"The Place Manbert is in the hands of the people, and may be made a
Place d'Armes. Bois-dauphin tells me that the soldiers under
Tinteville, at the Petit Pont, are barricaded on all sides and cannot
move. You give me the same account of the Marche Neuf, the same is the
case with the Greve, the French guard under the Chatelet are hemmed in
all round, the Cemetery of the Innocents is invested on all sides, and
Malivaut, I understand, has been driven from his post in great
disorder. This being done, St. Paul, you see these troops of the
King's are not exactly in fortresses, but in prisons; and how Biron,
or Crillon, or the King himself, could have committed the
extraordinary error--all of them being men of experience--how they
could have committed the extraordinary error, I say, of dividing their
soldiery in the narrow streets and squares of such a city as Paris,
sending them far from the palace, and leaving them without
communication with each other, I cannot conceive. However, they are
all in our hands, and what we must think of is, to make a moderate use
of our success. Try to keep the people from any active aggression, St.
Paul; let them stand upon the defensive only, spread amongst them
different parties of those whom we have collected, who may give them
direction and assistance if needful. But keep the principal part of
our own people in this neighbourhood, that we may direct them on any
point where their presence may be necessary."
"Might it not be as well, your Highness," said the Count, "to take one
measure more? We have far more people than enough to guard all the
barricades. I can undertake to draw ten or even twelve thousand from
different spots, and march them out of the Porte Neuve."
"To lead them where?" demanded the Duke of Guise, lifting his eyes to
the countenance of St. Paul with a meaning expression.
"To the Tuilleries and to the Louvre," replied the Count. "Every point
of importance," he added in a low and meaning voice, "will then be
invested."
The Duke of Guise waved his hand. "No, St. Paul, no!" he said, "that
step would instantly require another. No; if the enemy misjudge our
forbearance, and attempt aught towards shedding the blood of the
citizens of Paris, we must then act as God shall direct us. In the
mean time I say not, that the barricades may not be carried up to the
very gates of the Louvre, for that is for our own defence; but at
present, St. Paul, at present, it must be on the defensive that we
stand. I beseech you, however, to see that no ground is lost in any
part of the city, for you know how soon an advantage is gained. Should
it be needful send for me, but not till the last extremity."
The Count of St. Paul turned to obey, but paused for a moment before
he had reached the door. The Duke of Guise by this time was gazing
fixedly upon the hilt of his sword, as it lay on the table before him,
and seemed perfectly unconscious that the Count had not quitted the
room. A slight smile curled that gentleman's lip, as he saw the
direction that the Duke's eyes had taken, and he opened the door and
passed out.
For several minutes the Duke of Guise continued to gaze in deep
thought; and his bosom at that moment was certainly full of those
sensations which never, perhaps, occur to any man but once in his
lifetime--even if Fate have cast him one of those rare and memorable
lots, which bear down the winner thereof, upon the stream of fame and
memory, through a thousand ages after his own day is done. The fate of
his country was in his hands; he had but to stretch out his arm and
grasp the crown of France: and what temptations were there to do so to
a mind like his!
It must not be forgotten that the Duke of Guise, by every hereditary
feeling, by every prejudice of education, as well as by many strong
and peculiar points in his own character, was in truth and reality a
strenuous and zealous supporter of the Roman Catholic Church. His
veneration for that great and extraordinary institution had descended
to him from his father, and had formed the great principle of action
in his own life. Even had he merely assumed that devotion for the
church during so many years, the very habit must have moulded his
feelings into the same form; and he must have been by this time, more
or less a zealous advocate of the Catholic cause, even if he had set
out with caring nothing in reality about it. But such was not the
case: his father had educated him in principles of strict and stern
devotion to the faith in which they were born; and though in the
gaieties and the frivolities of youth, or the eager struggles of
manhood, he might have appeared in the ordinary affairs of life any
thing on earth but the zealot, yet still his zeal would have been far
more than a pretence, had it only been the effect of early education
and constant habit.
