BOOK II.

FROM THE OPENING OF THE CONFERENCE OF POISSY TO THE EDICT OF NANTES.

(1561-1598.)

I.

All the recent statutes upon matters of religion were only

provisional. They announced the approaching reunion of a council,

which was to close the controversies definitively; and this was soon

a general cry throughout France.

The idea was not new. From the moment of the Reformation, Germany

had demanded the convocation of an Œcumenical and altogether free

council. The popes had long refused; they remembered the great

gatherings of Constance and Bâle, and feared to find themselves face

to face with these States-General of the Church. Overcome at last

by the urgent demands of the princes and people, they had chosen an

Italian town for the place of meeting; they had filled the council

with their creatures; and had suspended or reopened the sessions,

now at one point, now at another, according to the calculations of

their policy. Protestants could not recognise this vain semblance of

an universal council, and they kept away. The enlightened (Roman)

Catholics of France were themselves offended, and it was determined

to have a national council.

Most of the French cardinals and bishops were opposed to this. “To

what purpose is it, to dispute with such obstinate people,” said

the old Cardinal de Tournon; “if they wish to show their means of

defence, let them go to the council of Trent; they will have safe

conduct, and they may justify themselves if they can.” However, the

Cardinal de Lorraine, who was better acquainted with the temper of

the court, and counted a good deal upon his eloquence to overthrow

the Huguenots, as the writers on their side reproach him, was of a

different opinion. He proposed to authorize, not a council, but a

simple theological conference, and he obtained the consent of the

chiefs of the clergy by the help of this compromise.

The whole affair, however, was full of equivocations and

misunderstandings, and that is enough to make us understand the

character and issue of the conference of Poissy.

The Reformed pastors, remembering what had happened at Zurich, at

Geneva, and other places of Switzerland and Germany, wished to treat

with the priests as equals, taking the Bible as the supreme arbiter

of the controversy, and giving to the chiefs of the state the right

to decide finally between the two parties.

The cardinals and bishops meant quite otherwise. [They would admit]

no equality. They held themselves to be the only true representatives

of the Church, and looked upon the doctors of the Reformation as

men who had gone astray, and whom they listened to out of pure

condescension. They did not accept the Bible as the sole arbiter of

the debate. In fact, they reserved to themselves the right of being

judges in their own cause, and of themselves deciding what should be

admitted or condemned.

The (Roman) Catholic clergy, in one sense, were in the right, because

it does not belong to the civil power to resolve religious questions;

but in another sense, they were altogether wrong, for in consenting

to discuss these matters before the depositaries of political

authority, they appeared to give up that, which in reality they would

not concede. The conference of Poissy then could only be a simple

theological passage of arms, or rather, as it afterwards turned out,

an empty mockery. The priests were sure, whatever happened, to win

their cause, since they reserved to themselves the right of bringing

it to a close.

The pastors, convoked to the number of twelve, came accompanied

by twenty-two lay deputies. The most eminent amongst them was

Theodore de Bèze; he came to fill the place of Calvin, for whom the

magistrates of Geneva had in vain demanded hostages of high rank.

Theodore de Bèze was born, in 1519, at Vézelay, a little town of

Burgundy, of a noble family. He had been confided to the care of

the celebrated professor Melchior Wolmar, who made him read the

Scriptures, and by his example, as much as by his lessons, planted

in his heart the first seeds of piety. Thirty years later, Bèze

testified his gratitude to his instructor, and greeted him as his

father, when he sent him his confession of faith.

These pious instructions at first appeared to have been stifled

beneath the passions of youth. Surrounded in Paris by all that

could lead him astray, amiable, rich, and witty, he lived as a man

of the world, published a volume of light poetry under the name of

_Juvenilia_, and contracted a secret marriage. He kept it secret,

because one of his uncles, who was in orders, had made over to him

the revenues of some ecclesiastical benefices.

A serious illness awakened his conscience. “As soon as I had strength

to raise myself,” he writes to Wolmar, “I broke all my chains,

packed up my travelling effects, and left my country, my parents, my

friends, to follow Christ. I went into voluntary exile, and retired

to Geneva with my wife.” He caused his marriage to be sanctioned by

the Church, and condemned all the errors of his youth. This was in

the month of November, 1548; he was then twenty-nine years and four

months old.

The Jesuits Garasse and Maimbourg, and, which more astonishes us, the

Cardinal de Richelieu, have seized upon the poems of a student of

twenty, to attack the austere Memoirs of the Reformer. Could they not

understand the sacred duties of repentance?

Become poor, since he had given up all to his convictions, Theodore

de Bèze, the man who had been the ornament of the saloons of Paris,

determined to make himself a printer, joining with him Jean Crispin,

the author of the _History of the Martyrs_. But if he had humility

enough to accept this position, he had too much merit to remain in

it. He was made professor of theology, rector of the Academy, and

pastor at Geneva.

Then he contracted intimate relations with Calvin. Both lived in the

same faith, and in the same hope; both brought the same zeal to the

propagation of the doctrines of the Reformation in France. Calvin was

gifted with a broader and more masculine genius, a severer logic,

a more penetrating vision, a science more profound, and a stronger

will. He was the genius and the master of Theodore de Bèze. But Bèze

had an easier and more flowing eloquence, and more amiable manners,

which were better suited to the relations of social life. The one

was more fitted to stir up and govern men, the other to negotiate

with them. It has been said that Bèze was the Melancthon of the new

Luther. There is truth in the comparison. But the Reformer of Germany

seems to have needed Melancthon more than the Reformer of Geneva

required Theodore de Bèze. Melancthon was the counsellor, the support

of Luther, and finished his work; Bèze was but the most illustrious

of the disciples of Calvin.

It is pleasant to see with what modesty he placed himself beneath

Calvin, listening with deference, and seeking no other glory, if

indeed he sought any, than that of reproducing the image of his

master. “He attached himself so strongly to Calvin,” says his

biographer, Antoine de la Faye, “that he scarcely ever left him. The

conversation of this great man was of such advantage to him, that he

made incredible progress, both in the doctrine and in the knowledge

of ecclesiastical discipline.”[39]

He composed many works, of which the greater part have a polemical

character. His most considerable works are Commentaries upon the New

Testament, collections of sermons, the translation into French verse

of a part of the Psalms, and the History of the Reformed Churches of

France up to the year 1562.

Bèze went to preach at Nérac and Béarn in 1560, on the invitation of

the king of Navarre. He had scarcely returned to Geneva, before he

was summoned to the conference of Poissy, being esteemed, next to

Calvin, as the most capable of upholding the cause of the Reformation

in that assembly. “He was,” says his biographer, “of ordinary height,

he had a handsome face, an agreeable bearing.... God had given him an

understanding above the vulgar, an exquisite judgment, a marvellous

memory, a rare eloquence, and an affability so engaging that he won

the hearts of all who saw him.”

From the moment of his arrival at Poissy, he preached publicly at the

court, before an attentive and select assembly. This was on the 24th

of August, 1561. Eleven years later, to the very day, Charles IX. and

Catherine de Medicis caused the tocsin of the [massacre of] Saint

Bartholomew to knell. The inconstancy of human things! O profound

mysteries of the future!

The same evening, meeting the Cardinal de Lorraine in the apartments

of the king of Navarre, they held a conversation upon the articles of

doctrine, and especially upon the Communion. The cardinal appeared

to hold little to the dogma of transubstantiation, provided that

the real presence could be in someway maintained, and after having

listened to Bèze to the end, said to him: “I am glad to have seen and

heard you, and I beseech you, in God’s name, to confer with me, that

I may hear your reasons, and you mine, and you will find that I am

not so black as I am represented.”

Thereupon Madame de Crussol, who was _free-spoken_, cried: “You are a

good man to-day, but what will you be to-morrow? Bring ink and paper,

and make the cardinal sign what he has said and confessed; for he

will soon say the reverse.” She had guessed right. The rumour went,

the day after, that at the very first blow the cardinal had closed

the mouth of the professor of Geneva. The constable expressed his joy

to the queen at dinner. “I was there,” coldly replied Catherine de

Medicis, “and I can assure you that you are not rightly informed.”

The pastors presented requests, in which they demanded that the

bishops should not be their judges, since they were hostile parties;

that the conference should be presided over by the king and the great

persons of the state; that all the differences should be decided

solely by the Word of God, and that secretaries, equal in number on

either side, should draw up minutes of the proceedings, which should

not be held to be authentic until they were approved and signed.

This was putting the finger upon the knot of the question; but the

bishops would have broken up twenty conferences rather than consent

to such arrangements. The queen-mother knew this well; she gave an

indefinite answer, or she invited the pastors to content themselves

with her simple word, that the prelates should not be the judges of

the discussion; but she refused to promise anything in writing.

On the eve of the conference, twelve doctors of the Sorbonne arrived

at Saint Germain, with a sorrowful air, and entreated Catherine not

to let the heretics speak, or at least only to grant them this favour

with closed doors. “The (conference) will bring no edification,” they

said; “and the king is so young, that he may be infected by this

doctrine.” “I have engaged myself for good reasons,” answered the

queen, “and cannot go back; but be quiet, all will go well!”

II.

