that were placed in their power?"
"Oh, sister, sister!" interjected Captain Mirant. "I shall ever
congratulate myself upon having been on the Board of Aldermen among
those who most decidedly opposed the relinquishing of La Rochelle! Thank
God, this fortified place remains to us. Here at least we may feel safe.
I very much fear the loyalty of the Admiral may not be a match for the
duplicity of the Italian woman."
"I must say that I am increasingly impatient for my husband's return
home," observed Theresa. "He will have had an interview with Admiral
Coligny; he will have expressed to him the fears and misgivings of the
Rochelois. At least we shall know for certain whether we are to feel
safe or not."
"Do you call that living?" cried Captain Mirant. "Why should we,
honorable people, be kept ever in suspense as though we were criminals!
Mistrust ever sits in our hearts! Our ears ever are on the watch, our
hands on our swords! Whence come these mortal alarms? The reason is
that, despite our old municipal franchises, despite the ramparts of our
town, we are, after all, the subjects of the King, instead of belonging
to ourselves, like the Swiss cantons, that are freely federated in a
Republic! Oh, liberty! liberty! Shall our eyes ever see your reign among
us?"
"Yes!" answered Antonicq. "Yes! We would see that beautiful reign if the
admirable sentiments of La Boetie could be made to penetrate the souls
of our people! But listen, I shall read on:
"Oh, liberty! So great, so sweet a boon, that, once lost misfortune
follows inevitably, and even the enjoyments that may remain behind
wholly lose their taste and flavor, being tainted with servitude!
Liberty is not desired by men for no other reason, it seems to me,
than that, if they were to desire it, they would have it! One would
think they refuse the priceless conquest only because it is so
easily won! The beasts (may God help me!) where men are too deaf to
hear, scream in their ears--_Long live Freedom!_ Many animals die
the moment they are captured. Fishes lose their lives with their
element: they die unable to survive their natural franchise! If
animals recognized rank in their midst they would turn liberty
into--_nobility!_ From the largest to the smallest, when caught,
they offer so emphatic a resistance with nails, horns, feet, or
beaks that they sufficiently declare how highly they prize what
they are losing. When caught, they give us so many manifest tokens
of how thoroughly they realize their misfortune that, if they
continue to live, it is rather to mourn over their lost freedom
than to accommodate themselves to servitude.
"Poor, miserable people! Poor senseless beings! Oh, ye nations
stubbornly addicted to your own evil! Blind to your weal! You allow
yourselves to be carried away, to be ravished of the best that you
have, of the prime of your revenue; your fields to be pillaged;
your homes to be robbed; your paternal furniture and heirlooms to
be taken for spoils! Your life is such that you may say nothing is
your own. Would it be that wise unless you are tolerant of the
thief who plunders you, and the accomplice of the murderer who
slays you? Are you not traitors to yourselves? You sow your fields
for him to gorge himself! You furnish your houses in order to
furnish matter for his burglaries! You bring up your daughters that
there may be food for his debauches! You bring up your sons that
he may lead them to slaughter and turn them into the instruments of
his greed and the executors of his revenges. You stint your bodies
that he may revel in the delights you are deprived of, and wallow
in lecherous and vile pursuits!
"True enough, physicians advise not to lay hands upon wounds that
are incurable. Perhaps I act not wisely in seeking to give advice
to the people in this matter. They have long lost consciousness;
they are no longer aware of their ailment; the disease is mortal!"
"The reproach is severe, and, I think, unmerited," objected Odelin's
widow. "Did not Estienne of La Boetie himself, who died only nine years
ago, see the Protestants thrice run to arms in the defense of their
faith?"
"Sister," asked Captain Mirant, "did the whole people run to arms? Alas,
no! The majority, the masses--blind, ignorant, wretched, and dominated
by the monks--have they not ever risen at the command of their clerical
misleaders, and fallen with fanatical rage upon what they call the
'heretics'? Even among ourselves, is it not a small majority that
realizes the truth of what Christian your husband's father used to say,
when he warned the Protestants that neither religious nor any other
freedom could ever be permanently secured so long as royalty, the
hereditary accomplice of the Church, was left standing? Do not the
majority of Protestants, even Admiral Coligny himself, entertain respect
and love, if not for Kings, at least for the monarchy? Do they not seek
to place that institution beyond the reach of the religious wars?
Sister, Boetie's book tells the truth: The masses of the people,
degraded, brutified, besotted and kept in ignorance by hereditary
serfdom no longer feel the gall of servitude. Does it, therefore, follow
the disease is incurable, and fatal? No! No! In that respect I look to
better things than does La Boetie. History, in accord therein with the
chronicles of your husband's family, proves that a slow and mysterious
progress is taking its course across the ages. Serfs replaced slaves;
vassals replaced serfs; some day, vassalage also will disappear as did
slavery and serfdom! The religious wars of our century are another step
toward ultimate freedom. The revolt against the throne will closely
follow the revolt against the Church. But, alas! how many years are yet
to elapse before the arrival of the day foretold by Victoria the
Great--as narrated in your family history!"[76]
"Oh, the genius of tyranny is so resourceful in infernal plans to
protect its empire!" exclaimed Antonicq. "Do you remember, uncle, how
surprised you and I were at the account, given us by some travelers who
returned from Paris, of the infinite number of public
festivities--tourneys, tilts, processions--gotten up to keep the people
amused?"
"Yes, and we listened to their report as to a fairy tale," interjected
Cornelia. "We wondered how the people could feel so giddyheaded in
Paris; how they could crowd to festivities given upon places that were
still dyed red with the blood of martyrs, and still warm with the ashes
of pyres!"
"Cornelia," replied Antonicq, proud of the noble words of his bride,
"tyrants rule less, perhaps, through force that terrorizes than through
corruption that depraves. Listen to these profound and awful words of La
Boetie upon this very subject:
"No better insight can be got into the craftiness of tyrants to
brutify their subjects than from the measure that Cyrus adopted
towards the Lydians after he took possession of Sardis, the
principal city of Lydia, and reduced to his mercy Croesus, the rich
King, and carried him off a prisoner of war. Cyrus was notified
that the people of Sardis rose in rebellion. He speedily reduced
them to order, but unwilling to put so beautiful a place to the
sack, and also to be himself put to the trouble of garrisoning the
city with a large force in order to keep it safe, he hit upon a
master scheme to make sure of his conquest. He set up in Sardis a
large number of public houses for debauchery, and issued a decree
commanding the people to frequent these brothels. That garrison
answered his purpose so well that never after did he have to draw
the sword against the Lydians.
"Indeed, no bird is more easily caught with bird-lime, no fish is
more securely hooked with an appetizing bait, than the masses of
the people are lured to servitude by the tickle of the smallest
feather, which, as the saying goes, is passed over their lips.
Theaters, games, farces, spectacles, gladiators, strange beasts,
medals, pictures and other trifles were, to the peoples of
antiquity, the charms of servitude, the price of their freedom, the
instruments of tyranny.
"These lures kept the people under the yoke. Thus, mentally
unnerved, they found the pastimes pleasant, they were amused by the
idle spectacles that were paraded before their eyes, and they were
habituated to obedience as fully, but not as usefully to
themselves, as little children, who, in order to gladden their eyes
with the brilliant pictures of illuminated books insensibly learn
to read.
"The tyrant Romans furthermore resorted to the plan of feasting
the populace, which can be led by nothing so readily as by the
pleasures of the mouth. The cleverest of them all would not have
dropped his bowl of soup to recover the liberty of the Republic of
Plato. The tyrants made bountiful donations of wheat, of wine and
corn. Whereupon the cry went up lustily--_Long live the King!_ The
dullards did not realize they were receiving but a small portion of
what belonged to them, and that even the portion which they
received the tyrant would not have it to give, but for his first
having taken it away from themselves."
"_The cleverest of them all would not have dropped his bowl of soup to
recover the Republic_," repeated Captain Mirant. "The fact is
shockingly, distressfully true! Men become animals when they sacrifice
everything to perverse instincts and vulgar appetites. Nevertheless, a
curse upon all tyrants! It is they who incite these very appetites, in
order to rule the heart through the stomach, and the mind through the
eyes, by attracting the peoples to tourneys, tilts and such other
pageants, amusements that are but disgraceful badges of servitude, and
must be paid for by the fruit of the labor of the slaves themselves!"
"Go to, poor Jacques Bonhomme!" added the Franc-Taupin. "Fill up your
paunch, but bend your back! Pay for the gala! Gnaw at the bones cast to
you, and cry 'Thanks!' Oh, if only you knew! If only you wanted to! With
one shake of your shoulders, both the tyrants and their cohorts would be
thrown to the ground!"
"No! No!" interjected Antonicq. "Do not imagine that our tyrants
Catherine De Medici and Charles IX are defended mainly by the
arquebusiers of their bodyguards, their light mounted horse and their
footmen in arms! Not at all! Just listen to this passage from La
Boetie's book:
"I shall now touch upon a point that is the secret spring of the
sway, the support and the foundation of tyranny. He who imagines
that the halberdiers of the guard constitute the safety and the
bulwark of tyrants is, I hold, greatly in error. No; it is not arms
that defend a tyrant. At first blush the point may not be granted,
nevertheless it is true. It is only four or five men among his
accomplices who uphold a tyrant and who keep the country in
servitude to him. It has ever been only five or six who have a
tyrant's ear, and are invited by him to be the accomplices of his
cruelties, the sharers in his amusements, the go-betweens in his
debaucheries, the co-partners in his plunder, these five or six
hundred have, in turn, under them five or six who are to them what
they themselves are to the tyrant--and these five or six hundred
have, in turn, under them five or six thousand thieves among whom
they have caused the government of the provinces and the
administration of the funds to be distributed, in order that they
may cater to the avarice and the cruelty of the tyrant, in order
that they may promptly execute his orders, and be ready to do so
much mischief that they can hold their places only under the shadow
of his authority, nor be able to escape the just punishment of
their offences but through him. Wide and long is the train that
follows these latter ones. Whoever cares to amuse himself in
tracing the threads of this woof will see that, not the six
thousand only, but hundreds of thousands, aye millions depend
through that cord upon the tyrant, who, with the aid of the same,
can (as Jupiter boasts in Homer) pull over to himself all the gods
by pulling at the chain."
"Well put! Never before has the centralized power of royalty, that
fearful engine of tyranny, been more lucidly laid bare!" cried Captain
Mirant. "I am more and more convinced--the federation of the provinces,
each independent as to itself, but mutually united by the common bond of
their common interests, like the Republic of the Swiss cantons, is the
sole guarantee of freedom. COMMUNE AND FEDERATION!"