There was something still more, however, to be said. The spirit of the
Catholic Church was consonant to, and harmonious with, the whole tone
of his own feelings, at once deep, powerful, imaginative,
enthusiastic, politic, and commanding. Chivalry, feudalism, and the
Church of Rome, went hand in hand: all three were, indeed, in their
decay; but if ever man belonged to the epoch of chivalry, it was Henry
Duke of Guise; and he clung to all the other institutions that were
attached to that past epoch, of which he in spirit was a part.
Attached therefore sincerely, deeply, and zealously to the Catholic
Church--far, far more than his brother the Duke of Mayenne ever was or
ever could be--Guise beheld a weak monarch, whom he despised and hated
from the very bottom of his heart, wasting the whole energies of the
Catholic party in France in a mere pretence of opposing the Huguenots,
and, in fact, caring for nothing but so to balance the two religious
factions as to be permitted to remain in luxurious indolence,
swallowed up with the most foul, degrading, and abhorrent vices;
setting an example of low and filthy effeminacy to his whole court;
and only chequering a life of soft and unmanly voluptuousness by
bursts of frantic debauchery, or moments of apparent penitence and
devotion, so wild and extravagant as to betray their own affectation,
by the absurdities which they displayed.
The church to which Guise was attached was thus betrayed; his own
especial friends and relations were neglected, insulted, or
maltreated; all that were great or good in the nobility of France were
shut out from the high offices of state, trampled upon by the minions
of the King, and plundered by insolent and fraudulent financiers; the
course of public justice was totally perverted; every thing in the
government was venal and corrupt; the exertions of commerce and
industry totally put to a stop; assassination, poison, and the knife,
of daily occurrence; and bands of audacious plunderers tearing the
unhappy land from north to south.
The Duke of Guise might well think, as he sat there gazing upon the
hilt of that renowned sword which had never been drawn in vain, that,
were he to say the few short words which were all that was necessary
to bring the crown to his head and the sceptre to his hand--he might
well think that he could obtain for France thereby those great
objects which he conceived were, beyond all others, necessary to her
well-being. He might well conceive too that the cost of so doing would
but be little: civil war already raged in the land; the whole south of
France was one scene of contention; it already existed in the capital;
and would, in all probability, be shortened rather than prolonged by
his striking the one great and decisive blow.
The King, who was absolutely at his mercy, and whom he could cast down
from his throne at a single word, was no obstacle in his way; the
Epernons, the d'Aumonts, the Villequiers, he looked upon,
notwithstanding all their favour, and the semblance of power which had
been cast into their hands, as a mere herd of deer, to be driven
backwards and forwards, like beasts of the chase, between himself and
Henry of Navarre. And then again, when he looked to the great and
chivalrous Huguenot monarch, what were the feelings with which he
regarded the struggle that might take place between them? His breast
heaved, his chest expanded, his head was raised, his eye flashed with
the thought of encountering an adversary worthy of the strife, a rival
of powers equal or nearly equal to his own. When he thought of army to
army, and lance to lance, against Henry of Navarre, with the crown of
France between them as the golden prize of their mighty strife, his
spirit seemed on fire within him, and he had well nigh forgotten all
his resolutions, in order to do the daring act which might bring about
that glorious result; and then, when fancy pictured him returning
triumphant over his rival, with peace restored, and civil war put
down, and commerce flourishing, and the rights of France maintained on
every frontier, an uniform religion, a happy people, and the strong
truncheon of command in a hand that could wield it lightly, the
prospect was too bright, too beautiful, too tempting; and he pressed
his hand tight upon his eyes, as if he could so shut it out from his
mental vision.
What was it that deterred him? There was much reason on his side;
there was little if any risk; there was the object of the church's
safety; there was the gratification of vengeance upon those who had
insulted and injured him; there were the exhortations of the King of
Spain; there was almost the universal voice of the people in the north
of France; there was his own ambition; there was the certainty that
all he did would be absolved, sanctioned, confirmed by the head of the
Catholic Church; there was already in his favour the solemn and
decided declaration of the highest theological authority in France;
and there was many a specious argument, which no one could expect that
he should sift and refute against himself.