The conference of Poissy opened on the 9th of September, 1561.

This was the great spectacle of the moment for Christianity. The

pope trembled lest he should lose the finest of his provinces, and

had sent in haste the cardinal of Ferrara with the general of the

Jesuits, to hinder its taking place. The king of Spain, partly from

policy, partly from fanaticism, feared the reconciliation of the two

religions in France. The (Roman) Catholic and the Protestant states

awaited with equal impatience the issue of the debate.

On the appointed day, they met in the refectory of the nuns of

Poissy. The king Charles IX., a child of eleven years, seated

himself on his throne, having on his right and left the princes

and princesses of his family, the chevaliers of the order, and the

officers and ladies of the court. On the two lateral sides of the

oblong apartment, were the cardinals de Tournon, de Lorraine, de

Châtillon, de Bourbon, de Guise, and d’Armagnac; below them a crowd

of bishops and doctors. The deputies of the Reformed Churches had not

yet been introduced. This [was the] first mark of inequality.

The young king rose, and recited a discourse, in which he exhorted

those present to divest themselves of all passion, and to discuss

only for the honour of God, the discharge of their own conscience,

and the re-establishment of the peace of the kingdom. The Chancellor

Michel de l’Hospital, was the next to speak. “You are assembled,”

he said, “to proceed to the reformation of manners and doctrine.

It is not expedient to wait for a general council, because several

princes decline to send representatives, others will have none of

it, and it will be composed chiefly of strangers, who are ignorant

of our affairs. As to what is said, that we ought not to hold two

councils at the same time, this is not the first time that such has

been the case. The best way to arrive at an understanding, is to

proceed with humility, laying aside subtle and curious disputes.

There is no occasion for many books, but to thoroughly understand the

Word of God, and to conform to that as closely as possible. Do not

esteem them enemies, who are said to be of the new religion, who are

Christians, and baptized like yourselves, and do not condemn them

through prejudice. Receive them as a father receives his children.”

The prelates were out of temper at this discourse. The idea of a

reformation in _doctrine_, and the advice to take the Word of God for

their standard, seemed to be to yield to the demands of the Reformed.

The Cardinal de Tournon called for a copy of the chancellor’s

speech, in order to deliberate with his colleagues, because it

contained, he said, several matters of great consequence, which had

not been mentioned in the letters of convocation. The conference was

threatened to be broken up before the proceedings had been commenced,

but L’Hospital refused, and they went on.

At last Theodore de Bèze was introduced by the Duke de Guise, with

ten other pastors (Pierre Martyr had not yet arrived), and twenty-two

lay deputies. Their sober and simple costume formed a strange

contrast to the insignia of the prelates and of the people of the

court. Nevertheless, they presented themselves with confidence; for

they knew that they had God above them, and behind them a great part

of the nation.

They offered to pass the balustrade, and to seat themselves by the

side of the (Roman) Catholic doctors. They were stopped—a fresh mark

of inequality. It pleased the priests that the disciples of the

Reformation should be detained at the bar, like persons accused.

With uncovered heads they bowed respectfully, and Theodore de Bèze,

kneeling with the pastors, made a solemn confession of the sins of

the people, and implored the benediction of Heaven upon the assembly.

He was listened do with emotion and astonishment.

Having thanked the king for the favour which he had accorded to the

Reformed, of being enabled to justify themselves before him, Bèze

addressed himself to the prelates, and supplicated them, in the name

of the great God, who would be Judge of all, to unite with him, not

in giving way to sterile discussions, but to discover truth. He would

not attack what he knew to be eternal,—the true Church of the Lord.

He promised to correct himself, and his brethren, if any error

should be found in them. “And would to God,” cried he, “that without

going further, instead of opposing arguments, we might all sing a

canticle with one voice, and hold out our hands to one another.”

Then Bèze unfolded the leading doctrines of the Reformation; and

upon points of discipline, declared, among other things, that the

Reformed professed to obey their kings and superiors, with this

only reservation, that their first obedience was due to God, the

King of kings, and Lord of lords. Having finished his discourse, he

again knelt down with his brethren, and presented to Charles IX. the

confession of faith of the French churches.

A deep silence had reigned throughout the assembly up to the passage

when he said, in speaking of the sacrament of the communion, “If

any one asks us if we hold Jesus Christ to be absent from the Holy

Supper, we answer, no. But if we look to the distance between places,

as we must do, when the question of His corporal presence and his

manhood is distinctly considered, we say that His body is as far

removed from the bread and the wine, as the high heaven is distant

from the earth....”

At these words, deep murmurs broke out in the ranks of the bishops.

Some exclaimed: “_He has blasphemed!_” Others rose, and would have

left. The Cardinal de Tournon however, interrupted the speaker, and

prayed the king to impose silence upon him, or to permit them to

retire. But the king, the queen, the princes, remained quietly in

their places, and Bèze was enabled to explain his thoughts, which

amounted to this: that on the one hand, the body of Jesus Christ is

in heaven, and not elsewhere; that on the other hand, the faithful

are made the recipients of His body and of His blood by faith, after

a spiritual manner.

He had hardly done speaking, when the Cardinal de Tournon, trembling

and stammering with rage, said to the king: “We thought rightly that

these new evangelists might utter things unfit for the ear of a most

Christian king. But we beseech you to give no heed, and to withhold

your judgment until an answer has been made. We hope that you will be

brought back....” (but immediately correcting himself), “not brought

back, but preserved in the true path.”

It is well to consult the discussion, which arose, more than a

century later, upon this singular incident, between Bossuet, Basnage,

and Bayle. That the Cardinal de Tournon, the dean of the French

cardinals, an old man of seventy-two, should be carried away, may be

excused from his great age. But how explain the clamours of the other

chiefs of the clergy? Bèze had only reproduced, in measured terms,

the doctrine of the Reformed upon the Eucharist. The prelates must

have known it; they must also have foreseen that Bèze would maintain

it. What, then, was the meaning of this sudden anger? Either it was

feigned, or it was insane. Did they only seek a pretext to break

up the conference? Admitting, even, that the bishops saw in their

adversaries only accused men, still an accused man has, at least, the

right to set forth his convictions, and to interrupt him by the cry

of blasphemy, was the most flagrant of contradictions.

After the sitting, the prelates held council with their theologians,

to determine what they should do. “Would to God,” the Cardinal

de Lorraine said to them, “he had been dumb, or we deaf!” Their

embarrassment was extreme; but it was necessary to answer, not again

by supplications, but by reasons. They agreed to confine themselves

to the justification of the two points of the Church and of the

Supper; and Claude d’Espence, the most learned of their doctors,

was instructed to prepare the materials of the discourse, which the

Cardinal de Lorraine was to deliver.

In the meanwhile, the bishops resolved to draw up a confession of

faith, which all should sign, and which they should afterwards

present for the signature of the pastors. If they should refuse,

an anathema was to be instantly fulminated against them, and the

discussion to be closed. It was thus that the Roman clergy pretended

to confer with their adversaries! It is but right to say that

some (Roman) Catholic theologians had the candour to oppose the

resolutions of the majority.

The deputies of the churches, informed of this, complained to the

king, saying that it was contrary to every law, human and divine, if

even the bishops were to be their judges, to condemn them unheard.

“We declare,” added they, “that if, in consequence of having heard

us, disturbances cannot be allayed, or that greater should, to our

regret, arise, we are guiltless of them, because we have sought

and followed every means of concord.” The chancellor promised them

justice, and compelled the bishops to desist.

On the 16th of September, in the same refectory of Poissy, and before

the same assembly, the Cardinal de Lorraine delivered his discourse

upon the two articles agreed upon. He declared that the Church could

not err, and that if a part should fall into error, they ought to

have recourse to the throne of Rome, admitted from ancient times to

be the first of Christendom. As to the Holy Supper, he insisted upon

the real presence, and deplored that what had been given us as a

means of union, should have become a subject of discord. Finally, he

addressed a pathetic appeal to the king, beseeching him to remain in

the religion his ancestors had handed down to him from the time of

Clovis.

Theodore de Bèze asked leave to reply upon the spot; but the prelates

had already risen in confusion, and the Cardinal de Tournon said to

the king: “If those, who have separated, are willing to subscribe

to what has been said by Monsieur de Lorraine, they shall be heard

at greater length upon the other points. If not, let all hearing be

denied them; let your majesty send them back, and purge your kingdom

of them! This is what the assembly of prelates humbly asks of you, in

order that in this most Christian kingdom there may be but one faith,

one law, and one king.”

The doctors of the Reformation then understood what a wretched

mockery was meant by the prelates in this conference of Poissy. No

free debate, not even the show of deliberation, not even the patience

of a tribunal, which hears the accused to the end, [was to be

permitted to them]. An unconditional, absolute adhesion upon the two

points of the Church and the Supper, which logically included all the

other points, [must be given]; if not, anathema and exile [were to be

their lot].

They again made bitter, but useless complaints. To say the truth,

from this moment there was no longer a conference; and the cardinal

of Ferrara, who arrived at this juncture, confirmed the clergy in

their resolutions, by saying that the pope had learned with extreme

displeasure of the holding of this kind of national council. Nothing

further took place than some private discussions, in the presence

of persons carefully selected; and the lay deputies could not even

obtain permission to attend.