"Now," said Antonicq, "do not fail to admire the penetration with which
Estienne of La Boetie traces back the secret punishment that is visited
upon tyrants, and the awful consequences of tyranny itself. He says:
"From the moment a King has declared himself a tyrant, then, not
merely a swarm of thieves and skip-jacks, but all those who are
moved by ardent ambition, or overpowering greed, gather around him,
and assist him in order to have a share in the booty, and to be,
under the great tyrant, petty tyrants themselves. Thus it happens
with highwaymen and pirates. One set holds the roads, the other
rifles the travelers; one set lies in ambush, the other is on the
watch; one set massacres, the other plunders.
"Hence it comes that the tyrant is never loved, and never loves.
Friendship is a sacred gift, a holy boon! It never exists but among
honorable people, it never arises but through mutual esteem. It is
preserved, not so much through gifts as by upright conduct. That
which makes one friend feel sure of another is the knowledge he has
of the other's integrity. The security he holds from his friend is
the latter's good character, his faith, his constancy. No
friendship can exist where cruelty, disloyalty and injustice hold
sway. When malignant people meet, they meet to plot, not for
companionship! They do not mutually aid if they mutually fear one
another. They are not friends, they are accomplices in crime and
felony.
"This is the reason why, as the saying goes, there is honor among
thieves at the distribution of the booty. They supplement one
another, and they are unwilling, by falling out, to reduce their
strength.
"In that begins the punishment of tyrants. When they die, their
execrated name is blackened by the ink of a thousand pens, their
reputation is torn to shreds; even their bones, pilloried by
posterity, chastise them for their wicked lives. Let us then learn
to be upright; let us raise our eyes to heaven; let us implore it
to bestow upon us the love of virtue. As to me, meseems nothing is
so contrary to God as tyranny, and that He reserves for tyrants
some special chastisement."
"Oh, my children!" exclaimed Odelin's widow, "that book which breathes
such hatred for tyranny and such generous indignation towards cowards
that one must doubt divine justice if he can lightly submit to
iniquity;--that book, every page of which bears the imprint of the love
of virtue and the execration of evil;--that book should be placed in the
hands of every lad about to enter manhood. It would be a wholesome and
strong nourishment to their souls. From it they would gather a horror
for that cowardly and blind voluntary servitude, and then all, in the
name of justice, of human dignity, of right, and of honesty, would rise
_Against-One_, the title of those sublime pages, and they would proclaim
everywhere--Commune and Federation!"
"But, aunt," timidly suggested Cornelia, "should not that book be also
for girls who reach maturity? They become wives and mothers. Should not
they also be nourished in the love of justice and in the abhorrence of
tyranny, to the end that they may bring up their children to virile
principles, regain for woman equal rights with man, and share both the
self-denial and the dangers of their husbands when the hour of battle
and of sacrifice shall have come?"
Cornelia looked so beautiful as she gave utterance to these patriotic
sentiments that all the members of the Lebrenn family turned their eyes
admiringly toward the young girl.
"Oh, my brave one!" exclaimed Antonicq, rising and taking Cornelia's
hands in his own with a transport of love. "How proud I am of your love!
What generous duties does it not impose upon me! Well, it is to be
to-morrow--the happy day for you and me--the day when we are to be
joined in wedlock!"
Hardly had Antonicq finished his sentence when the tramp of a horse's
hoofs was heard in the street. It stopped at the armorer's door. Theresa
Rennepont rose with a start, and ran to the door crying: "My husband!"
CHAPTER VIII.
ST. BARTHOLOMEW'S NIGHT.
The presentiment of the young wife did not deceive her. The door opened
and Theresa fell into the arms of Louis Rennepont.
The joy of the Lebrenn family over the return of one of its members from
a distant journey dominated at first all other feelings and thoughts.
Immediately after the first outpourings of affection the same question
escaped at once from all lips:
"What tidings from Paris, and about Admiral Coligny?"
Alas! it was only then that the members of the Lebrenn family noticed
the profound alteration of Louis Rennepont's appearance, and his wife,
who had been scrutinizing the young man's face with eager and uneasy
curiosity, suddenly cried:
"Great God! Louis, your hair has turned grey!"
Indeed, when Louis Rennepont left La Rochelle towards the end of the
previous month, not a thread of silver whitened his raven locks. Now
they were streaked with broad bands of grey! He seemed to have aged ten
years. Such a change must have been produced by some terrible and sudden
emotion. Theresa's exclamation was followed by a mournful silence. All
eyes were fixed upon Louis Rennepont with increasing anxiety. He
answered his wife with a trembling voice:
"Yes, Theresa; yes, my friends; my hair turned grey in one night--the
night before St. Bartholomew's day--the night of the 23d of this month
of August, of this year, 1572!"
And still shuddering with terror, his chest convulsed with repressed
sobs, the young man hid his face in his hands and muttered: "My God! My
God!"
Presently the young man recovered sufficient composure to proceed.
"Do you all remember," he said, solemnly addressing the stupefied
members of his family, "the infernal scheme of Catherine De Medici that
our poor Anna Bell overheard during the Queen's conversation with
Loyola's disciple Lefevre at the Abbey of St. Severin?"
"Great God!" cried Antonicq. "The scheme of massacring all the
Protestants, disarmed by the peace?"
"The massacre, begun in Paris under my own eyes, during the night before
St. Bartholomew," answered Louis Rennepont with an effort, "that
massacre is proceeding at this very hour in almost all the large cities
of France!"
"Oh!" exclaimed Captain Mirant. "In sight of such a stupendous crime
one's head is seized with vertigo--one is not certain of himself--one
asks himself whether he is awake, or dreams."
"By my sister's death! We are not dreaming!" ejaculated the
Franc-Taupin. "Friends, if we look down at a stream running under our
feet, it often happens that, for a moment, our head turns. That is what
we are now experiencing. We see at our feet a torrent flowing, a torrent
of blood--the blood of our brothers!"
"A curse upon my head," thundered the boilermaker Barbot, raising his
clenched fist to the ceiling, "if the blood of the Catholics does not
run, if not in torrents, at least drop by drop, before La Rochelle! Let
them come and attack us!"
"They will come," put in Captain Mirant. "They are surely on the march
now! Our ramparts shall be our grave! God be thanked, we shall not be
slaughtered like cattle in the shambles! We shall die like men!"
Cornelia, pale and motionless like a statue of sorrow, her arms crossed
over her palpitating bosom, and her face bathed in tears, remained in
mute consternation until this moment. The girl now took two steps
towards her betrothed and said to him in a trembling voice:
"Antonicq, to-morrow we were to be married--people in mourning do not
marry. From this instant I wear mourning for our brothers, massacred on
St. Bartholomew's night! A woman owes obedience to her husband,
according to our laws--iniquitous, degrading laws! I wish to remain free
until after the war."
"Cornelia, the hour of sacrifices has sounded," answered Antonicq with a
trembling voice; "my courage shall vie with yours."
"We have paid our tribute to human weakness," observed Odelin's widow,
smothering a sob; "let us now bravely face the magnitude of the disaster
that has smitten our cause. Louis, we listen to your account of St.
Bartholomew's night."
"When a few weeks ago I left for Paris, I concluded I would, in passing
through Poitiers, Angers and Orleans, visit several of our pastors in
order to ascertain whether they also shared our apprehensions. Some I
found completely set at ease by the loyal execution of the last edict,
above all by the certainty of the marriage of Henry of Bearn with the
sister of Charles IX. They looked upon this as a pledge of the good
intentions of the King, and of the end of the religious conflicts. Other
pastors, on the contrary, felt vaguely uneasy. Being convinced that Joan
of Albert was poisoned by Catherine De Medici, they saw with no little
apprehension what they considered the heedless confidence that Admiral
Coligny placed in the court. But in short, the vast majority of our
brothers felt perfectly at ease.
"Immediately upon my arrival at Paris I proceeded to Bethisy Street, the
residence of Admiral Coligny. I expressed to him the fears that agitated
the Rochelois concerning his life, so precious to our cause, and their
mistrust of Charles IX and his mother. The Admiral's answer was: 'The
only thing that keeps me back at court is the almost positive prospect
of Flanders and the Low Countries rising against the bloodthirsty
tyranny of Philip II. Only the support of France could insure the
success of the revolt. If those rich industrial provinces secede from
Spain, they will be the promised land to our brothers. These will find
there a refuge, not as to-day, behind the ramparts of a very few cities
of safety, but either in the Walloon provinces, which will have become
French territory under solid guarantees for their freedom, or in the Low
Countries, which will be federated upon a republican plan, in imitation
of the Swiss cantons, under the protectorate of the Prince of Nassau. By
family tradition, and on principle, I am attached to the monarchic form
of government. But I am well aware that many of our brothers, you of La
Rochelle among them, shocked at the crimes of the reigning house, are
strongly inclined towards a republic. To these, the federation of the
Low Countries, should the same be established, will offer a form of
government to their taste.' 'But, Admiral,' I replied, 'suppose our
suspicions prove true, and the help that the King and his mother have so
long been holding out the prospect of proves to be but a lure to hide
some new trap?' 'I do not think so,' rejoined Admiral Coligny, 'although
it may be. One must be ready for anything from Catherine De Medici and
her son.' 'But,' I cried, 'Admiral, how can you, despite such doubts
entertained by yourself, remain here at court, among your mortal
enemies! Do you take no precautions to protect yourself against a
possible, if not probable, act of treachery?' 'My friend,' was the
Admiral's reply given in a grave and melancholy tone, 'for long years I
have conducted that sort of war which, above all others, is the most
frightful and atrocious--civil war. It inspires me with insurmountable
horror. An uprising in Flanders and the Low Countries offers me the
means of putting an end to the shedding of French blood and of securing
a new and safe country to our brothers. It will be one way or the
other--either the King's promises are sincere, or they are not. If they
are I would consider it a crime to wreck through impatience or mistrust
the success of a plan that promises so favorable a future to the
Protestants.' 'And if the King should not be sincere,' I inquired, 'if
his promises have no object other than to gain time to the end of
insuring the success of some new and frightful treachery?' 'In that
event, my friend, I shall be the victim of the treachery,' calmly
answered Coligny. 'Is it my life they are after? I have long since
offered it up as a sacrifice to God. Moreover, only day before
yesterday, I declared to the King that, after the suppression of the
revolt at Mons, as a consequence of which Lanoue, my best friend, fell a
prisoner into the hands of the Spaniards, France should no longer
hesitate to give her support to the insurrection of the Low Countries
against Philip II.' 'And what did the King say to that? Did he give you
any guarantee of his honest intentions?' 'The King,' Coligny answered
me, 'said this to me: "_My good father, here are the nuptials of my
sister Margot approaching; grant me only a week longer of pleasures and
enjoyment, after which, I swear to you, by the word of a King, you and
your friends will all be satisfied with me._"'"
At this passage Louis Rennepont interrupted his narrative and cried with
a shudder:
"Would you believe it, my friends, Charles IX addressed these ambiguous
and perfidious words to Coligny on the 13th of August--and on the night
of the 23rd the massacre of our brothers took place!"