What was it deterred him? Was it that there is a majesty which hedges
in a King, sufficiently strong to overawe even the Duke of Guise
himself? Was it that the habitual reverence, which he had been
accustomed to show towards the kingly office, veiled or shielded from
his eyes the real weakness of him who exercised it? Was it that he
feared himself?--Or was it that he felt the act of usurpation must be
confirmed by murder?
It cannot be told! Certain it is that he dreamt grand visions; that he
saw mighty prospects of fair paths leading to honour, and glory, and
high renown, and his country's good, and his church's safety; and that
he banished the visions and would not take the only step which would
have over-passed every barrier to his forward way.
The words of Catherine de Medici rung in his ears--the words which had
warned him against the growth of ambition in his own heart; he heard
the shouts of the people without, and her warning voice again came
back in tones that seemed well nigh prophetic. Almost, it would
appear, without a cause, the vanity of all things seemed to press upon
his mind at that moment with stronger effect than he had ever
experienced before. There was a leaden weight upon his spirits he knew
not why. He seemed to feel the hand of Fate, the tangible pressure of
a directing arm, selecting for him the path he was to pursue, and
forcing him thereon at the very moment when supreme command appeared
given to him without a check.
The sun seemed to dazzle his eyes as he gazed from the window, vague
figures passed before him, and crossed the dancing motes, picturing,
like shadows, the persons of whom he had been thinking. He saw Henry
the Third distinctly before him, and fierce faces and bloody knives,
and figures weltering in their blood upon the ground. He felt that he
had indulged fancy too far, that he had given way to thought at the
moment of action, that his course must be shaped as he had
predetermined it in calmer hours; and waving his hand, as if to dispel
the visions that still haunted his sight, he rose from his chair,
leaning heavily on the table, pushed the sword away from him, and
murmured to himself, "No, no! I will never be an usurper! Ho, without
there!" he continued. "Who waits? What is that sound of musketry?"
"Erlan has just arrived, my Lord," replied the attendant, "to bear
your Highness word, that the citizens have driven Malivaut down into
the market, and that is the firing we hear."
"Tell Erlan to speed back as fast as possible," replied the Duke, "and
bid them cease directly. Let them content themselves with hemming in
the enemy without attacking them. But I hear more firing still; I
shall be obliged to go forth myself."
"Monsieur de Brissac has just gone out on one side, your Highness,"
replied the attendant, "and Monsieur de St. Paul on the other; both
with the purpose of stopping the bloodshed. But they have not had time
to get to the spot yet."
"It has ceased now," said the Duke listening. "It has ceased now
towards the Chatelet: but on the other side it is fierce. Go down and
see what are those shouts, and let me know! Surely Henry," he added,
"would not venture into such a scene as this. Alas, no! He would
venture nothing--dare nothing, either for his own sake or his
country's."
A moment after the attendant returned saying, "It is the Queen, my
Lord; her Majesty Queen Catherine. The crowd of people prevents the
chair from coming up to the gates; but she has descended and is coming
on foot."
The Duke instantly started up and approached the head of the staircase
for the purpose of hurrying down to receive his royal visitor; but
Catherine was by this time upon the stairs, with Madame de Montpensier
and a number of other ladies, who had passed the morning at the Hotel
de Guise, surrounding her on all sides. The Duke advanced and gave her
his hand to aid her in ascending the stairs; and perhaps the aspect of
Catherine at that moment taught him more fully than any thing else,
how tremendous was the scene without, and how completely the capital
of France was at his disposal.
Habituated for more than twenty years to control all her feelings, and
to repress every appearance of fear or agitation, Catherine de Medici
was nevertheless on the present occasion completely overcome. Her lip
quivered, her head shook, and there was a degree of wild apprehension
in her eyes, which it was some moments ere her strongest efforts could
conquer.
"Cousin of Guise," she said, as soon as she had drawn her breath, "I
must speak with you for a few moments alone; I must beseech you to
give me audience, even if it be but for half an hour."
"Your Majesty has nothing to do but command," replied the Duke. "My
time is at your disposal."