On the 24th of September, in the little priory-chamber of Poissy,

Theodore de Bèze discussed the two contested articles with the

Cardinal de Lorraine, the doctor Claude d’Espence, and a certain

Claude de Saintes, a _little white monk_, half-theologian,

half-clown, who treated his adversary as an Anabaptist for having

said he had received the Holy Ghost.

The Cardinal de Lorraine had prepared a surprise, from which he

expected great results—to make the Lutheran doctors dispute against

the Calvinists. From the commencement of the conference, he had

written to the governor of Metz to send him some theologians of the

Confession of Augsburg, learned, and above all, very obstinate, in

their opinions. The theologians came; but one of them having died

of the plague on arriving at Paris, they were afraid to summon the

others immediately to the court.

But the cardinal was unwilling to lose all the fruit of his ingenious

contrivance; so drawing from his breast a paper, which he had

received from the Counts Palatine, he called upon the ministers to

declare, yes or no, if they would sign the three or four principal

articles. They asked time to reflect.

On the 26th of September they went before the queen, who had near

her the chiefs of the clergy, and said they desired to know if the

Cardinal de Lorraine and the other prelates, renouncing the dogma

of transubstantiation, would themselves attach their signature to

the extract of the Confession of Augsburg. “If it is wished that we

should sign something,” continued Theodore de Bèze, “it is reasonable

that the Cardinal de Lorraine should also sign what he presents to us

in the name of his party.”

The cardinal was excessively nettled at this proposition. “We are

not equal, and far from being so,” he said. “For my part, I am not

called upon to sign on the word of any master; I subscribe neither

to those, who made this confession, nor to you.” “Since you will

not,” answered Bèze, “sign yourselves, it is not just to call upon us

to do so.” Bossuet pretends that Theodore de Bèze only escaped by a

subtlety. It may be so; but his antagonist had set him the example.

Jacques Lainez, the general of the Jesuits, who had just arrived with

the legate, assisted at this conference. He delivered so ridiculous

and insolent a discourse in Italian, that it astonished even the

most impetuous (Roman) Catholics. After comparing the heretics to

foxes and wolves, he said they ought not to discuss with them, but

to send them before the Council of Trent, and that it did not belong

to laymen or to women to judge of these matters. This last arrow hit

Catherine de Medicis, who showed how deeply it offended her.

Passing to the question of the Supper, the general of the Jesuits

wished to explain it by saying that Jesus Christ is present in the

Sacrament, as a king who played his own part in the feasts celebrated

to his honour. He dwelt at length upon this comparison, heaving deep

sighs, and at the end of his discourse he wept. Bèze scornfully

replied that “he had made a farce of the Supper, in which Jesus

Christ was the harlequin, a remark foolish and unworthy to be spoken,

or heard.” Then quitting the Jesuit, he entered upon a more serious

debate with Claude d’Espence.

Such was the first appearance of the Jesuits in France: but

it scarcely indicated the important part they were to play in

after-times. It was the prelates, assembled at Poissy, who authorized

them to establish themselves in France; so that, according to

the judicious remark of an historian, the assembly from which an

equitable arrangement was expected between the religions, only served

to introduce those into the kingdom, who stopped at nothing to

prevent it.

The conference was reduced to still narrower limits. The queen-mother

charged certain theologians on either side to draw up a common

formulary upon the doctrine of the Supper. The five (Roman) Catholic

delegates, who had been chosen from amongst the more moderate,

succeeded in agreeing with the Reformed by the assistance of those

vague expressions, which every one can interpret as he pleases. The

news having spread at court, many rejoiced, and Catherine de Medicis

sent for Theodore de Bèze to express to him her satisfaction. The

Cardinal de Lorraine, after reading the formula, seemed contented.

But the assembly of the clergy and the doctors of the Sorbonne

protested that this document was insufficient, captious, erroneous,

and heretical; and, to put it aside, they presented to the queen a

confession drawn up in the most strictly (Roman) Catholic sense,

demanding that the ministers, if they refused to sign it, should be

pronounced obstinate, separated from the Church, and driven out of

the most Christian kingdom.

After this there was nothing more to be discussed, and the

conference terminated on the 9th of October. One thing alone was

made clear:—that the hope of bringing the two communions together by

mutual concessions was illusory, and that nothing remained but either

to let one exterminate the other, or to allow them to live side by

side. This last idea, so little understood at that time, began to

dawn upon a few superior intellects, and especially in that of the

Chancellor l’Hospital, as we shall presently see.

III.

Notwithstanding the unhappy issue of the conference of Poissy, the

courage of the Reformed party rose greatly, because they had had

the advantage of setting forth their faith before the chiefs of the

kingdom and the princes of the Roman (Catholic) Church. It was no

longer possible to accuse them of infamous crimes, or to give them

up without form of law to the sword of the executioner. The timid

and the undecided flew to the standard of the Reformation, and a

movement, like those we have already described on other occasions,

was once more seen.

Some important towns, Milhau, Sainte Foy, Lacaune, and hundreds of

villages cut themselves off at one stroke from (Roman) Catholicism.

One pastor named Beaulieu announced to Farel that three hundred

parishes of L’Agenois had _put down the mass_. “I have heard persons

worthy of belief say,” he wrote, “that if there could be found on

this very day four thousand, or even six thousand ministers of the

Lord, they would all be employed.” Admitting that there is some

exaggeration in this, the progress would still have been considerable.

The aged Farel returned for some time to his native country, and

passing by Grenoble, exhorted the faithful to hold their meetings in

the open air. Another preacher of great reputation at Geneva, Pierre

Viret, came to Nismes in the month of October, 1561, and the day

after his arrival, eight thousand auditors crowded round the foot of

his pulpit.

He was suffering from the effects of two attempts at assassination.

A female domestic, gained by some monks, had tried to poison him at

Geneva; and a priest of the Pays de Vaud, having attacked him on the

highway, had so beaten him that he had been left for dead upon the

spot. “To look at me,” he wrote at a later period, referring to his

first sermon at Nismes, “I appeared like a dry anatomy covered with

skin, who had taken my bones there to be buried; so much so, that

even those who were not of our religion, but strongly opposed to it,

pitied me and said: ‘What is this poor man come to do in our country?

Has he come here to die?’ And I have even heard that, when I ascended

the pulpit for the first time, many seeing me feared that I should

faint before I could finish my sermon.”

He however rendered important services to the Reformation at Nismes,

Lyons, Montpellier, and Orthez. He preached, according to the

testimony of his contemporaries, with a sweetness and a charm which

were peculiarly his own. It was not the vehemence of Farel, nor the

depth of Calvin, but something unctuous and penetrating, which never

wearied his hearers. Pierre Viret presided in 1563 at the national

synod of Lyons. He has left some controversial writings in a lively

and ingenious style, copies of which appear to have been well thumbed

by the hands of the people.

In this great religious movement, new Catholic churches were invaded;

for in several places there no longer remained either priests to

celebrate the old worship, or believers to attend. And as crucifixes,

images of saints, relics, and other objects, which the Reformation

regarded as monuments of idolatry, were found in these churches,

they were broken or cast into the fire. These devastations are to be

deplored; Pierre Viret and all wise men opposed them. But how could

it be otherwise? The Reformers but imitated the early Christians

without knowing it, and from the mere force of circumstances. “On

every side,” says M. de Châteaubriand in his narrative of the fourth

century, “temples were demolished, a loss ever to be lamented for the

arts; but the material monument fell, _as it always will_, beneath

the intellectual force of an idea, which has made its way into the

conviction of the human race.”[40]

Meetings of eight thousand, fifteen thousand, some historians say

forty thousand, were held at Paris. To avoid tumults, they were

held outside the town. The people went out and came back by several

gates. One of the usual preachers was Theodore de Bèze, whom the

queen-mother had invited to stay in France, since his presence might

be required. He blessed a court marriage between M. de Rohan and

Mademoiselle de Barbançon, in the presence of the queen of Navarre

and of the prince of Condé, which inspired greater confidence in the

faithful of Paris. The Reformation was decidedly taking a hold in

public and official acts.

The meetings were divided into two great sections. The one celebrated

its worship outside the gate of Saint Antoine, at Popincourt;

the other in the faubourg Saint Marceau, in a place called _Le

Patriarche_. Several ministers preached at the same time before

multitudes of hearers. The women placed themselves in the centre,

then came the men on foot, next some men on horseback, and lastly,

soldiers or bowmen, who protected the unarmed crowd.

It is difficult, on account of the contradictory testimony of

contemporaries, to calculate exactly the respective forces of the

two communions. Theodore de Bèze says, that if the Reformed had

determined either at Paris or in the provinces to employ all their

means of action, they could have maintained the contest with a

prospect of success. The Cardinal de Sainte Croix, a sort of titled

spy entertained by Rome in France from 1561 to 1565, reports in his

letters that even the members of the council were uncertain as to

the numerical force of the parties, and concluded his last letter by

saying that the kingdom was half Huguenot.

Admiral Coligny, on the invitation of the queen-mother, presented her

with a list of more than two thousand five hundred churches, which

demanded liberty of religion, and placed the persons and the wealth

of the Reformed at the disposal of the king. He referred to flocks

united in congregations, and administered to by regular pastors.