"Oh, these Kings!" exclaimed Marcienne, raising her eyes to heaven.
"These Kings! The sweat of our brows no longer suffices to slake their
thirst. They are glutted with that--they now joke preparatorily to
murder!"
"By my sister's death!" shouted the Franc-Taupin, furiously. "The
Admiral must have been smitten with blindness. Acquainted as he was from
a long and bitter experience with that tyrant whelp, that tiger cub, how
is it he did not take warning from the double sense that the King's
words carried! What imprudence!"
"Alas, far from it!" said Louis Rennepont. "In answer to the remarks I
made to him, calling his attention to the suspiciousness of the King's
words, a suspiciousness rendered all the more glaring by reason of the
tyrant's character, the Admiral merely replied: 'If they are after my
life, would they not long ago have killed me, in the course of these six
months that I have been at court?' 'But monsieur,' I observed, 'it is
not your life only that is threatened; they probably aim also at the
lives of all our Protestant leaders. Our enemies rely upon your example,
upon your presence at court, and upon the festivities of the marriage of
Henry of Bearn, to attract our principal men to Paris--then to strike
them all down at the giving of a signal, and to massacre the rest of our
brothers all over France. Do you forget the scheme that Catherine De
Medici talked over with the Jesuit Lefevre?' 'No, no, my friend,' he
replied serenely, 'my heart and my judgment refuse to believe such a
monstrous plan possible; it exceeds the bounds of human wickedness. The
most reckless tyrants, whose names have caused the earth to grow pale,
never dreamed of anything even remotely approaching such a horrible
crime--it would be nameless!"
"That crime now has a name--it is called 'St. Bartholomew's Night'!"
said Cornelia with a shudder. "What will be the name of the vengeance?"
"Mayhap the vengeance will be called the 'Siege of La Rochelle'!"
answered Captain Mirant, the girl's father. "Our walls are strong, and
resolute are our hearts."
"The war will be a bloody one!" interjected Master Barbot the
boilermaker.
Louis Rennepont proceeded with his narrative: "I left Admiral Coligny,
unable to awaken his suspicions. He went to his Chatillon home, spent
two days in that retreat so beloved of him, and returned to Paris on the
17th of August, the eve of the marriage of Henry of Bearn and Princess
Marguerite. The union of a Protestant Prince with a Catholic Princess,
in which so many of us saw the end of the religious struggles, drew to
Paris almost all the Protestant leaders. I shall mention, among those
whom I visited, Monsieur La Rochefoucauld, Monsieur La Force, and brave
Colonel Piles. Apprehending no treason, they all shared the expectations
of Coligny with respect to the revolt in the Low Countries. The feeling
of safety that prevailed among my brothers gained upon me also. The
marriage of Henry of Bearn and Princess Marguerite took place on the
18th of this month. From that day to the 21st there was a perpetual
round of splendid festivities and general merrymaking at court and in
the city. I took up my lodgings at the sign of the Swan, on St.
Thomas-of-the-Louvre Street, not far from the residence of Monsieur
Coligny. The inn-keeper was of our people. On the 22d he came to my room
at about nine in the morning and said to me with surprise not unmixed
with alarm: 'Something strange is going on. I just learned that the
provosts of each quarter of the city are going from house to house
inquiring about the religion of the tenants, and noting down the
Huguenots. The reason given is that a general census of the population
is wanted. Subsequently,' the inn-keeper proceeded to say, 'the regiment
of the Arquebusiers of the Guard entered Paris. Finally, I learn that
last night a large number of arms, especially cutlasses and daggers,
were transported to the City Hall. I received this information from my
niece. She is a Catholic and a chamber maid of the Duchess of Nevers.
The taking of a list of the Huguenots in town, the arrival of a whole
regiment of Arquebusiers of the Guard, and finally the conveying of such
large stores of arms to the City Hall, seem to me to foreshadow some
plot against the Protestants. I wish you would notify the Admiral of
these occurrences.' The inn-keeper's advice seemed wise to me. I
hastened to Bethisy Street and knocked at the Admiral's house. He was
not home. As was his habit, he had departed early in the morning to the
Louvre. His old equerry Nicholas Mouche, to whom I imparted some of my
information, seemed not a little startled. We agreed to proceed to the
entrance of the palace and wait for the Admiral. We were passing by the
cloister of St. Germain-L'Auxerois, where several houses were in the
course of construction, when we caught sight of Coligny returning on
foot and followed by two of his serving men. He was reading a letter,
and walked slowly. We hastened our steps to meet him. Suddenly we were
blinded by the flash of a firearm, fired from the ground floor window of
one of the houses contiguous to the cloister. Nicholas Mouche rushed to
his master, screaming: 'Help! The Admiral is assassinated! Help! Help!'"
A cry of horror leaped from the lips of all the members of the Lebrenn
family, who followed breathlessly the report of Louis Rennepont. Captain
Mirant exclaimed:
"Murder and treason! To kill that great man in such a way! Vengeance!
Vengeance!"
"No," put in Louis Rennepont with a painful effort. "Monsieur Coligny,
killed by a bullet, would at least have met a soldier's death. I
followed close upon the heels of Nicholas Mouche and reached him at the
moment when Coligny, pale but calm, pointed to the window from which the
shot was fired, and said: 'The shot came from there.' The arquebus was
loaded with two balls. One carried off the Admiral's left thumb, while
the other lodged in his arm near the elbow. Weakened by the loss of
blood, that ran profusely, Coligny said to Nicholas Mouche: 'If I leaned
upon your arm I could walk to my house--proceed!' In fact, he walked
home. Several Protestant officers happened to be not far behind. Upon
learning of the crime that was committed, they forced their way into
the house where the would-be assassin had lain in ambush. They were
informed that he fled through a rear door, where a saddled horse, held
by a page in the Guise livery, stood waiting for him. Their searches
proved vain. No trace of the assassin could they find."
"The Guises! Always the Guisards, either directly guilty, or the
accomplices of assassins!" exclaimed Odelin's widow with a shudder.
"With how much blood have not those Lorrainian Princes reddened their
hands since the butcheries of Vassy! But did Monsieur Coligny's wound
prove fatal?"
"No, unfortunately for the Admiral--because the very next day--" Louis
Rennepont broke off suddenly. "Do you want to know, mother, whether the
Guises were accomplices in the attempted murder upon the Admiral? Yes,
they had their hands in that fresh misdeed, at the instigation of the
Queen-mother. And here a plot begins to unroll itself, the deep villainy
of which would seem incredible if Catherine De Medici and her son were
not known. Presently I shall tell you from whom I have my information;
it is reliable. In line with the conversation which she had with the
Jesuit Lefevre, and which Anna Bell overheard, Catherine De Medici hated
and feared the Guises no less than she did the Admiral. Her scheme was
to cause the Admiral to be assassinated by the Guises; then to rid
herself of them through the Protestants; and finally to rid herself of
the Protestants by the King's soldiers. Does such an infernal
combination seem impracticable to you? Well, it came near succeeding.
This was the plot: The Guises continued to slander the Admiral by
accusing him of having suborned Poltrot who killed Francis of Guise at
the siege of Orleans; the old family hatred burned as implacable as
ever. On the day after the marriage of Henry of Bearn, the Queen and her
son Charles IX said with much unction to Henry of Guise that, in order
to preserve the confidence of the Huguenots and the Admiral, it was
necessary to seem to give him a pledge of reconciliation, to request of
him that the flames of hatred, so long burning in the breasts of the two
families, be extinguished, and to offer him the hand of friendship. All
the more reassured by the cordial advance, the Admiral was expected to
be thrown still more off his guard, and his assassination was considered
all the more certain! The Queen offered for the deed a man after her own
and the King's heart--Maurevert, surnamed the 'King's Killer,' since his
assassination of brave Mouy, a crime for which the felon received the
collar of the Order of St. Michael. The Queen's advice was relished.
Young Guise gave his hand to the old Admiral, and two days later
Monsieur Coligny, on his return from the Louvre, received a load of
arquebus shot from--Maurevert!"
Louis Rennepont stopped for a moment, and then proceeded amid the
profound silence of the family:
"By wounding, instead of killing Coligny, the 'King's Killer' ruined the
project of the Queen and her son. They had counted upon the murder of
the Admiral to incite a great tumult in Paris; their agents were to
scatter among the mob the information that the heinous murder was the
work of the Guisards; the exasperated Huguenots were expected to run to
arms and avenge Coligny's death with the massacre of the whole Guise
family and their partisans; that done, the royal troops were in turn to
overwhelm the Protestants, on the pretext of being guilty of a flagrant
breach of the edict of pacification. The last massacre was to extend
from Paris all over France, under the guise of a vindication of the
outraged edict of pacification. Machiavelli could not have plotted
better. The arquebus shot of Maurevert would have rid Charles IX at once
of Coligny, the Guises and the Protestants. The 'King's Killer' having
missed fire, another course had to be pursued, and, above all, the
reformers had to be convinced that Maurevert's attempt was merely an act
of individual vengeance. Accordingly Charles IX hastened to the
Admiral's residence. The tiger-cub wept. He called the old Admiral his
'good father.' He promised, 'upon the word of a King, however high the
station of the would-be murderers, they should not escape just
punishment.' I was an eye-witness of those tears and royal
protestations; many of our brothers, myself among them, remained near
the bed where Coligny lay while awaiting the surgeon. We were present at
that interview with Charles IX--"
"Then you saw him, Louis, that tiger with the face of a man?" asked
Cornelia with a curiosity born of disgust and horror. "How does the
monster look?"
"Pale and atrabilious of face, with dull, glassy eyes, and a sleepy
look, as if the fervent Catholic and crowned murderer were ever
dreaming of crime," answered Louis Rennepont. "Now watch the sanguinary
craftiness of that pupil of Machiavelli's, to whom neither pledge nor
oath is aught but a more effective form of perfidy. Would you believe
it, that after having expressed sympathy for the wounds of his 'good
father,' and after having pledged his royal word to secure justice, the
first words of Charles IX were: 'I shall forthwith issue orders to close
the gates of Paris, so that none shall leave the city; the murderer will
not be able to flee. Moreover, I authorize, or rather I strongly urge
the Protestant seigneurs, to whom I have offered the hospitality of the
Louvre during the nuptial festivals of my sister Margot, to summon their
friends near them for safeguard.'"
"I perceive the trick of the tiger," broke in Captain Mirant. "By
closing the gates of Paris he prevented the escape of the Huguenots whom
he had consigned to death!"
"No doubt," added Master Barbot the boilermaker, "the same as by
inducing the Protestant seigneurs, who were lodged at the Louvre, to
summon their friends to them, Charles IX only aimed at having them more
ready at hand for his butchers!"