The Queen smiled slightly at feeling how easily the empty words of
courts may be retorted upon those that use them. It has been said that
it costs nothing to use civil language and say courtly things, even
when insincere: but it costs much; for, sooner or later, we are sure
to be paid in the same coin to which we have given currency, perhaps
even more depreciating than when we sent it forth. She answered only
by that smile however; and the Duke led her forward to his cabinet,
all the rest of those who crowded the staircase remaining behind.
With every sign of ceremonious reverence the Duke of Guise led his
royal guest to a seat, and stood before her; but she paused for a
moment, and hesitated ere she spoke. "My Lord," she said at length,
"this is a terrible state of things."
"Your Majesty knows more of it than I do," replied the Duke calmly,
"for I have not gone forth from the house to-day; but I hear there is
some tumult in Paris."
"Henry of Guise!" replied the Queen, fixing her eyes upon him. "Henry
of Guise, be sincere!"
"Madam," replied the Duke, "one must adapt one's tone to
circumstances. With those who are sincere with us we may be as candid
as the day; but when we are sadly taught the fallacy of words, and the
fragility of promises, we must, of course, shelter ourselves under
some reserve."
"Your Highness's words imply an accusation," said Catherine somewhat
sharply. "In what have I dealt insincerely with you?"
"Your Majesty promised me," replied the Duke of Guise, "that my noble
friend, the young Count of Logeres, should be set at liberty not later
than yesterday morning; and that my ward, Mademoiselle de Clairvaut,
should be immediately replaced under my protection."
"You have done me wrong, your Highness," replied the Queen; "and
attributed to want of will what only arose from want of power.
Villequier has formally claimed the guardianship of Mademoiselle de
Clairvaut; his application is before the parliament at this hour; and
orders have been given on all hands for the young Lady to remain under
the protection of the King till the question is decided."
"I will cut his cause very short," replied the Duke of Guise frowning,
"if she be not within my gates ere six hours be over."
"She is within your gates even now, my Lord," replied the Queen. "Your
Highness is too quick. I sent an order myself for the liberation of
the Count de Logeres, for that only depended upon the King my son.
Some one, however, diverted it from its right course, and he was only
set free this morning. He ought to have been here before me, for I
sent him on; but I suppose he has not been able to pass the mass of
people round your doors. As to Mademoiselle de Clairvaut, I have
risked every thing to restore her to you; and notifying to Villequier
and Epernon that I would no longer countenance her being detained, I
liberated her on my own authority and brought her here in my own
chair. She would have been freed two nights ago, for I wished to
effect the matter by a little stratagem, and have her carried from the
convent and brought hither without any one knowing how or by whom it
was done; but the meddling burgher guard came up and drove the people
that I sent away. But let us, oh let us, my Lord, discuss more serious
things. Have I now been sincere with you?"
"You have, madam," replied the Duke, "and I thank your Majesty even
for doing an act of justice, so rare are they in these days. But may I
know what are now your Majesty's commands?"
"You cannot affect to doubt, cousin," replied the Queen, "that Paris,
the capital of my son's kingdom, is in revolt from end to end. Can you
deny that you are the cause of it?"
"Though no man is bound to accuse himself, madam," replied the Duke,
returning the Queen's searching glance with a calm, steady gaze, "yet
I will answer your question, and sincerely. I have in no degree
instigated this rising. His Majesty is the cause and not I. We see,
without any reason or motion whatsoever, or any expression of the
King's displeasure, large bodies of troops introduced into the city,
during the night, without drums beating or colours flying, and
altogether in a clandestine manner. We see them take possession
of various strong points, and we hear them using menacing
language--Monsieur de Crillon himself passing through the streets,
breathing nothing but menaces and violence; and if your Majesty can
wonder that in these circumstances the citizens of Paris fly to arms
for the defence of their property, of their lives, and of the honour
of their women, it is more than I can do. In truth, I know not what
the King expected to produce, but the very result which is before us.
I assure your Majesty, however, that it is not at my instigation that
this was done; though, even if I had done this, and far more, I should
have held myself completely justified."