To arrive at an exact estimate, it would be necessary to add the

great mass of new believers, who had not yet been able to organize

themselves according to the rules of discipline.

A letter which, it is said, was written by the Chancellor l’Hospital,

some days before the conference of Poissy, and sent to the pope Pius

IV. from the king, contained the following curious indications:

“The fourth part of this kingdom is separated from the communion of

the Church; and this fourth part is composed of gentlemen, of the

principal citizens, and of those of the lower classes, who have seen

the world, and are accustomed to bear arms, so that the separated

lack not for strength. Neither are they deficient in counsel, for

they have with them more than three-fourths of the men of letters.

They have no want of money to carry on their affairs, having on their

side a great proportion of the large and good houses, both of the

nobility and of the Third Estate.”

In raising the number of the Reformed, in this document, to a fourth

of the population, it is probable that the discontented and undecided

were included, in order to render the pontiff more tractable as to

projects of accommodation. But those historians, who pretend that the

Calvinists formed at this time but a tenth of the population, must

fall into a far more serious error, if we reflect that this minority

sustained long and bloody wars against the (Roman) Catholics in every

part of the kingdom, and always compelled them to consent to peace.

The tenth part of the kingdom could not have held out so long against

the other nine.

At Paris, the markets, the brotherhoods, the workmen, all the smaller

classes, in a word, preserved their attachment to the old worship.

The better order of citizens were divided; but the majority continued

to profess (Roman) Catholicism. The greater number of the gentry,

on the contrary, had adopted the Reformed faith, or were inclined to

favour it. After the Guises and the court, it was Paris that saved

the Romish church in France.

The position of the Reformed had become false and insupportable in

every way, under the control of the Edict of July. This edict, which

tolerated domestic gatherings and forbade public meetings, could

not be carried into effect. The new believers, wherever they were

numerous, necessarily overturned the barrier of the law; and on the

other hand the (Roman) Catholic populace, excited by the priests, or

carried away by their own fanaticism, were committing the greatest

atrocities. They bathed in blood at Tours, Sens, and Cahors. Even

at Paris, a conflict—known as the mutiny of Saint Médard—broke out.

Order, rule, and authority were at an end.

Measures of restraint became necessary. The cardinals and bishops,

true to their spirit of persecution, counselled the expulsion of

all the preachers from the kingdom, and the extermination of those

who should resist; but Catherine de Medicis and L’Hospital answered

that such a course would instantly lead to civil war. Only one thing

appeared feasible to the chancellor—namely, to give a legal sanction

to the public meetings of the Calvinists, under certain conditions.

Hence the Edict of January, 1562, was deliberated and adopted in

a solemn assembly of the Notables. L’Hospital then, for the first

time, developed the idea of the co-existence of the two communions.

He declared that if the king should side entirely with one party, he

must at once raise an army to crush the other, and that it would be

difficult to make the soldiers fight against their fathers, brothers,

sons, or dearest friends. “The question is not,” he said, “about

settling religion, but the common weal; for many may be citizens,

who are not Christians. Even an excommunicated person does not cease

to be a citizen, and we may live at peace with those who are of

different opinions, as we see in the same family, where those who are

(Roman) Catholics do not the less live in peace with, and love those,

who are of the new religion.”

These were the principal provisions of the Edict of January. Those of

the Reformed, who had seized churches and ecclesiastical property,

were ordered to restore them without delay. It was forbidden to

destroy the images, to break the crosses, or to commit any other

act, which might give occasion for scandal. It was also forbidden

to meet in the interior of towns by night or by day, but authority

was given to assemble outside the gates, and to preach, pray, and

perform other religious exercises. No one was allowed to go armed to

the assemblies, gentlemen excepted, whilst officers of the government

were to be admitted whenever they chose to be present.

One clause, which marks the spirit of the epoch, was to the

effect, that the ministers were ordered to swear before the civil

magistrates, that they would preach in conformity to the Word of God

and the Nicene Creed, “_in order_” said the edict, “_not to fill our

subjects with new heresies_.” The pastors did not complain of this;

for they saw a barrier in this obligation against the invasion of

doctrines opposed to their own confession of faith.

The Edict of January answered better to the wants of Paris and of the

northern or central provinces, than to those of the south. How could

whole cities go and worship outside their walls? and to what purpose

was it to restore churches, which, for want of (Roman) Catholics,

must remain closed? However, Theodore de Bèze and his colleagues,

while confessing that more might have been expected, invited the

faithful, in the name of God, to observe the edict, and their advice

was generally listened to. The religious edifices were given up;

the tithes were paid to the priests; and the Reformed now busied

themselves only in peacefully organizing their flocks under the

protection of the laws.

Not so was it, however, in the opposite camp. The Guises had refused

to assist at the assembly of the Notables; and Anne de Montmorency

only went to protest against the new decree. The Parliaments of

Bordeaux, of Toulouse, Rouen, and Grenoble, registered the edict

without difficulty. The Parliament of Dijon, on the contrary, under

the influence of the Duke d’Aumale, brother of the Cardinal de

Lorraine, met it with a formidable refusal. The Parliament of Paris

gave way only after several letters of command had been issued, and

added this clause: “In consideration of the urgent necessity, without

approving the new religion, and until it be otherwise ordered!” This

was in effect, while accepting a law of toleration, to announce the

return of persecution.

Notwithstanding this resistance, matters had become more endurable,

and the public peace might have been gradually restored, but that the

defection of Anthony de Bourbon, lieutenant-general of the kingdom,

opened the gate to civil war and the most frightful disasters.

IV.

The intrigue was not intended to bring over the Prince de Condé, and

still less Coligny: it was well known that their hearts were too

noble, and their will too strong for this to take effect. But the

king of Navarre offered an easier prey to seduction, and the legate

of the pope, the cardinals, the Lorraines, the ambassador of Spain,

concerted together for this purpose. The details which follow, are

attested even by the defenders of the Church of Rome: it is necessary

to remember this, in order that they may be believed.

In the first place, they played upon the jealousy of the king

of Navarre, by telling him that, in spite of his title of

lieutenant-general, he was only the second, or even the third,

person of the Calvinist party. Abandoned women were placed in his

way, because his passions were known to incline him towards ignoble

pleasures. Above all, they flattered his dream of the restitution

of the kingdom of Navarre, or of an equivalent. Philip II., without

binding himself in writing, as we may readily believe, offered him,

by his ambassador, sometimes a kingdom in Africa, at one time that

of Tunis, and at another the island of Sardinia, of which he was to

have the sovereignty on condition of paying a moderate tribute. The

memoirs of the time record the fantastic and marvellous descriptions

made to him of this country: it was represented to him as one of

those fortunate isles that exist only in fables. The pope, taking

part in this comedy, promised his good offices to secure such a

magnificent kingdom for Anthony de Bourbon.

The historian Davila, favourable as he is to the (Roman) Catholic

party, cannot help sneering at the credulity of the king of Navarre:

“The ambassador Mauriquez,” he says, “renewed his negotiations

by his usual arts; the clauses and conditions were discussed as

seriously as if a treaty were to be signed.”[41] The Cardinal de

Sainte Croix, with the same frankness, lays open the secrets of this

bargain. Anthony de Bourbon consented to separate himself from _the

others_ (the Calvinists); but he wished first of all to re-enter into

possession of his property, or to obtain a fair equivalent. Thus we

may perceive his conscience truckled for a kingdom in the clouds.

The Guises laid another trap. They insinuated to the king of Navarre

that he might marry their niece, Mary Stuart, when the pope had

annulled his marriage with Jeanne d’Albret, on account of heresy; and

thus they held the crown of Scotland before his eyes!

Anthony de Bourbon, dazzled, seduced, won, profited by a conference

between the theologians of the two communions, to declare that the

Calvinist ministers, after all their boasting, had not been able to

withstand the (Roman) Catholic doctors; and full of violence, like

a man who has just sold himself, he treated them as charlatans and

impostors, with whom he would have nothing more to do. On learning

this, the Cardinal de Lorraine cried out, with an air of triumph,

“See what truth has gained by those conferences, for which I have

been so much reproached!”

Theodore de Bèze, who had been called to France by the king of

Navarre, went to him several times to beseech him not to abandon the

cause of (the Reformed) religion. He was coldly received: and in a

letter to Calvin, dated the 26th of February, 1562, he said, “Never

was there witnessed such an example of treachery and wickedness. In

an audience which he gave me, he was not ashamed to treat me as if I

were ignorant of things, of which even children were cognizant.”

Calvin wrote pressing letters to the king, but in vain. Jeanne

d’Albret herself employed both tears and prayers without success.

“She excited pity in all who beheld her,” says Bèze, “except in her

husband, the king, so besotted was he!” Anthony de Bourbon was, in

fact, so enraged against her, as positively to maltreat her; and

Jeanne d’Albret, losing all hope, retired to Béarn.

She was born at Paris, in 1528, and was the only daughter of Margaret

of Valois: she had all the brilliant qualities of her mother,

combined with a firmer piety, and a more decided character. Her

education was solid and well directed. She understood Greek, Latin,

and Spanish, and wrote verses with facility in a poetical contest

with Joachim du Bellay.