"The issue proved that such were the secret designs of the King,"
replied Louis Rennepont. "But haste was urgent. If tidings of the
attempted murder of the Admiral reached the provinces, the Huguenots
would be put on their guard. The Queen assembled her council that very
night, and presided at its meeting. These were the members at the
council: The King Charles IX; his brother, the Duke of Anjou; the
Bastard of Angouleme; the Duke of Nevers; Birago and Gondi, the Queen's
messengers of evil. It was decided that the butchery should start at
early dawn. The provosts of the merchants, all exemplary Catholics, had,
under pretext of taking a general census, drawn up full lists of all the
Huguenots in the city. Their places of residence being thus accurately
indicated, the assassins would know exactly where to go. The next
question that came up was whether Henry of Bearn also was to be killed.
Catherine De Medici and her son, the King, were strongly in favor, and
urged the necessity of the murder. The other councillors, however, more
scrupulous than their monarchs, objected that the whole world would be
shocked at the assassination of a Prince whose throat was cut, so to
say, under the very eyes of the mother and brother of his wife.
Moreover, the young Prince was lightheaded, unsteady of purpose, they
thought, and without any rooted religious belief. It would be easy, they
concluded, either by means of promises or threats to cause him to abjure
the Reformed religion. The death of the Prince of Conde was also long
discussed. Twice the decision was in favor. But his brother-in-law, the
Duke of Nevers, saved him by guaranteeing the Prince's abjuration. For
the rest, the lad, only the rallying ground of the Huguenots and without
personal valor, inspired but little fear, especially if compared with
Coligny. Towards one o'clock in the morning, the young Duke of Guise was
summoned to the Louvre and introduced to the council. The principal
leadership of the carnage was offered to and accepted by him. A strange
thing happened. At the last moment, Charles IX was assailed by some
slight qualms of conscience at the thought of the murder of the Admiral,
the old man whom that very morning he had addressed with the title of
'my good father.' But the King's hesitance was short-lived. His last
words were: 'By the death of God! Seeing you think the Admiral should be
killed, I will it, too; but I demand that all the Huguenots be killed,
all, to the last one, that there may not be one left alive to reproach
me with the Admiral's death'!"
"Oh, just God!" exclaimed Odelin's widow, raising her hands to heaven.
"Since you consented to the unheard-of deed, Oh, God of Vengeance, You
must have reserved some frightful punishment for him! Oh, You gave Your
consent to that palace plot! to that nocturnal council! There Charles
IX, armed with sovereign power, and certain of the ferocious obedience
of his soldiers and his minions, like an assassin in ambush in the edge
of a forest, laid in the dark the infamous, bloody and cowardly trap
into which, when they awoke, so many of our brothers, who went to sleep
confiding in the law, in their right and in the oath of that Prince,
fell to their death! How many times did he not swear in the presence of
God and man to respect the edict of peace! Yes, You allowed those
horrors, O, God of Vengeance, to the end that this Frankish royalty and
the Roman Church, its eternal accomplice, soon may fall under the
general execration that the massacre of St. Bartholomew will arouse!
Death to Kings! Death to their infamous accomplices, the nobles and
priests!"
The Lebrenn family joined with hearts and lips in the widow's
imprecations. When the excitement again subsided Louis Rennepont
proceeded:
"Before retiring that night to my inn, I walked through a large number
of streets. At least in appearance they were quiet. I met many of our
brothers. Alarmed at the attempted murder of the Admiral, several had
tried to leave Paris. They found the gates rigorously closed by orders
of Charles IX. Back at night in my inn, I did not find the keeper, upon
whom I relied for further information. Broken with fatigue and agitated
by vague fears, I threw myself in my clothes upon my bed and fell
asleep. At about three in the morning I was awakened by my inn-keeper.
He was trembling with terror. 'The death of all the Protestants of Paris
is decreed,' he whispered to me; 'the massacre is to begin at daybreak.
My niece, the chambermaid of the Duchess of Nevers, overheard some words
about the plot; she hastened to warn me. I have notified all our
brothers who are lodged here. They have all fled. Your only chance to
escape the carnage is to join the first gang of the cut-throats whom you
may run across; you must pretend to be of them; you may in that way be
able to reach some place of safety. For a sign among themselves they
have a white paper cross attached to their hats, and a white shirt
sleeve slipped like an armlet over the sleeve of their coats. Their
password is: "God and the King!" Flee! Flee! May the Lord protect you!
Thanks to my niece I have a safe retreat in the palace of Nevers.' While
the inn-keeper was giving me these last directions, there came through
my window, which I had left open on that hot and sultry night of August,
the measured tintinnabulation of the large bell in the tower of the
palace. The sound seemed to leap strangely from the depths of the
silence in which the city was shrouded. 'It is the signal for the
massacre!' cried my inn-keeper, leaving the room precipitately and
whispering his last warnings to me: 'Flee! You have not a minute to
spare; my house is marked! It will be instantly assaulted by the
butchers!'"
"Great God!" cried Theresa, Louis Rennepont's young wife, pressing her
child distractedly to her breast, and unable to hold back her tears. And
addressing her husband: "You are here, near us, safe and sound, poor
friend! and yet I shiver. I weep at the thought of the cruel agonies
that you must have undergone. Did you follow the inn-keeper's advice,
and assume the signs of the Catholics?"
"It was my only safety. I cut a cross of white paper and stuck it in my
hat; I cut off a shirt sleeve and thrust my right arm through it; I then
sallied out into the street. It was still silent and deserted. But the
funeral knell from all the Paris churches had by that time joined the
clangor of the tower bell, which then was ringing at its loudest.
Windows were thrown open. Little by little lights appeared in them."
"Malediction upon the people of Paris!" cried Odelin's widow. "It seems
most of them were accomplices in the butchery!"
"Alas, yes, mother! To their eternal shame, the fact must be admitted;
the people of Paris were the accomplices of Charles IX, and our
butchers! The people and a considerable portion of the bourgeoisie,
being drugged by the fanaticism of the monks, did take part in the
massacre. Some, yielding to the fear of being suspected, obeyed the
orders of the provosts, and placed lights at their windows at the sound
of the first strokes of the bells that they heard. My first thought was
to run to the residence of the Admiral and notify him of the projected
butchery. As I entered Bethisy Street I saw men emerging from several
houses; all carried white crosses in their hats and their arms in shirt
sleeves. They brandished pikes, swords and cutlasses, and cried: 'God
and the King! Kill! Kill all the Huguenots!' They then gathered into
groups, drew themselves up before certain doors that bore the mark of a
cross in white chalk, beat upon and broke them down, and rushed in
yelling: 'Kill! Kill the Huguenots!'
"I was rushing towards the residence of the Admiral when I saw a
battalion of Arquebusiers of the Guard turn into Bethisy Street. The
troop was headed by the young Duke Henry of Guise, accompanied by his
uncle Aumale and the Bastard of Angouleme, brother of Charles IX. All
three were clad in war armor. Pages carrying lighted torches preceded
them. Among the soldiers were interspersed a large number of Catholic
cut-throats, recognizable by the signs which I also wore. I mixed with
them. The crowd arrived before Coligny's residence. The soldiers knocked
at the main door with the butts of their arquebuses. It was instantly
opened. Despite the prompt obedience shown, all the serving-men of
Coligny found in the corridor and the yard were promptly done to death.
The Guises and the Bastard of Angouleme, surrounded by their pages,
remained outside in front of the facade of the house at the foot of the
porch, the stairs of which led to the vestibule. Duke Henry of Guise
made a sign; instantly his equerry Besmes, followed by Captains
Cosseins, Cardillac, Altain and Petrucci, rushed forward with a
detachment of soldiers and dashed up the stairs to the first floor, on
which the Admiral's room was. I realized the Admiral was lost, and
remained unobserved below among the Catholics, where the details of the
murder were soon reported. Awakened by the outcry of his servants, and
the tumult on the street, the Admiral guessed the fate that awaited him.
His faithful Nicholas Mouche and Pastor Merlin were with him. They had
watched all night at his bedside. 'Our hour has come; let us commend our
souls to God!' said Coligny, with which words he rose from his bed,
threw a morning gown over his shoulders and knelt down. The minister and
his old servant knelt down beside him. The three began to pray. The door
was broken in. Besmes, the equerry of Henry of Guise, was the first to
enter, sword in hand, leading in his captains. He walked straight to
Coligny, who, having finished his prayer was rising from the floor
serene and dignified. 'Is it you who are the Admiral?' shouted Besmes;
'Well, you shall die!' 'The will of God be done! Young man, you shorten
my life only a few days,' answered Coligny. These were that great man's
last words. Besmes seized him by the throat with one hand, and with the
other thrust his sword through him. The old man sank on his knees.
Captain Cardillac threw him down, and opened his throat with one slash
of his dagger. The other officers despatched Merlin and Nicholas Mouche.
"I had remained below. There I witnessed an even more execrable scene.
Only a minute or two after the murderers had rushed upstairs, the Duke
of Guise stepped closer to the facade of the house and called out
impatiently in a ringing voice: 'Well, Besmes! Is it done?' Thereupon a
casement was thrown open on the first floor; the equerry appeared at the
window holding his bloody sword in his hand, and answered: 'Yes,
monseigneur! It is done! He is dead!' 'Then throw the corpse down to us
that we may see it!' commanded Henry of Guise. Besmes vanished, and
reappeared dragging, with the aid of Captain Cosseins, the corpse of
Admiral Coligny; the two raised it--meseems I still behold the grey head
of the venerable old man, pale and limp, as the body was pushed out of
the window, with his lifeless arms swinging in space. Besmes and the
captain made a final effort; the corpse was precipitated upon the
pavement, where it rolled down at the feet of the Duke of Guise. Coligny
was clad only in the morning gown that he had hurriedly put on. Thus
half-naked and still warm he was hurled out of the window. The venerable
head rebounded upon the cobblestones and reddened them with blood. The
victim had fallen on his face. The Duke of Guise stooped down, and,
aided by the Bastard of Angouleme, turned the corpse over on its back,
wiped with his sash the blood that covered the Admiral's august visage,
contemplated it for a moment with ferocious glee, and then kicked the
white head with the tip of his boot, crying: 'At last! Dead at
last--thoroughly dead!' The Duke then turned to his henchmen: 'Comrades,
let us proceed with our work! The Pope wills it! the King so orders it!'