"Justified," said the Queen, shaking her head mournfully. "What then
becomes of all your Highness said upon ambition but three days ago?"
"Ambition, madam, would have nothing to do with it," replied the Duke.
"It would have been merely self-defence. Who had so much cause to fear
that the rash and despotic proceedings which have taken place were
aimed at him as I have had? Who had so much cause to know that the
object of all this military parade, was not the hanging of some half
dozen miserable burghers in the Place de Greve, but the arrest, and
perhaps massacre, of Henry of Guise and all his kind and zealous
friends? Can you deny, madam, that such was the cause for which these
soldiers were brought hither? Can you deny, madam, that only
yesterday, when the King assuming friendship towards me, invited me to
ride forth with him--can you deny that it was debated in his council,
whether he should or should not order his guards to murder me as we
went? Confident in my own conscience, madam, and believing that the
King, though misinformed, entertained no personal ill-will against one
who had served him well, I came to Paris, walked through the royal
guards, and presented myself at Court, in the midst of my enemies,
with only eight attendants; and ever since that day, there has not
been an hour in which my life and liberty have not been in danger,
in which schemes for my destruction have not been agitated in the
Cabinet of the King; and I say that, under these circumstances, I
should have been perfectly justified in raising the people for my own
defence. But, madam, I did not do so; and I am not the cause of this
rising.--What is it, Monsieur de Bois-dauphin?" he added, turning to
a gentleman who had just entered, and who now answered a few words in
a low tone. The Duke retired with him into the window, and after
speaking for a moment or two in whispers, Guise dismissed him and
returned, making apologies to the Queen for the interruption.
It may be said, without noticing it again, that the same sort of
occurrence took place more than once--different officers and
attendants coming in, from time to time, speaking for a moment with
the Duke in private, and hurrying out again. Though Catherine de
Medici felt this to be somewhat unceremonious treatment, and though it
evidently showed her, that whatever share the Duke had had in raising
the tumult at first, he assuredly now guided all its proceedings, and
ruled the excited multitudes from his own cabinet; yet, in other
respects, she was not sorry for time to pause and think ere she
replied, knowing that she had to deal with one whose mind was far too
acute to be satisfied with vague or unsatisfactory answers.
"My Lord," she said, as soon as the conversation was resumed, "I did
not mean exactly to say that you are the active cause of these
proceedings, or that you have excited the people. What I meant was,
that your presence in Paris is the occasion of this emotion. You
cannot doubt that it is so; and therefore, being in this respect the
cause, it is only yourself who can provide the remedy."
"Pardon me, madam," replied the Duke of Guise; "I do not see how that
can be. In the first place, I have all along denied that I am the
cause, either inert or active. The people have risen for their own
defence, though, certainly, my defence and my welfare is wrapped up in
that of the people. In the next place, I know not what remedy can be
provided in the present state of affairs. What have you to propose,
madam?"
"What I came to propose, my fair cousin," replied the Queen, "and
what, I am sure, is the only way of quieting the tumult that now
exists, is, that you should quit Paris immediately.--Nay! nay! hear me
out. If I propose this thing to you, it is not without being prepared
and ready to offer you such inducements and recompences, both for
yourself and all your friends, as may show you how highly the King, my
son, esteems you, and at what a price he regards the service you will
render him. Look at this paper, good cousin of Guise, signed with his
own name, and see what perfect security and contentment it ought to
give you."
The Duke of Guise, however, put the paper gently and respectfully from
him, replying, "Madam, what you propose is impossible. Either the
people of Paris have risen in their own defence, in which case my
leaving the city would have no effect upon the tumult, or else they
have risen in mine, when it would be base to abandon them. I believe
the first of these cases is the true one, and that, therefore, by
staying in Paris, I may serve the King far more effectually than I
could by quitting the city."
Catherine de Medici had nothing directly to reply to the reasoning of
the Duke; but she answered somewhat warmly, "By my faith, your
Highness, I think some day you will logically prove that the best way
to serve the King is to take the crown off his head."