In 1548 she married Anthony de Bourbon, and in 1555, on the death of

her father, she took the name of queen of Navarre. Jeanne d’Albret

was slower than her husband in embracing the Reformed faith; she only

decided in 1560; but she was unalterably constant to it; and when

Catherine de Medicis advised her to fall in with the altered humour

of the king of Navarre, she made this answer, which marks the fervour

of the newly-converted: “Madame, rather than ever go to mass, if I

had my kingdom and my son in my hand, I would cast them both into the

depths of the sea.”

At the moment of her departure for Béarn, she clasped her son Henry

in her arms, bathed him with her tears, and beseeched him to preserve

the faith, in which he had been educated. One day Henry IV. had to

forget both the prayers and the farewell of his mother.

When she was once more in her kingdom, Jeanne d’Albret, taking up the

work of Margaret of Valois, opened schools, colleges, and hospitals,

and published a new code—a precious monument of good sense and

wisdom—which bears the name of _Stil de la reine Jehanne_. Soon there

was not a beggar in Béarn. The children of the poor, who showed any

aptitude for sciences and literature, were educated at the expense of

the treasury. Drunkenness, usury, and games of hazard were severely

repressed. All the arts flourished with the new faith; and even now,

at the end of three centuries, the people of Béarn pronounce the name

of the _good queen_, who so greatly raised the prosperity of their

country, with an affectionate veneration.

Jeanne d’Albret had many struggles to sustain, and many perils to

encounter. The Cardinal d’Armagnac reproached her, in the name of the

pope, with having introduced into her dominions a heresy which had

committed so many excesses. “You make me blush for you,” she answered

him: “Take out the beam from your own eye, to see the mote in your

neighbour’s; cleanse the earth from that just blood which you and

yours have shed.”

In 1563, Pius IV. cited the queen of Navarre to appear before

the tribunal of the Inquisition within six months, under pain of

forfeiting her crown and her possessions. Jeanne d’Albert complained

of this (insult) to all the sovereigns of Europe; and Charles IX., on

the advice of the Chancellor l’Hospital, told the pontiff that he was

singularly offended at this attempt to withdraw a subject and vassal

of the crown of France from her natural judges. Once again the pope

gave way. The times of Gregory VII. no longer existed!

Escaped from this peril, Jeanne d’Albret encountered another. The

historian De Thou relates that the project was conceived at the

court of Madrid, of carrying her off with her children, in order to

hand her over to the Spanish Inquisition. The wife of Philip II.,

Elizabeth, a daughter of France, informed her of this intention, and

the plot failed.

If Jeanne d’Albret had been placed on a larger theatre, she might

have been the greatest woman of her age. “She was,” says the Abbé de

Laboureur, in his notes on the Mémoires de Castelnau, “the wisest,

most generous, most learned princess of her time; she had in her

heart the source of every virtue, and of every great quality.”

Agrippa d’Aubigné says also: “Of woman she had nothing but the sex,

her whole soul belonged to manly things, her powerful spirit to vast

affairs, and her unconquerable heart to great adversities.”

Whatever excellence Henry IV. possessed of a chivalrous character,

or of love for his people, he inherited from his noble mother, and

France must ever associate the name of Jeanne d’Albret with that of

the most popular of her kings.

V.

The defection of the king of Navarre, lending weight to the

triumvirate, bore the fruit which the (Roman) Catholic party

expected. Coligny and his brothers, seeing that they were treated

with mistrust, withdrew from court. The prince of Condé, who had

hitherto been kept at a distance, went and fixed himself at Paris;

and the Guises thus had full liberty to commit acts, which in more

settled times would have been esteemed as high treason against the

chief of the state. They concluded an alliance with the king of Spain

and the duke of Savoy, and undertook to open to them the gates of the

kingdom for the extermination of heretics. At the same time, they

tore up the Edict of January at the sword’s point, by the massacre of

Vassy.

Vassy was a small, but strong town in the county of Champagne. It

contained about three thousand inhabitants, the third of whom,

without counting the surrounding villages, professed the Reformed

faith. This change of religion irritated the Lorraines, who were

established near the town, in their dominion of Joinville, and in

particular a very aged lady, the dowager-duchess of Guise, who could

not understand why the Huguenots had not already been put an end

to. She pretended that the inhabitants of Vassy had no right, as

vassals of her grand-daughter Mary Stuart, to choose a new religion

without her permission. She therefore threatened them with a terrible

vengeance, and as they gave no heed to her violence, she invited her

son, the duke Francis of Guise, to make a striking example of such

insolent rebels.

On the 28th of February, 1562, the duke, having received from the

king of Navarre an invitation to return to Paris to suppress the

Huguenots, left the Château of Joinville with an escort of several

gentlemen, and two hundred horsemen. Arriving the next morning at

Brousseval, a village a quarter of a league distant from Vassy, he

heard the sound of the bells. “What is that?” he asked of one of

his attendants. “That is for the service of the Huguenots.” “By the

mort-Dieu!” exclaimed the duke, “we will Huguenot them presently

after a different fashion.”

On Sunday, the 1st of March, on entering Vassy, he was joined by

sixty horsemen and bowmen. He dismounted in front of the hall, and

sent for the prior and the provost—both bitter enemies of the new

doctrine. During this time the Reformed had assembled, to the number

of about twelve hundred, in a barn, and were celebrating their

worship under the protection of the Edict of January. Not one of them

was armed, with the exception of two strangers, probably gentlemen,

who had their swords.

The soldiers of the duke, placed at the head of the escort,

approaching the barn, commenced crying out: “_Huguenots, heretics,

dogs, rebels against the king and God!_” The faithful hastened to

close the doors, but the assailants leaped from their horses, crying:

“_Kill, kill, mort-Dieu! kill these Huguenots!_” The first they

met with was a poor hawker of wine. “In whom do you believe?” they

demanded. “I believe in Jesus Christ,” answered the man; and he was

instantly speared upon the spot. Two others were killed near the

door, and those who showed themselves at the openings of the barn

were fired at from the outside. The Calvinists had collected stones

to defend themselves.

On hearing the tumult, Guise hastened to the spot, and threw himself

into the conflict. He received a blow in the face from a stone; his

blood flowed. His men became exasperated, and he was beside himself.

No pity was shown for age or sex: a horrible butchery ensued. Some

fell on their knees, their hands clasped, calling for mercy in the

name of Jesus Christ. The answer was: “You call upon your Christ,

where is He now?” Others lifted up the roof, and sought to escape

over the walls of the town. “They were shot down,” says an old

historian, “like pigeons on a roof.”

The pastor, Leonard Morel, was on his knees in his pulpit, calling

upon the God of Mercies. He was fired at when he sought to fly; but

when near the door he tripped over a corpse, and instantly received

several sword-cuts on his right shoulder, and on his head. Thinking

himself fatally wounded, he cried out: “Lord, into Thy hands I yield

my spirit, for Thou hast redeemed me.”

Two gentlemen, who were near, exclaimed, “This is the minister;

let us take him before M. de Guise.” They dragged him, for he was

not able to walk, and the duke thus addressed him: “Minister, come

here; are you the minister here? What makes you so bold as to seduce

these people?” “I am no seducer,” answered Morel, “I have preached

the Gospel of Jesus Christ.” “Mort-Dieu,” replied the duke, “does

the Gospel preach sedition? Thou art the cause of the death of all

people; thou shalt be hanged. Provost, up with a gibbet to hang him!”

Happily, out of these hundreds of cut-throats, no one could be found

to fill the office of executioner. Morel was kept under strict guard,

and the delay saved him.

Sixty persons were left upon the floor after this butchery, and

two hundred more were wounded, several fatally. The corpses were

stripped, and some days after, the footmen of the duke sold their

property in open market, “crying them aloud,” says Crespin, “as a

bailiff would who had taken furniture in execution.”

During this carnage, the Bible of the Calvinists was brought to the

duke. He gave it to his brother the Cardinal Louis de Guise, who had

remained on the walls of the cemetery. “Here,” said he, “see the

titles of the books of these Huguenots.” “There is no harm in this,”

answered the cardinal; “it is the Holy Scriptures.” “How, sang-Dieu!

the Holy Scriptures! It is fifteen hundred years and more since

they were made, and these books have only been printed a year. By

the mort-Dieu! it is good for nothing.” The cardinal could not help

saying: “My brother is wrong.”

This circumstance is not unworthy of history: it exhibits, once more,

how profound and degrading was the ignorance in religious matters of

the principal defender of the Romish church.

The duke was walking up and down, biting his beard, a sign with

him of furious anger. He summoned the judge of the district, and

upbraided him for having suffered these conventicles. The judge

pleaded the Edict of January. “The Edict of January!” said Guise,

laying his hand upon his sword; “this steel shall speedily cut

asunder this edict, however tightly bound.”

The following day, being at Eclairon, his people informed him that

the Huguenots of Vassy had sent complaints to the king. “Let them

go,” he said with scorn; “they will find neither their admiral, nor

their chancellor.”