Almost fainting with sickening horror and unable to move, I witnessed
this cannibal scene--it was only the prelude for another and still more
horrifying one. The Dukes of Guise and of Aumale and the Bastard of
Angouleme departed with their soldiers from Monsieur Coligny's
courtyard. Almost immediately the same was invaded by a band of men,
women and children in rags. They were a troop hideous to look upon, as
they brandished their sticks, butcher knives and iron bars, under the
leadership of a Cordelier monk who held a jagged cutlass in one hand and
a crucifix in the other, yelling at the top of his voice: 'God and the
King!' The howlings of the mob kept time to the monk's yells. Two men
with hang-dog looks carried torches before the monk. The moment that he
recognized the corpse of our martyr, the Cordelier emitted a screech of
infernal glee, threw himself upon the lifeless body of the Admiral,
squatted down upon its chest, sawed at the neck with his cutlass,
severed the head from the trunk, seized it by its grey locks, and held
it up to the mob, crying in a resonant, though cracked voice: 'This is
the share of the Holy Father! I shall send him Coligny's head to
Rome!'[77]--That monk," added Louis Rennepont in a tremulous voice, and
answering a cry of execration that leaped from the hearts of his
listeners, "that monk, O shame and O misfortune!--that monk was the
assassin of Odelin! Oh, may God have pity upon us!"
"Fra Herve!" exclaimed all the members of the Lebrenn family in chorus.
A silence of terror and horror reigned in the armorer's hall.
"I wish to come quickly to an end with these monstrosities," proceeded
Louis Rennepont, catching his voice. "After the tiger come the jackals,
after the ferocious beasts the unclean ones. Hardly had Fra Herve
severed the Admiral's head from his trunk, amid the hideous acclamations
of the ragged crew, when they fell upon the corpse. Its feet and hands
were cut off. The entrails were torn out of the abdomen and were
struggled for by the human jackals. The sacrilegious mutilations seemed
to go beyond the boundaries of the horrible, and yet the limit was not
reached. Women, veritable furies, pounced upon the bleeding limbs,
and--but I dare say no more before mother, or before Cornelia, nor
before you, my wife. The stentorian voice of Fra Herve finally silenced
the tumult and quelled the anthropophagous orgie. 'Brothers!' he cried,
'to the Pope I shall send the head of this Huguenot carrion, but let us
carry the stripped carcass to the gibbet of Montfaucon! It is there
that should be exposed the remains of the villain who has infested
France with his heresy, and lacerated the bosom of our holy mother the
Roman Catholic and Apostolic Church!' 'To Montfaucon with the Huguenot
carrion!' howled the ferocious band. A procession was improvised. Fra
Herve sheathed his cutlass, planted the Admiral's head on the point of a
pike, and raised the trophy in one hand. In the other he waved aloft his
crucifix, and, lighted by his two torch-bearers, headed the procession.
The now shapeless remnants of the corpse were tied to a rope, a team of
cut-throats harnessed to it, and the bloody lump was dragged through the
gutters. The procession marched to the cry of 'To Montfaucon with the
Huguenot carrion! God and the King!' At that moment, and despite the
terror that held me rooted to the ground, my inn-keeper's last
suggestions occurred to me. Montfaucon was situated outside of the walls
of Paris. No doubt some city gate would be opened to the Cordelier's
band. I joined it, in the hope of escaping from Paris. We left the
courtyard of Monsieur Coligny's house. It was now broad day. Before
proceeding to Montfaucon, Fra Herve wished to exhibit his bloody trophy
to the eyes of Charles IX and his mother. We directed our course to the
Louvre. Other scenes of carnage were taking place there. The Protestant
seigneurs and officers who came in the suite of the Princes of Bearn and
Conde to participate in the wedding festivities of the King's sister,
were lodged at the palace. Relying upon the royal hospitality, they were
taken by surprise while asleep, dragged half naked to the courtyard,
and there either brained or stabbed to death. Among others whom I
recognized at a distance were Morge, Pardillan, St. Martin, besides the
brave veterans Piles, Baudine and Puy-Vaud. They struggled in their
shirts against the soldiers who beat them down with their halberds, and
then stripped the corpses of their last shreds of clothing. The
moanings, the imprecations of the victims, the streams of steaming blood
through which we tramped, and that often reached our ankles, made my
head reel. The butchers laid the corpses out in rows in front of the
facade of the Louvre. The bodies were yet warm; many a bloody limb still
seemed to palpitate; the corpses lay stripped naked, upon their backs. I
counted over four hundred. Suddenly there appeared Catherine De Medici
accompanied by her maids of honor and other ladies of the court. She
mounted a terrace from which a full sight of the carnage could be had.
They came--"
Louis Rennepont stopped short. He hid his face in his hands. "Alas! I
have to inform you of something still more horrible than anything I have
yet said! The furies who profaned the corpse of Coligny were beings,
who, depraved by misery and ignorance, and besotted by a brutish
paganism, yielded obedience to fanatic promptings. But Catherine De
Medici and the women of her suite were brought up in the splendors of
court life, and yet they came to mock and insult the bodies of the dead.
And would you believe it--" but again Louis Rennepont found it
impossible to proceed. "No!" he cried; "I shall not soil your ears with
the nameless infamies of those worse than harpies.[78] While Catherine
De Medici, her maids of honor and a bevy of court ladies were amusing
themselves on the terrace, Fra Herve, still carrying Coligny's head on
the point of the pike, addressed to the Queen a few words that I did not
hear, my attention being at that moment diverted by the appearance of
Charles IX at the balcony of one of the windows of the Louvre. The King
held a long arquebus in his hand; a page carried another of identical
shape and stood behind his master ready to pass it over to him. Suddenly
I saw the King lower the arm, take aim, blow upon the fuse on the cock,
approach it to the pan--and the shot departed. Charles IX raised his
arquebus, looked into the distance, and started to laugh--pleased as a
hunter who has brought down his game. The monster with a human face was
firing upon the Huguenots who were fleeing from the butchery in the St.
Germain quarter, and were attempting to escape death by swimming across
the Seine.
"After haranguing Catherine De Medici, Fra Herve resumed his march to
Montfaucon at the head of his band, dragging behind them the now
shapeless remains of the Admiral. I had to cross Paris almost from one
end to the other in the wake of Fra Herve's procession. In the course of
the march my eyes encountered fresh horrors. We ran across Marshal
Tavannes, the commander of the royal army at the battle of
Roche-la-Belle. At the head of a regiment of the guards he was urging
his men and the mobs to massacre, shouting to them: 'Kill! Bleed them!
Bleed them! A bleeding is good in August as well as in May!' And his men
did the bleeding. They bled so well that the gutters ran no longer water
but blood. The smoldering hatreds of neighbors against neighbors were
now given a loose to, under the pretext of religious fervor. Among a
thousand atrocities that I witnessed on that frightful day, I shall
mention but one, because it exceeds any other that I have yet mentioned.
When I first arrived in Paris, and despite the apprehensions that were
uppermost on my mind, I often went to the lectures of the illustrious
scientist Remus. The man's renown, he being one of the most celebrated
professors at the University, besides enjoying the reputation of a
foremost philanthropist of these days, attracted me. I found students,
grown-up men and even greyheads crowding around his chair. Well, holding
close to Fra Herve's band, I passed by the house of Remus, which the
cut-throats had invaded. A large concourse of people blocked our way,
and interrupted our march for awhile. The mob clamored aloud for the
life of the celebrated scientist. The most frantic in their cries for
the murder were a bunch of pupils, between fourteen and fifteen years of
age, whom two monks--a Carmelite and a Dominican--had in lead. The
assassins finally pushed Remus, half naked, out of his house. The
unhappy man, already wounded in many places, and blinded by the blood
that streamed down his face, staggered like a drunken man, and held his
hands before him. I see him yet--he falls to the ground, they despatch
him, and thereupon the pupils, boys yet, throw themselves upon the
corpse of the scientist, rip his bowels open, tear out the steaming
entrails, turn the body around, raise the bloody shirt that barely
covered it, and thrash the corpse with its own intestines amid roars of
laughter, while they shout: 'Remus has whipped enough of us, it is now
our turn to whip him.'
"Fra Herve's band again resumed its march. It arrived at one of the city
gates that leads to the gibbet of Montfaucon. As I had hoped, the gate
was thrown open before the Cordelier. I slackened my pace, fell to the
rear of the procession, and, at the first practicable turn on the road,
I jumped aside and blotted myself out of sight in a wheat field. The
tall stalks concealed me completely. I waited till Fra Herve's band was
a safe distance away. I crept to the road that encircles the ramparts
and towards sunset I arrived, worn out with fatigue, at an inn where I
spent the night, giving myself out for a good Catholic. Early in the
morning I started for Etampes. They had just finished the carnage when I
arrived! It was still going on in Orleans when I passed that city. At
Blois, at Angers, at Poitiers--the same massacres of our brothers. Thus,
after long years of hypocrisy and craftiness, the pact of the
triumvirate inspired by Francis of Guise, the butcher of Vassy, was
finally carried out. Oh, my friends! Not for nothing did Catherine De
Medici say to the Jesuit Lefevre: 'Induce the Holy Father and Philip II
to be patient; let us lull the reformers with a false sense of safety; I
shall hatch the bloody egg that the Guise laid--on one day, at the same
hour, the Huguenots will be exterminated in France.' The Italian woman
kept her promise. The shell of the egg, nursed in her bosom, has broken,
and the extermination has leaped out full armed."
Odelin's widow rose to her feet pale and stately. She raised one of her
venerable hands to heaven, and with a gesture of malediction she uttered
these words, solemnly, amidst the profound silence of her family:
"Be they eternally accursed of God and man, who, from this day or in the
centuries to come, do not repudiate the Church of Rome, that infamous
Church, the only Church that has ever given birth to such misdeeds!"
"By my sister's death!" cried the Franc-Taupin. "Shall the voice of
Estienne of La Boetie be hearkened to at last? Shall we at last see
_all_ leagued _against one?_ the oppressed, the artisans, the plebs,
finally annihilate the oppressor and crush royalty?"
Hardly had the Franc-Taupin finished speaking when James Henry, the
Mayor of La Rochelle, entered precipitately, and addressing Louis
Rennepont, said: "My friend, the few words dropped by you to some of the
people whom you met on your arrival, have flown from mouth to mouth and
thrown the city into a state of alarm! Is it true that Monsieur Coligny
has been assassinated?"
"Monsieur Coligny has been assassinated! All the Protestant leaders are
murdered!" answered Louis Rennepont. "All the Protestants of Paris were
massacred on St. Bartholomew's night! At Etampes, at Orleans, at Blois,
at Tours, at Poitiers, the work of extermination is still in progress.
It was expected to steep in blood the rest of France as well. It is a
fact!"
"To arms! And may the Lord protect us!" shouted James Henry vigorously.
"Let us make ready for a desperate defense. La Rochelle is now the only
safe city left to the Huguenots. Charles IX will not be long in laying
siege to us. I shall order the belfry to ring. The City Council shall be
in session within an hour. It shall proclaim La Rochelle in a state of
danger. To arms! War to the knife against the King and his Catholics,
against the assassins of our brothers! To arms!"
CHAPTER IX.
THE SIEGE OF LA ROCHELLE.
For the first time in their lives did Charles IX, his mother and her
priests discover that there was a limit to endurance. The crime so long
elaborated, so skilfully planned, and carried out with incredible
audacity, so far from annihilating the Reformation gave it fresh life,
steeled its nerves, and rendered it unconquerable. Hardly had two months
elapsed since the massacres of St. Bartholomew, when, not Huguenots
only, but a considerable portion of the Catholic party itself, in open
revolt at the cruel excesses of the court, the fanaticism of the papacy
and the subjection of France to the exactions of Philip II, took up
arms, and made common cause with the Huguenots in order to bring about
the triumph not only of the religious but of a political reformation
also. The new adversaries of Charles IX and his mother took the name of
the "Politicals." Alarmed at the renewed and more threatening attitude
of the now so unexpectedly reinforced Huguenots, the King endeavored
once more to beguile them with false promises. He doubled and twisted,
sought to deal and compromise. It was too late. A fourth religious war
broke out. Several provinces federated together upon a republican plan.
La Rochelle became the fortified center of the Protestants. Against that
city Charles IX concentrated and directed all his forces in the course
of the last month of the year 1572--less than six months after St.
Bartholomew's night.
La Rochelle, situated at the further extremity of a wide and safe bay,
presented the aspect of an elongated trapezium, the wide side of which
was about three thousand feet in length, while the narrow one was only
twelve hundred feet, and faced the sea. The city extended from
north-east to southwest, and stretched between the salt marshes of
Rompsai, Maubec and Tasdon, on the east, and those of the New Gate, on
the west. These marshes, then partly dried or turned into meadows, were
intersected by a large number of canals the locks of which enabled the
land to be readily inundated, and presented an impassable barrier to any
hostile force. The entrance of the port was at the Center of the sea
frontage, and at the further end of the bay. It was defended by the two
large towers of Chaine and St. Nicholas, both built of brick, equipped
with cannon, and also used for powder magazines. To the right and left
of the two towers, and leaving between them the narrow port entrance,
extended a wall made of cut stone which at high tide was washed by the
waves. The wall reached, to the east, the St. Nicholas Gate, and, to the
west, the Lantern Gate, at the summit of which was a beacon to guide the
sailors by night. From that side the city was unapproachable by an armed
force except along a narrow tongue of land which joined the suburb of
Tasdon with the St. Nicholas Gate. Furthermore, besides the water-filled
fosse, Scipio Vergano, a skilful Italian engineer, employed by us, the
Rochelois, had raised an additional protection to this gate by a sort of
double counter-guard made of earth, and flanking the entrance of the
port. The eastern front which extended from the St. Nicholas Gate to the
Congues Gate, was along its whole extent but a poor wall, flanked by two
round towers. It was one of the weak sides of our city. The western
front ran in a straight line from the Lantern Tower to the bastion that
we called the Bastion of the Evangelium. This portion of the
fortifications consisted of a wall flanked by a large number of small
and closely built towers, with occasional terraces. In the middle of
this long line of defenses, which the large number of canals rendered
almost unapproachable, Scipio Vergano cut the New Gate, flanked with a
solid bastion. Finally the north front extended from the Bastion of the
Evangelium to the Congues Gate, a distance of nearly two thousand five
hundred feet. The left extremity of that vast and very vulnerable front
was defended by the Bastion of the Evangelium, which was itself
protected by a terrace of earth. In the center and the highest spot of
the line rose the demi-bastion of the Old Fountain. True enough, it
commanded the whole plain, but both the slightness of its projection and
the insufficiency of its flanks unfitted it for real purposes of
defense. This bastion covered the ramparts but imperfectly.
Such, Oh, sons of Joel, was the aspect of the fortifications of La
Rochelle, the bulwark of the Reformation and of freedom, the holy city
against which Charles IX was about to hurl his Catholic hordes and the
most powerful army ever commanded by his generals.
I, Antonicq Lebrenn, kept a sort of diary of the siege of La Rochelle,
and of the defense made by its inhabitants, among whom our own family
combated gloriously.
* * * * *
SEPTEMBER 1, 1572.--Informed of the massacre of St. Bartholomew, and
foreseeing that the Huguenots would once more take up arms, the
Rochelois placed their city in a state of defense. James Henry, the
Mayor, took an accurate census of the inhabitants. The serviceable part
was divided into eight companies, exclusive of the Colonel, the name
given to the ninth, in which the Mayor and aldermen, all anxious to
share the perils of the other citizens, are enrolled. The respective
captains elected over these bodies are: James David, Louis Gargouillaud,
Peter Portier, John Colin, Charles Chalemont, Marie Mari, Mathurin the
elder, and Bonneaud. These are all made members of the Council of the
Commune. The aldermen and other Councilmen who command no company, are
charged with inspecting the posts, and shall be on guard, day and night,
in the ranks of the Colonel. Besides these, six other companies are
formed of volunteer foot-soldiers, each a hundred and twenty men strong.
The chiefs of these are: Dessarts, Montalembert, La Riviere, De Lys,
Bretin, called the Norman, and Virolet. All these captains, men well
known for their bravery, took a glorious part in the last civil wars.
The magistrates are engaged in increasing the food supply of the city,
so long as the sea is still open to them. Captain Mirant, the father of
Cornelia, my betrothed, is charged with the command of a foraging
flotilla. He is to go for wheat to the coast of Brittany, and for
ammunitions to England. The daring sailor will know how to elude the
royalist corsairs, or to give them battle. Cornelia is to accompany her
father on the voyage, and will combat like a true Gallic woman. We bade
each other good-bye this morning.
SEPTEMBER 5, 1572.--Yesterday there arrived at La Rochelle Colonel
Plouernel, who is now head and heir of that powerful house by the death
of Count Neroweg of Plouernel and his son Viscount Odet, both killed at
the battle of Roche-la-Belle in the encounter with my father and myself.
The colonel left his wife and children with his father-in-law at the
manor of Mezlean, situated near the sacred stones of Karnak--a fief
which includes among its dependencies a house, a large garden and
several fields that once belonged to our ancestor Joel before the
conquest of Gaul by Julius Caesar.
SEPTEMBER 9, 1572.--During the last few days a large number of fugitives
who escaped the massacre of St. Bartholomew arrived at La Rochelle.
There are to-day in our city fifty noblemen of the neighborhood,
together with their families, besides sixty ministers of the Reformed
religion. Over fifteen hundred soldiers, who deserted the royal army
with arms and baggage, have come over to us.
OCTOBER 30, 1572.--Mayor James Henry and the City Council, who are
charged with watching over the safety of the city, display marvelous
activity. A military council has been established with Colonel Plouernel
and my uncle the Franc-Taupin as members. My uncle is an expert in
matters appertaining to siege work, and especially in mining and
counter-mining. The military council is strengthening the
fortifications, and throwing up fresh ones. New batteries have been set
up at all the weak points that might invite an attack between the
Congues Gate and the Bastion of the Evangelium. A redoubt is being
raised on Notre Dame Church, and upon one of its remaining towers two
large cannons, capable of sweeping the surrounding fields far and wide,
are being raised and mounted. Other engines of bombardment are mounted
upon the platforms of all the belfries that are strong enough to support
the weight and shock of artillery. The towers of Aix, of St. Catherine,
of Verdiere and of Crique are all armed in this way. Noticing that
certain portions of the moat between the Congues Gate and the Evangelium
Bastion are poorly flanked, the Franc-Taupin proposed the construction
of what he calls _taupinieres_, that is, casemates, the protected
embrasures of which are on a level with the ground, and can open an
almost subterranean, and therefore destructive fire upon the enemy. The
casemates are being constructed. Men, women and children labor at the
fortifications with inexpressible enthusiasm.
NOVEMBER 3, 1572.--A heroic decision was taken yesterday. It recalls the
decision that our ancestors Albinik the sailor and his wife Meroe saw
put into execution when the Bretons, to the end of famishing the army
of Julius Caesar, reduced to ashes their rich and fertile fields,
turning the same into a desert that extended from Nantes to Vannes![79]
Yesterday, by order of the Mayor of La Rochelle, all the houses of the
suburb of St. Eloi, and of the quarters of Salines, Volliers and Patere,
were torn down or burned by their owners. No place is to be left to the
enemy under shelter of which they can approach the city, and render the
investment more dangerous to us.
NOVEMBER 8, 1572.--Monsieur Biron has received considerable
reinforcements and advance supplies of siege material with which to
invest our city. He set up his camp before the city with headquarters at
St. Andre. Colonel Strozzi, one of the ablest officers of the Catholic
army, occupies Puy-Liboreau; Colonel St. Martin occupies Gord with
twelve hundred men under him; Colonel Goas is encamped at Rompsai with
six companies of artillery; and Monsieur Du Guast, a minion of the Duke
of Anjou, the brother of King Charles IX, is at Aytre with two regiments
of veterans. We prepared for these dispositions of the enemy. The
inhabitants of Aytre left only ruins for Du Guast to house in.
DECEMBER 8, 1572.--The enemy's army is steadily receiving
reinforcements, and extending its lines. The land blockade is
tightening. Every day there are bloody skirmishes between us and the
royalists. They lose heavily at this game. Relying upon their numbers,
they venture far into the network of our defenses. These are cut up by
moats and protected by walls, where, amid the labyrinth of hardly
distinguishable paths across the salt marshes, we find many available
places to hide in ambush, and our arquebusiers easily decimate the
Catholics. When, surprised, they seek to pursue us, they are swallowed
up in the depths of the turf-pits the surface of which is covered by a
greenish weed that they have not learned to distinguish from the grass
of the prairie. It has so far been a war of ambuscades, similar to the
patriotic resistance that the Armoricans offered on their moors, their
marshes and their forests, against the soldiers of the son of
Charlemagne, in the days of our ancestor Vortigern.[80]
DECEMBER 13, 1572.--Yesterday was fought a stubborn encounter at the
Font suburb where, led from rich springs, there pours into a reservoir
the water that an aqueduct takes into the city. The Catholics took
possession of the place for the purpose of turning off the water and
depriving La Rochelle of it. They succeeded. My uncle, the Franc-Taupin,
and his friend Barbot, the boilermaker of the isle of Rhe, proposed to
enter the aqueduct, which had been allowed to run dry, and in that way
to arrive under the camp of the enemy's troops at Font, and then blow
them up with a mine. Unfortunately their proposition was not favored. An
open attack was preferred. It cost us many men, and Font remained in the
hands of the Catholics. The canals have been cut. But the village
fountains and wells furnish us with enough water.
JANUARY 7, 1573.--In order still more to tighten the land blockade, the
enemy has erected two forts at the entrance of the bay, on the roadstead
in front of the inside port, thereby compelling our vessels to run the
gauntlet of those batteries in order to reach the city.