Reflection, however, made him understand that it was no trifling

matter to have authorized this butchery in a time of perfect

peace, and he therefore sent a lawyer to Vassy to commence a sort

of inquiry. A tale that the Huguenots had been the aggressors was

invented, as if it were likely that such an extravagant notion could

be believed, that people unarmed, assembled at the foot of the pulpit

with women and children, should be the first to attack the numerous

escort of François de Guise!

In the following year, when upon his death-bed, the duke protested

that he had neither premeditated, nor ordered the massacre of

Vassy. We are willing to take him at his word, notwithstanding the

overwhelming remarks of Bayle; it would grieve us to witness an

ignoble leader of a band of assassins in this brave and valiant

captain, the defender of Metz, the conqueror of Renty. But had he not

a firm resolve to use at least some violence against the Huguenots of

Vassy? What did he do to prevent the massacre? Was he the man to be

disobeyed? Towards the end of the affair, he ordered, at the request

of the duchess of Guise, that the women with child should be spared,

but nothing more. Moreover did he prosecute, did he so much as

disclaim any one of the murderers? Even the charge of premeditation

he set aside; his consent to the massacre cannot be denied. The blood

of Vassy is on his head: it has been visited upon him, his son, and

his race. “All they who take the sword, shall perish by the sword.”

The news of the massacre of Vassy created an extraordinary impression

throughout the kingdom; it roused all the Reformed to indignation

and horror. This was not the crime of a vile populace led on by some

contemptible priests, or abject monks. Here was one of the greatest

lords of France, who had, in contempt of the law, shed the blood of

the faithful in torrents. If this offence were to go unpunished,

where would justice be henceforth, and who could be secure against

assassination?

At Paris the agitation was so great that an immediate resort to arms

was apprehended, and the Marshal de Montmorency, the governor of the

town, invited the faithful to suspend their assemblies. But they

answered that this would be to give up the cause to their enemies,

and to acknowledge that there existed a power superior to that of the

law in the kingdom. They, however, restricted themselves to demanding

from the marshal the compulsory observance of the edict.

The prince of Condé and the principal members of the party addressed

themselves to Catherine de Medicis. They represented to her the

insolence of the triumvirate, the league of the Lorraine princes with

the king of Spain, the growing audacity of their enterprises, the

dangers which threatened the royal authority, and protested that they

were ready to sacrifice their possessions and their lives for the

cause of the throne, which was now linked with the Reformed faith.

Catherine employed her usual dissimulation, gave evasive answers, and

tried to penetrate the secrets of the Calvinists, in order to turn

them to her own account, as occasion might serve, for or against them.

The consistory of Paris resolved to exhaust every legal means before

opposing force to force, and sent Theodore de Bèze to the court

to demand the exemplary punishment of the murderers. The king of

Navarre, who was present at the audience, and who wished to give

some testimony of his zeal to his new allies, exclaimed: “They threw

stones at my brother, the duke of Guise; he could not restrain the

fury of his people; and mark me, whosoever shall touch but the end

of his finger, shall touch my whole body.” “Sire,” Bèze answered,

“it is indeed the part of the Church of God, in whose name I speak,

to endure blows and not to give them; but you will also please to

remember that it is an anvil, which has used up many hammers.”

Theodore de Bèze spoke the truth. Anthony of Bourbon and his have

fallen; the persecutors rest in their sepulchre, but the French

Reformation still lives.

VI.

We now come to the wars of religion. The history of the Reformed at

this juncture becomes the general history of France, and as that is

related in writings without number, which are in everybody’s hands,

we shall only give a rapid summary of the principal facts, directing

our especial attention to whatever may serve to depict the private

life of the oppressed party.

The duke of Guise made a triumphal entry into Paris. The priests

urged on the multitude to crowd the path of the man of Vassy, whilst

comparing him to Judas Maccabæus, and awarding to him the glorious

name of _defender of the faith_. Catherine de Medicis was offended

at this triumph both in her pride as queen-mother, and in her right

as regent; but the duke left her no time to concert a league with

the Calvinists. Encouraged by the support of the king of Navarre, of

Anne of Montmorency, and of the Marshal de Saint André, he carried

off Charles IX. and Catherine herself, and dragged them from

Fontainebleau to Melun, from Melun to Vincennes, and from Vincennes

to Paris. These were the days of the 5th and 6th October of the

triumvirate.

Where legitimate authority now rested was unknown. The sovereignty

was floating about at hap-hazard. The Reformed were in some sort

placed beyond the law by the enterprises of the man, who had recently

massacred their brethren; they found themselves thrown into an

attitude of personal defence. So, from one end of France to the

other, without preliminary concert, they flew to arms, just as one

would do when he sees his house broken into at midnight by a band of

robbers.

“It is ever to be remembered,” says an historian of the sixteenth

century, “that so long as the Reformed were put to death under any

form of justice, however iniquitous and cruel, they held out their

necks, and offered no resistance. But when public authority, in the

person of the magistracy, wearied of burnings, flung the knife into

the hands of the people, and the tumults and enormous massacres of

France had torn away the venerable aspect of justice, and had made

neighbour to slaughter neighbour at the sound of trumpet and drum,

who could forbid the wretched to oppose arm to arm, steel to steel,

and to catch from a fury without justice the contagion of a just

fury?... Let foreign nations judge which of the two parties have

their foreheads stained with the crime of war!”[42]

The queen-mother seemed to authorize the Huguenots’ resort to arms,

and even to solicit it in the name of Charles IX. “My cousin,” she

wrote to the prince of Condé, “you will take care to preserve the

children and the mother, and the kingdom for him whom it concerns,

by whom you may rest assured it will never be forgotten. If I die

before I have an opportunity of showing my gratitude, as I wish to

do, I will leave instructions to my children. I see so many things

which grieve me, that were it not for the confidence I feel in you,

that you will aid me in preserving this kingdom and the authority of

the king, my son, in spite of those who would lose all, I should be

yet more grieved.” These letters, communicated to the gentry of the

religion, strengthened them in their projects: for they believed

they were upholding not only their own cause, but that of the crown.

Both sides invited foreign aid into the kingdom. The (Roman)

Catholics set the example; the Roman pontiff preached a crusade in

Italy and Spain similar to that of Simon de Montfort against the

Albigeois, and the Huguenots, in their turn, claimed the assistance

of every Protestant nation. Under one or the other banner, Spaniards,

Swiss, Germans, and Englishmen were speedily ranged. So will it

ever be in the great wars of religious or political principles. Men

then separate themselves, not people from people, but faith from

faith, because something is at stake more powerful than nationality

itself, and because country is only dear when it realizes the mighty

convictions, which have taken possession of their souls. If a

struggle were to break out in Europe to-morrow for the fundamental

principles of politics, what occurred in the sixteenth century would

be seen again; the only difference would be in the device of the

colours and the watchword of the combatants.

Each party published long manifestoes, another inevitable occurrence

in a war of principles. The Calvinists demanded the strict execution

of the Edict of January, the restoration to liberty of the king and

queen-mother,—who, they declared, were prisoners,—the punishment of

the authors of the crime of Vassy, or at least, the withdrawal of

the duke of Guise, and of the two other triumvirs, to their houses.

The (Roman) Catholics answered, respecting the Edict of January, by

equivocal phrases; as to the liberation of the king and queen, they

asserted that they were perfectly free; as to the punishment of the

authors of the affair of Vassy, that there was no one to punish; and

with regard to the retreat of the members of the triumvirate, that

their presence was essential to the public good.

The most remarkable document of these preliminary discussions is

the act of association, which was concluded between the prince of

Condé and the Calvinist lords, on the 11th of April, 1562, after

the celebration of the communion. All avowed that they had only in

this alliance the honour of God before their eyes, the liberation of

the king and of the queen, the maintenance of the edicts, and the

punishment of those who had violated them. They solemnly swore to

prevent blasphemy, violence, pillage, all that is forbidden by the

law of God, and to establish good and faithful ministers, who should

teach them to do His will. They appointed the prince of Condé the

chief and leader of their enterprise, as being of the blood royal and

protector of the crown of France. Lastly, they promised, on their

hope of Paradise, to fulfil their duty with unshrinking fidelity.

Their first deeds of arms were fortunate. Orleans, Tours, Bourges,

Poitiers, Rouen, Le Hâvre, Lyons, Montauban, Nismes, and the greater

number of the strong castles of Normandy, of Poitou, of Saintonge, of

Guienne, of Languedoc, and of Dauphiné, fell into their hands almost

without a blow, towards the end of April.

The triumvirate, on their side, acted with vigour. They dictated

at their discretion the resolutions of the Council and the decrees

of the Parliaments. They strove especially to bind the people of

Paris, without reservation, to their fortunes. The (Roman) Catholic

citizens were armed and formed into regiments. Fifty thousand men

were counted upon at the first sound of the tocsin. The commune sat

_en permanence_. Chains were placed at the corners of the streets,

to barricade them, in case of attack. Certificates of (Roman)

Catholicism were required from all the procureurs, receivers,

constables, and other public officers. The churches were the clubs of

the time; they were still more so under the League.

The Huguenots received orders to quit Paris in twenty-four hours

under pain of death. The infamous accusations of former years were

again brought against them. Coarse prints were constantly circulated,

representing the heretics tearing out the bowels of the monks, and

casting their victims before swine. The fanaticism of the populace

was raised by these provocations to the blindest pitch of frenzy, and

it was enough to pass for a Huguenot in the streets to be instantly

slaughtered. Theodore de Bèze cites many instances of these facts.

The triumvirs and the priests knew very well what they would gain by

seizing upon the opinion of this powerful city. “Paris,” says the

historian Davila, “alone gave more credit, and more weight, than

one-half of the kingdom could have given.”[43]

Coligny felt this. He advised the prince of Condé to march direct

upon Paris, urging that the triumvirs had as yet no army, and that

a multitude without discipline might be easily overcome. Condé

refused. Brother of the king of Navarre, and looking forward to be

one day lieutenant-general of the kingdom, he was obliged to act with

circumspection even towards his most violent adversaries. A prince of

the blood is not the man to lead a party in those critical moments,

when all must be hazarded to conquer all. Would the English Puritans

have triumphed, if they had chosen a member of the royal family for

their chief instead of Cromwell?

Catherine de Medicis proposed to open conferences between the two

parties. It was the only plan, by which she could still make any

figure. In the struggles of warriors she could do nothing; in

negotiations she relied upon her genius, and flattered herself that

she could entangle the heads of the (Roman) Catholics, as well as of

the Reformed, in her intrigues.

A first conference was held on the 2nd of June, at Thoury, in Beauce.

It was agreed that each party should meet, with an equal escort of

gentlemen, who should keep aloof, at a distance of eight hundred

paces from each other. But whilst the chiefs debated, the gentlemen

drew near together; in fact, they yearned towards each other. On a

sudden, old friendships rekindled; party quarrels were forgotten;

there were no longer Papists and Huguenots, but mingling embraces

and tears; they only remembered that they had spent their childhood

together, had drunk out of the same cup, and slept under the same

roof. Sacred instinct of the heart! It inspired better emotions than

the science of theologians, or the politics of statesmen!

The queen-mother had conceived, with the bishop Montluc, her private

counsellor, a strange expedient. It was to engage the chiefs of the

two parties to impose on themselves a voluntary exile. The triumvirs

were to withdraw from the court; the prince of Condé, the admiral,

and the principal Calvinists, were to leave the kingdom until the

majority of Charles IX., that the religious differences might be

peaceably arranged. Such an idea was but a court stratagem, which

could settle nothing.

Much time had been lost. The Calvinist gentlemen, who had to

maintain themselves at their own expense, were beginning to return

home, and the army of the triumvirs was increasing. This was

perceived by the increase of persecution. The Parliament of Paris

passed a decree, at the end of June, commanding heretics to be set

upon, and to be killed, wherever they should be met, like madmen,

who were enemies of God and man. Every Sunday the curates were

to read this dreadful decree from the pulpit. The peasants, the

workmen, armed themselves with whatever weapon came to hand, and

began to scour the country, as if to rid it of wild beasts. The

monks, in their hideous language, called this “letting slip the great

greyhound.”

A new decree of the Parliament, passed on the 18th of August,

declared all the gentlemen of the new religion, with the exception of

the prince of Condé, traitors to God and the king, and summoned them

to appear in three days, in default of which they were to be punished

by the confiscation of their bodies and their goods.

It was then that the Calvinists determined to press D’Andelot to

bring some lansquenets from Germany, and to conclude a treaty with

Elizabeth, queen of England, by which she undertook to furnish

a force of six thousand men. Three thousand were to land at

Havre-de-Grâce, and three thousand were to serve for the defence of

Dieppe and Rouen, which were in the hands of Condé. This treaty was

signed on the 20th of September, 1562, and Queen Elizabeth published

a manifesto, in which she affirmed before heaven and before the

world, that she had no other object, but to defend the loyal subjects

of King Charles IX., her brother, against the tyranny of their

oppressors.

VII.

The duke of Guise and his confederates hastened to lay siege to the

town of Rouen. The count of Montgomery, the same who had mortally

wounded Henry II. in a tournay, took the command, and had with him a

devoted population, and a strong garrison.

Between the besiegers and the besieged a contrast might be observed,

which was to be reproduced eighty years later, between the Puritans

of Cromwell and the royalist cavaliers. In the (Roman) Catholic army

licentiousness reigned. Catherine de Medicis, who had turned to

the strongest side, had brought with her her maids of honour. The

trenches were opened to the sound of serenades, and the damsels of

the court, constituting themselves the judges of the camp, awarded

prizes to the cavaliers. In the interior of the town all was sober

and severe. Here were no games or spectacles, but only sermons,

prayers, and psalms; and after the religious service, the women went

to the ramparts to fight by the side of their husbands.

After a siege of five weeks, Rouen was taken by assault, and given up

for eight days to the fury of the soldiery. The Parliament, which had

retired to Louviers, came to complete the work by judicial murders.

Several of the principal inhabitants were condemned to death, among

others Jean de Mandreville, president of the “cour des aides,” and

the pastor Augustin Marlorat.

This last had figured at the conference of Poissy. He was versed in

science, and possessed piety and moderation of character, and enjoyed

the esteem of the faithful. The constable wished to see Marlorat, and

accused him of having seduced the people. “If I have seduced them,”

answered the minister of Christ, “God first seduced me; for I have

preached to them the simple Word of God.” While they were dragging

him on a hurdle to the gibbet, he exhorted his fellow-sufferers to

glorify God to their last breath.

Anthony de Bourbon was mortally wounded during this siege, and

licentious passions, which he could not subdue, hastened his

end. After having received the viaticum, on the entreaty of a

court-bishop, he appeared in his last moments to return to the

Reformed faith; for he requested his physician to read the Bible to

him, and with his eyes full of tears he prayed to God for pardon,

declaring that if he recovered, he would cause the Gospel to be

preached throughout the kingdom. But it was too late. Anthony de

Bourbon died at the age of forty-four, and the only funeral oration

that can be made over him is that of Etienne Pasquier: “The king of

Navarre is dead, from a gun-shot; he is regretted neither by one

party, nor the other!”

On the 19th of December the battle of Dreux was fought. The Calvinist

army consisted of four thousand cavalry and five thousand infantry;

the (Roman) Catholic army of sixteen thousand foot and two thousand

horse. These forces were but small for an encounter, which might

produce most important results; but, even of these, the foreign

mercenaries of the triumvirs amounted to two-thirds, and to one-half

in those of the Huguenots. But the war was at that time carried on

from one end of France to the other; every province, every town, and,

in some sort, every hamlet, had its soldiers; so that the troops

encamped near Dreux formed but the smallest number of the combatants.

For more than two hours, the armies gazed at each other in sullen

stillness. “Each one thought within himself,” as relates the honest

Lanoue, “that he had relations, friends, and comrades before him.”

At length the battle began, and was kept up for seven hours with

excessive ferocity. Eight thousand dead bodies encumbered the plain

at the end of day.

The Calvinists had at first the advantage, and some runaways having

carried the news to Paris, Catherine de Medicis coolly replied:

“Well, we must pray to God in French.”

But the duke of Guise, having charged with the reserve, changed the

face of the combat. Coligny tried in vain to bring his men back to

the attack; all he could effect, was to retreat in good order. The

chiefs of the two armies, the prince of Condé and the Constable de

Montmorency, were taken prisoners. The Marshal de Saint André, one

of the triumvirate, fell upon the field. “Die, traitor,” said a

Calvinist officer, in discharging a pistol at his head, “die by the

hand of one whom thou hast despoiled.”

The winter did not suspend hostilities. Coligny again took the field

in Upper and Lower Normandy. The duke of Guise went to besiege

Orleans, the principal place, and the centre of the war-operations

of the Calvinists. “Once take the burrow, when the foxes have

retreated,” said he, “and we will chase them all over France.”

Already, in spite of the heroic defence of D’Andelot and the

citizens, two suburbs had been taken, and the tower of the bridge

had been carried, when the duke of Guise was wounded on the evening

of the 18th of February, 1563, by Jean Poltrot de Méré, who fired

a pistol close to his breast. He died six days after, bitterly

regretted by the (Roman) Catholic party. They gave him at Paris the

funeral of a king, and Catherine de Medicis assumed great grief,

which she did not feel.

Several historians,—Mézeray among others,—assure us, that in his

last moments he advised the queen-mother to make peace as quickly

as possible; adding, that whosoever prevented it would be an enemy

to the king and to the state. This was to counsel toleration, since

peace could not be firmly established, except on this condition. Did

François de Guise better understand his duty at the hour of death,

than he had done throughout his life? Perhaps he did. Ambition no

longer led him astray, and the thought of the judgment of God might

have inspired him with the words of truth.

The murderer of the Duke de Guise was a gentleman of Angoumois, at

that time twenty-five or twenty-six years old. An ardent (Roman)

Catholic in his youth, Poltrot had served in Spain, and had so

far adopted the language and manners of that country, as to have

been called by the nickname of _Espagnolet_. Having embraced the

Reformed faith, he was compelled to fly to Geneva, and to follow

the trade of an artisan for a livelihood. His temper was soured and

his imagination excited. Returned to France, he heard on every side

loud complaints against the duke of Guise, whom the Huguenots called

the _butcher of Vassy_, and the destruction of the murderer of his

brethren appeared to him an act of legitimate reprisal. Such were the

deplorable effects of these wars of religion, which distorted all

ideas of justice, and depraved the soul—abyss only leading to abyss!