JANUARY 12, 1573.--Our friend Master Barbot, the boilermaker, achieved
day before yesterday a deed, unmatched, I think, in the annals of
military exploits. Not far from the counterscarp of the Evangelium
Bastion, stands a mill which we call Brande, and where Captain Normand
placed a small advanced day guard. At night they returned to the city,
leaving at the mill their arms and only one sentinel. Evening before
last, Colonel Strozzi, profiting by the moonlight, marched at the head
of a strong detachment, supported by two light pieces of artillery, to
the attack of the mill, where Master Barbot was alone on guard. Barbot
decided to remain firmly at his post, which he did, discharging one
after the other upon the assailants the arquebuses which were left
loaded on the gunrack of the post. Our friend made simultaneously a
great noise, counterfeiting a variety of voices, with the view of
causing the enemy to believe that the mill was strongly defended. On
hearing the rattle of the arquebus shots, Captain Normand ran to the
parapet of the bastion, and shouted to Master Barbot to hold out and
that reinforcements were hurrying to his support! The road was
circuitous and therefore rather long. As a consequence, before our men
could reach the bastion of the mill, which lay on the other side of the
moat, and despite all his intrepidity, Master Barbot found himself on
the point of yielding. His ammunition had run out. He parleyed, and
demanded quarter for himself and his pretended garrison. Colonel Strozzi
granted quarter to our friend, who, stepping out, revealed the fact that
his garrison consisted of himself alone. Furious at the discovery,
Strozzi was about to hang Master Barbot, when Captain Normand's men
arrived at the double quick, routed the royalists and snatched our
intrepid boilermaker from their clutches.
JANUARY 15, 1573.--God be blessed! My mother, my sister Theresa
Rennepont, Cornelia, my betrothed, and several other brave Rochelois
women had a narrow escape last night. The brigantines of Captain Mirant,
charged with the duty of provisioning La Rochelle with munitions of war
and grain, frequently set sail for the shores of Brittany or for Dover,
and re-entered our port with their cargoes of supplies. To the end of
blocking these excursions, or rendering them too perilous to be
frequently attempted, the royalists brought from the port of Brouage the
hull of a large dismantled vessel. They filled the same with sand, and
sank it at the entrance of the bay that leads to our port. The water in
that spot being shallow, the sunken hull was thus turned into a species
of half-submerged pontoon, and was mounted with a number of artillery
pieces which, jointly with those on the redoubts raised by the enemy on
the opposite sides of the bay, could cross their fires upon any of our
ships that either left or entered the roadstead. Yesterday the City
Council decided that during the night, at low tide, the vessel, left dry
upon the sand banks by the outflowing sea, was to be set on fire. The
audacious stroke--audacious because those who were commissioned to
execute it had to leave the city by the Two Mills Gate, and were forced
to heap up the combustibles around the hull under the fire of the
soldiers on guard--the audacious expedition did not otherwise require
military skill. It only required stout hearts; it devolved upon the
Rochelois women, at their unanimous and pressing demand. "The blood and
lives of the men, already numerically inferior to the besiegers,
should," said they, "be preserved for battle." The brave women
assembled, about three hundred strong, together with a goodly number of
children of about twelve years who insisted upon accompanying their
mothers. The troop consisted of bourgeois women, noble ladies, female
servants, and wives of artisans, fishermen and merchants. Among these,
and foremost among them--I mention it proudly--were my mother, my sister
Theresa, and Cornelia Mirant, recently returned from one of her father's
foraging expeditions to Brittany. At about three in the morning they
started from the city, carrying bundles of dry kindling wood and
packages of hay. A strong wind was blowing. Deep darkness favored their
march under the guidance of a fisherman's wife who bore the nickname of
the _Bombarde_, by reason of her having extinguished one of the enemy's
projectiles. Due to her often dragging for oysters and clams, which
abounded on our coasts, the Bombarde was acquainted with the safe
passages between the rocks and the quicksands that strewed the bay. She
led the Rochelois women through the darkness. The following is
Cornelia's own and thrilling account of the affair:
"Thanks to the darkness, the whistling wind, and our silent footsteps,
we approached within an arquebus shot of the vessel's hull without being
noticed by the royalists. Your mother, marching among the front ranks
between Theresa and myself, and often, like ourselves, sinking up to her
knees in water or mud, steadfastly refused to be relieved of the weight
of the bundle of kindlings that she carried. We were a short distance
from the vessel, the lights of which guided us from afar through the
mist, when the soldier on watch took alarm, and called out: 'Who goes
there!' 'Fire! Fire' answered your mother. It was the signal agreed
upon. We covered on a run the short distance that separated us from the
hull, and rapidly heaped up along its flanks the kindling wood and straw
that we brought with us. The soldier fired upon us at haphazard in the
dark, and called his companions to arms. They hastened upon the bridge
with the cannoniers, but unable to take aim upon us at so short a
distance, and from above down, they left the cannons alone and sent us
through the darkness a shower of arquebus shots that struck several of
us. The bullets whistled. One of them carried off my bonnet. Your
mother, sister and myself were close together, but we could not see one
another on account of the darkness. 'Cornelia, are you wounded?' they
asked. 'No! and you?' 'We neither!' answered your mother; and again she
called out: 'Firm, my daughters! Fire!' Thereupon she and the Bombarde,
who had just lighted a link dipped in sulphur set fire to the first
bundles of wood and straw. Their example was followed simultaneously at
a score of different places, despite fresh arquebus discharges from the
royalists. In a minute thick clouds of smoke enveloped the hull. The
flaming combustibles cast their reflection upon the puddles of water on
the sandbanks, and beyond them upon the two towers of the port. We could
see as clearly as by day. The royalists, however, blinded with the smoke
which the wind blew upon them, together with wide sheets of flame, could
no longer see to fire upon us. Thus protected, we threw three relays of
combustibles upon the flames along the flanks of the accursed hull,
which was so saturated with salt water and coated with ooze that,
despite the heat, it could only be made to sweat by the flames. When our
combustibles were exhausted, we were compelled, in order to effect a
safe retreat, to profit by the last clouds of smoke that, concealing us
from the enemy's eyes, prevented them from aiming upon us. We returned
to the city carrying the dead bodies of five of our troop. Among these
was Marie Caron, the worthy wife of our neighbor the mercer. She was
shot stone dead by a bullet in the left temple. Her son, a lad of
thirteen, had his arm broken. We also helped back a number of women and
girls of our band who were more or less seriously wounded. There were
fifteen of these. Our only sorrow was to have failed in carrying our
enterprise to a successful end."[81]
Such, sons of Joel, was the intrepidity and courage of the Rochelois
women during the siege of the city. Do they not approve themselves
worthy daughters of the Gallic women of the old heroic times?
FEBRUARY 12, 1573.--The brother of Charles IX, the Duke of Anjou,
arrived yesterday at the royal camp to assume the supreme command of the
army. He is accompanied by his two cousins, Henry of Bearn and Conde.
The two apostates, after seeing their co-religionists and best friends
slaughtered under their very eyes on St. Bartholomew's night, gave the
kiss of peace and forgetfulness to Charles IX, and now follow his army
to the siege of La Rochelle. These degenerate sons of Joan of Albert,
and of Conde have come to battle beside the butchers of their families.
Among the other seigneurs and captains in the suite of the Duke of Anjou
are the Duke of Montpensier, the Dauphin Prince of Auvergne, the Dukes
of Guise and Aumale, the Dukes of Longueville and Bouillon, the Marquis
of Mayenne, the Duke of Nevers, Anthony and Claude of Bauffremont, Rene
of Voyer, Viscount of Paulmy, the Duke of Uzes, the Bastard of
Angouleme, Marshal Cosse, the Count of Retz, and many other illustrious
seigneurs. Among the most noted captains is old Marshal Montluc, a tiger
with a human face. The presence of the experienced general, with whom
age has not softened his proverbial ferocity, sufficiently announces
that, if La Rochelle should fall into the power of the enemy, we shall
be put to the sword, to the very last one of us.
FEBRUARY 14, 1573.--The brave Francis of Lanoue joined us at La
Rochelle, thanks to a curious agreement with Charles IX. The revolt of
the Low Countries, so ardently wished for by Coligny, miscarried through
the treachery of the French court, whose anxiety to please the Pope and
Philip II was so thoroughly attested by the massacres of St.
Bartholomew's night, that all expectation of seeing it give serious
support to a republican insurrection in one of the provinces of the
Spanish monarchy had to be abandoned. Lanoue, deceived by the same hopes
that deceived the Admiral, whom the lying promises of Catherine De
Medici and her son had kept in Paris, went to Mons in order to concert
measures with the chiefs of the proposed uprising; made an unsuccessful
effort to call the people to arms; was taken prisoner, and thus escaped
St. Bartholomew's night by the merest accident. Every day more alarmed
at the indomitable attitude of the Huguenots, and aware of the influence
Lanoue enjoyed among them, Charles IX demanded his liberation at the
hands of Philip II, obtained it, summoned the Huguenot leader to the
Louvre, and said to him: "I place confidence in your word. Go to La
Rochelle. Induce the Protestants to surrender and submit. Should they
refuse, I want you to promise me that you will return, and surrender
yourself to me at discretion." "I consent," was Lanoue's answer; "I
shall go to La Rochelle. Should it appear to me, in all conscience, that
the resistance of the Huguenots is hopeless, I shall do all in my power
to induce them to capitulate. But should it appear to me that the
chances are favorable to them, I shall induce them to persevere, shall
tender them my services. If they decline my offer I shall return and
surrender myself to you." Such is the confidence that an upright man
inspires even in hardened criminals, that Charles IX accepted Lanoue's
word. Lanoue sent ahead a courier to the Mayor of La Rochelle to inform
him of his compact with the King and request admittance to the city. The
City Council assembled. Some of the members severely condemned Lanoue
for lowering himself to the point of dealing with Charles IX; others, a
considerable majority, realized the value of Lanoue's assistance, and
favored the acceptance of his services. He was introduced into the city.
His patriotic words brought all dissidents over to his side. He
inspected the defensive works of the place, and being convinced that it
could repel the royalist attack, was invested with the supreme command
of the troops, under the surveillance of the aldermen.
FEBRUARY 23, 1573.--The presence of Lanoue among us already bears
magnificent fruit. He introduces discipline among our troops. No longer
are the murderous skirmishes tolerated in which so many of our men ran
foolhardily to death. He curbs the ardor of the hotheads; drills the
volunteers in the handling of their arms and in the precision of
military evolutions, and he substitutes the tactics of prudence for the
rashness of blind bravery and unthinking enthusiasm that have been the
bane of the Protestant arms.