The death of the duke of Guise changed the face of affairs. Anne de

Montmorency being a prisoner, there was no longer in the (Roman)

Catholic army any chief of renown, and Catherine de Medicis resumed

the negotiations, which she had never entirely abandoned. She tried

to seduce Condé by the promise of the lieutenancy-general of the

kingdom. This prince, who had fallen into the hands of the (Roman)

Catholics at the battle of Dreux, had lived for three months apart

from the austere men of the Calvinist party; “_he already breathed_,”

says Mézeray, “_the soft air of the court, and of the gaieties of the

ladies_.” Won over by the artifices of the queen, he asked leave to

go and treat for peace at Orleans.

As soon as he arrived, he addressed these two questions to the

pastors: Whether it were reasonable to exact that the Edict of

January should be restored in all its articles? or, on the other

hand, if that could not be obtained, whether it would not be

desirable to enter into arrangements with the queen to quell the

disorders of the kingdom? The pastors, to the number of seventy-two,

seeing him hesitate, addressed a remonstrance to him in writing,

asking for a fair and safe exercise of their religion, both in

the places where it already existed, and in such places where the

inhabitants might claim it.

The prince paid no heed to this remonstration, and despairing of

overcoming the resistance of the ministers, turned to the gentlemen,

who he knew were tired of war, and communicated to them certain

clauses, which accorded to the nobility religious privileges. The

pastoral body was neither heard nor received in this conference, and

the majority of the gentlemen accepted the proposed articles.

The queen-mother vehemently urged on the conclusion; she feared to

lose a single day, because she foresaw that if the Admiral Coligny

had time to come up, the entire edifice of her intrigues would fall

at a blow. Therefore, as soon as the prince of Condé had returned,

she signed the articles, and this treaty, drawn up under the form of

an edict of pacification, was published at Amboise on the 19th of

March, 1563.

It contained the following points: Free exercise of religion in those

towns, which were in the power of the Calvinists at the date of the

7th of March, 1563; permission to the lords _haut-justiciers_ to hold

assemblies throughout the whole extent of their domains; permission

to the nobles of the second rank to celebrate their worship in their

own houses, but only for their households; finally, in each bailiwick

pertaining directly to the Parliaments, the concession of a single

place of worship. To all the other members of the Reformed faith, it

accorded only private worship: “Every one,” said the treaty, “shall

be permitted to live at liberty in his own house, without search or

molestation, and without being forced or constrained for conscience’

sake.”

Truly, there was a wide difference between the articles of Amboise

and the Edict of January. Instead of a general right, the mass of

the Reformed had now but the toleration of their domestic hearths.

The nobles alone, and the faithful who dwelt in the neighbourhood

of a bailiwick-town, could hold assemblies. This was separating the

disciples of the Reformation like persons sick with the plague in a

lazaretto.

When the Admiral learned the contents of this treaty, he felt the

most lively indignation. “This stroke of the pen,” said he, “ruins

more churches than the enemy could have pulled down in ten years.”

He returned to Orleans by forced marches, and arrived on the 23rd

of March, hoping still to find the means of obtaining better

conditions. He presented himself before the council, and explained

his dissatisfaction to the prince. He said that the affairs of

religion were in a favourable state; that two of the principal

authors of the war were dead, and the third a prisoner; that, in

confining the assemblies to one town in a bailiwick and to the lords

_haut-justiciers_, the poor, who had nevertheless set the example to

the rich, were sacrificed; and lastly, that the gentlemen themselves

who wished to do their duty, would soon feel what heavy chains they

had accepted.

This discourse made so strong an impression, that many, who had taken

the advice of Condé, would have wished that the whole matter were

to be done over again. But the prince answered that he had received

private promises, and that when he was lieutenant-general of the

kingdom, all would go on well. Coligny had to give way. Orleans

was restored to the king’s troops, and the Huguenots aided them in

retaking Hâvre from the English.

Such was the end of the first religious war, if such a word can be

used to designate a simple suspension of arms, adopted on each side

with mental reservations. No one was or could be satisfied. The

ardent (Roman) Catholics complained no less than the Calvinists.

Politicians could not understand those categories, which surrendered

to a few what was refused to the masses. No principle had dictated

the Edict of Pacification, and France, covered with blood, had not

even time to apply the first dressing to her grievous wounds.

VIII.

Having set forth the course of general affairs, it is now necessary

to cast a glance at what had been going on in the provinces. War was

waged not only between party chiefs and regular armies; it also broke

out in a thousand forms throughout the kingdom. It was a great and

fearful struggle of province against province, town against town,

house against house, and man against man. Never was it so clearly

seen that the worst of all wars are civil wars, and of all civil wars

the wars of religion.

The excesses of the revolution would convey but a faint idea [of

the then state of things]. Fanaticism had converted France into a

band of cannibals, and the gloomiest imagination may be defied to

conceive all the kinds of refined, revolting, execrable, and obscene

punishments which were then practised. But there is in this spectacle

a great lesson to be learned: it is that the principle of religious

liberty is one of the most precious possessions of humanity.

A detailed recital of these horrors is not here to be expected. They

fill a volume of Theodore de Bèze. Jacques de Thou devotes to them

several books of his history. Crespin, Jean de Serres, the memoirs

of Montluc, of Tavanes, of Condé, of Lanoue, and of fifty others are

full of them. Whoever wishes to investigate the details may seek for

them there. Were we to attempt the task, the pen would again and

again fall from our hand.

The Huguenots had observed a rigid discipline at the outset of the

campaign. Having newly taken up the cross and risen at the call of

their conscience, they wished to absolve their arms by the austerity

of their lives. There were no women in their camps; no cards or dice;

no blasphemy; no profane discourse; no maurauding or pillage. The

nobles paid in money for all that they took for themselves or for

their followers. Those who committed violence were punished. A lord

of Dammartin, who had outraged the daughter of a villager, narrowly

escaped execution. Another was hanged at Orleans for adultery; and

this, much more than any differences of doctrine had done, aroused

the dissolute court of Catherine de Medicis.

At morning and evening, public prayers were said. The ministers,

distributed by companies, maintained good order by their

exhortations. A prayer has been preserved which was repeated in the

army. The Calvinists addressed supplications to God for the king, the

queen-mother, the princes of the royal blood, and the members of the

council.

The same discipline prevailed at Orleans. “Besides the ordinary

sermons and the prayers to the _corps de garde_,” says Theodore de

Bèze, “extraordinary general prayers were said at six o’clock in the

morning, after which, the ministers and the people without exception

went to work at the fortifications with all their strength, each one

returning at four o’clock in the evening to prayers; a place was also

set apart for the wounded, who were most humanely tended by the most

distinguished ladies of the town, who spared neither their money nor

their labour.”[44]

Unfortunately this lasted only for a few months; Coligny had foreseen

it. “This discipline is indeed a noble thing,” said he, “as long as

it lasts; but I fear these people will throw down all their goodness

at once. I have commanded infantry, and I know them; they often

fulfil the proverb which says: ‘_out of a young hermit grows an old

devil_.’”

Religious passions, added to the want of money, drove the Huguenots

to carry off the ornaments of the churches. They broke the sacred

vessels, mutilated the statues of the saints, and dispersed the

relics. These excesses excited in the hearts of the (Roman) Catholics

a rage impossible to be described. “You knock down the images,” they

said; “you destroy the relics of the dead; well! we will knock down

as many living images as fall into our hands.”

The decrees of the Parliaments added fuel to the popular fury, by

giving it a semblance of justice. The peasant left his plough, the

artisan his trade. The [Roman Catholic bands] consisted of people of

no calling, vagabonds, and beggars, and free companies armed with

reaping-hooks, knives, and pikes. They chose a captain at hazard,

some famous brigand, or else a monk, or curate; sometimes even a

bishop; and these bands, drunk with fanaticism and revenge, respected

neither law, modesty, nor pity. In Champagne they were called

“_naked-feet_” (_pieds-nus_).

They fell upon the Calvinists by surprise, massacred the men,

outraged the women, demolished the houses, tore down the vines,

rooted up the trees, and desolated entire cantons. “There are too

many people in France,” cried out a leader of these ruffians, “I will

kill a sufficient number to make provisions cheap.”

The Huguenots, it may be believed, also resorted to reprisals; but

being less numerous, and mostly belonging to the more cultivated

classes, they did less harm than they suffered.

The excesses, serious everywhere, were especially so to the south

of the Loire, on account of the great number of the Reformed, and

the ardent character of the population. At Cahors, five hundred

Huguenots were attacked one Sunday while they were at service, and

the bishop, Pierre Bertrandi, had them all butchered to the last man.

At Montauban the inhabitants had quitted their town at the approach

of the (Roman) Catholic bands; but having been massacred in crowds,

the survivors returned within their walls, and sustained three sieges

with heroic constancy.

The events which happened at Toulouse in May, 1562, will serve to

characterize what was passing throughout the whole extent of the

southern provinces.