MARCH 27, 1573.--Faithful to his word, Lanoue yesterday left La Rochelle
and returned to the camp of Charles IX where he surrendered himself a
prisoner. From the moment that he took command, our sallies caused
great damage to the enemy, but also cost us dearly. We were not able to
repair our losses, seeing that our communications by land are cut off,
while the enemy is constantly receiving strong reinforcements. We now
number only 4,500 men able to carry arms. The enemy, on the other hand,
has to-day 28,000 men in line, and sixty cannon. The siege is conducted
with consummate skill by Scipio Vergano, the identical engineer who
fortified La Rochelle. The traitor knows the strong and the weak points
of the place. Accordingly he has concentrated all the attacking forces
of the Catholics upon the Bastion of the Evangelium. Their batteries
keep up an incessant fire upon that side of our city. Finally we begin
to lack for munitions of war. The works raised by the enemy at the mouth
of the bay render difficult the entrance of the ships upon which we
depend for provisions. Both powder and grain are running low. Captain
Mirant's flotilla sailed to England for munitions of war, and to
Brittany for food. The vessels are daily expected. If unfavorable winds
should delay their return, or if they fail to run the gauntlet of the
enemy's outer harbor fortifications, a fearful dirth will soon set in.
Having considered the grave difficulties of our situation, Lanoue was of
the opinion that we could not long resist the pressure of forces five or
six times stronger than our own. He endeavored to induce the City
Council to parliamentarize with the Duke of Anjou, with the end in view
of obtaining an honorable capitulation and favorable terms of peace,
adding that he, Lanoue had pledged his word as a man to encourage and
aid the Rochelois to resistance so long as he believed resistance to be
effective; but that, so soon as he considered resistance futile, he
would urge the besieged to capitulate, promising, should his advice not
be accepted, to surrender himself a prisoner to the King. After a solemn
session, under the presidency of Mayor James Henry, who, worn out and
almost dying with fatigue and in consequence of his wounds, but steeled
by his republican energy, administered his office, the City Council
declared by a large majority that the Rochelois would resist the
Catholics to the death. Lanoue thereupon left the city.
Oh, sons of Joel! Fail not to admire the resolute posture of the Mayor,
aldermen and heads of the civic military forces of La Rochelle! Those
generous citizens did not take up arms out of ambition, or cupidity, as
was the case with the majority of the captains in the army of Charles
IX--faithless mercenaries; swordsmen, who sell their skins and kill as a
trade by which to live; fighters by profession; men to whom war, for
whatever cause, whether just or otherwise, holy or unhallowed, is a
lucrative pursuit. No; the Rochelois fought in defense of their freedom,
their rights, their hearths. Only the consciousness that the struggle is
in behalf of the most sacred of causes can beget prodigies of heroism.
All honor to those brave men! Shame and execration upon professional men
of war.
* * * * *
The above fragments on the siege of La Rochelle, written by me, Antonicq
Lebrenn, take us down to the middle of the month of May, 1573, when the
following events occurred.
CHAPTER X.
THE LAMBKINS' DANCE.
The City Hall of La Rochelle, an edifice that was almost wholly re-built
nearly a century ago, in the year 1486, is one of the most beautiful
monuments that patriotism and the love for one's city can boast.
Catholic faith has raised up as high as the clouds the spired cathedrals
where the priests, Oh, Christ! exalt the assassination of the Huguenots,
and preach the extermination of heretics. The cult of the communal
franchises has reared City Halls, the cradles of our liberties, the
civic sanctuaries, where, upon the banner of the commune, oath is taken
to die for freedom--as did the communiers, at whose side our ancestor
Fergan the Quarryman fought in the days of Louis the Lusty.[82] The
municipal monument that we, Rochelois, are so justly proud of, consists
of a vast central building, flanked by two pavilions with pointed roofs.
Its principal facade--ornamented with twenty-seven lofty arches, the
triple entablature of which disappears under garlands of leaves and
fruits chiseled in the stone--is surmounted by a crenelated terrace
festooned with thick wreaths of acanthus leaves. From the top of each of
the two pavilions a belfry of marvelous architectural beauty pierces
the air. The one to the left presents to the wondering eye the sight of
a gilt iron cage, that is no less admirably constructed than its dome,
carved on the outside as delicately as a piece of lace-work, and held up
by three stone figures of colossal stature. One must renounce the task
of describing the profusion of crockets that jut out from the walls, and
represent sphinxes and chimeras executed with boldness and grace. One
must renounce the task of describing the stone festoons that embellish
the edifice from its base to its pinnacles, or the infinite wreaths of
fruit or flowers that clamber up the ogive moldings, doors and windows,
that weave their lintels together, wind themselves around the pillars
and columns, and finally crown the capitals. The aspect is that of a
mass of verdure--flowers and leaves in bud and full bloom--suddenly
petrified by some magic power. This imperfect description can only
impart a partial idea of the material beauty of the City Hall of La
Rochelle. But the edifice had, if the word may be used, a soul, a
breath, a voice! It was the daring soul, the powerful breath, the
patriotic voice of the Commune that seemed to animate the mass of stone
of which the antique edifice was built. There, especially since the war,
and as life centers in the heart, centered the pulsations of the city.
All energy started there and rushed back thither. It was there that the
sovereign power of the urban republic, represented by the Mayor and
aldermen whom the citizens elected, had its seat.[83] Assembled night
and day at the City Hall in sufficient number to meet all emergencies,
the valiant ediles never left the hall of the council but to mount the
ramparts, or join in sallies against the enemy's redoubts. Not
infrequently theirs was also the task of calming, controlling or even
suppressing popular tumults, engendered by the sufferings of these days.
Such was the complex and arduous task reserved for Morrisson, the
successor of James Henry, who died in consequence of his wounds and
overexertion. Glorify the Commune, sons of Joel, and its heroic
defenders.
Well, on that day, towards the middle of May, 1573, a tumultuous mob,
made up exclusively of women and children--the able-bodied men were on
the ramparts, or taking a few hours' rest--invaded the square of the
City Hall of La Rochelle, crying with the heartrending fury that hunger
inspires: "Bread!" "Bread!" No less haggard, no less pinched with hunger
than their children, a considerable number of these women, having
combatted beside the men of La Rochelle in repelling the royalist
attacks, had heads bandaged in blood-stained handkerchiefs, or carried
their arms in slings. Several children, of ten or twelve years of age,
also bore the marks of wounds received in battle whither they
accompanied their mothers. The mob, embittered and exhausted by the
trials and all manner of privations that resulted from the long siege,
saw with terror the approach of famine. Since the day before the baker
shops had been closed for want of flour. The supply of food was nearly
exhausted. The wretched crowd clamored aloud for bread; they also
clamored for Morrisson, the new Mayor, and head of the commune.
Morrisson appeared at the portico of the City Hall and stepped towards
the mob. He was at once beloved, feared and respected. Still at the age
of vigorous manhood, he wore an iron corselet and arm-pieces, while a
heavy sword hung from his side. He jumped upon one of the stone
balustrades placed at either side of the door, motioned for silence, and
addressed the crowd in a sonorous, firm and yet paternal voice:
"My children! The Council is in session. I have no time to lose in
speechmaking. Delegate to me one from among you. Let her inform me what
it is that you want. I shall answer."
The Bombarde, acclaimed with one voice as the delegate of her
companions, pushed her way forward and approached the Mayor: "Mayor, we
are hungry, and want bread! The bakers have neither corn nor flour. The
butchers' stalls are closed. Two days ago only a few handfuls of beans
and peas were distributed. Since then nothing more has come. Before the
siege most of us lived off our fisheries, and we asked help from nobody.
To-day every fisherman's boat that ventures out of port is sunk under
the cannon balls of the royalist redoubts. What are we to do? We cannot
remain without food; we are hungry; we want bread for our children and
ourselves!"
"Yes!" echoed the Rochelois women with loud cries. "Bread! Bread!
Morrisson, we must have bread!"
After this explosion of outcries and complaints, silence was restored,
and the Mayor resumed in a moved voice:
"Poor dear women! You want bread, and how do you expect me to give you
any? There is not a single grain of wheat in the city granary. But we
are hourly expecting Captain Mirant's brigantines. They bring from
England a cargo of powder, and from Brittany a cargo of wheat. They are
anchored only eight leagues from here, near the coast, at the port of
Redon. They cannot, in the absence of a favorable wind, run into La
Rochelle. The chances are a hundred to one that the adverse wind, which
has been blowing all these days, will change. It may change almost at
any moment. It may be changing now. If it does, the city will again be
supplied for several months. For the present, there is left to us a
precious resource, so far neglected--the clams and oysters. We must turn
our hands to that. You understand me?"
"Mayor! Do you know that it is now as dangerous to go out for clams as
to march upon a battery?" answered the Bombarde. "To go out for clams is
to run into the jaws of death!"
"I know it--and if the brigantines of Captain Mirant do not run into
port to-day, my wife and two daughters will go out with you to-night, at
one in the morning, when the tide will be low, and dig for clams," was
Morrisson's stoic reply.
"It will be done! Count upon us, Mayor!" replied the Bombarde. "If the
brigantines of Captain Mirant do not arrive before night, we shall put
up with hunger until night--and then we shall go out and dig for clams.
Those of us who will be killed on the banks will no longer need
anything. That is agreed upon, in God's name!"
As the Bombarde was uttering these last words, the detonations of
several discharges of artillery that shattered the window panes in the
City Hall announced the enemy was about to renew the cannonade which it
had suspended in the morning. Almost at the same instant the sonorous
sound of clarion blasts was heard drawing nearer and nearer, and
presently a large number of women of all conditions, marching at the
heels of a pastor on a white horse, ahead of which marched the
clarion-blower, turned into Caille Square.
"To the ramparts, my sisters! To the ramparts!" shouted the pastor with
martial exaltation. "The Lord of Hosts will steel your arms! Your
husbands, your fathers, your brothers and your sons are battling for the
triumph of liberty. Come to their help! To the ramparts! To the
ramparts! The enemy is about to storm the Bastion of the Evangelium!
Long live the Commune!"
"To the ramparts, my brave women! And to-night, after clams on the
banks, as perilous an expedition as battle itself!" cried Morrisson,
while the Bombarde and her companions, joining the other crowd of
Rochelois women, repeated in chorus the following psalm, led by the
pastor:
"O, Lord do guide these feeble women,
With souls ablaze, inflamed as strong men!
Break our foes like Oreb!
Break them like proud Zeeb!
Throw down those wicked kings and princes,
Who in their fury, and their ire,
Laugh at our tears and distress dire,
Who devastate our glad provinces!
Who are as a torrent wildly boiling,
A tempest, wildly rushing, rolling,
A hurricane, impetuous driven,
The tops of haughty mountains lashes,
A hellish flame that turns to ashes,
The rooks by lightning struck and riven!
"May, Oh, Lord! the storm of Thy wrath
Strew Thy foes away from our path!
May, Oh, Lord! Thy thunders and fire,
Smite Thy foes! Oh, smite with Thy ire!"