enjoying the air of that beautiful August morning, when he was startled
by shouts of "Kill, kill!" They were raised by a body of guards, who
were firing with much more noise than execution at a number of Huguenots
who had crossed the river--"to seek the King's protection," says one
account; "to help the King against the Guises," says another. Charles,
who had just been telling his mother that "the weather seemed to rejoice
at the slaughter of the Huguenots," felt all his savage instincts kindle
at the sight. He had hunted wild beasts; now he would hunt men, and,
calling for an arquebuse, he fired at the fugitives, who were
fortunately out of range. Some modern writers deny this fact, on the
ground that the balcony from which Charles is said to have fired was not
built until after 1572. Were this true, it would only show that
tradition had misplaced the locality. Brantome expressly says the King
fired on the Huguenots--not from a balcony, but--"from his bedroom
window." Marshal Tesse heard the story, according to Voltaire, from the
man who loaded the arquebuse. Henault, in his _Abrégé chronologique_,
mentions it with a "_dit-on_" and it is significant that the passage
is suppressed in Latin editions. Simon Goulart, in his contemporary
narrative, uses the same words of caution.
Not many of the Huguenot gentlemen escaped from the toils so skilfully
drawn round them on that fatal Saturday night: yet there were a few. The
Count of Montgomery--the same who was the innocent cause of the death of
Henry II--got away safe, having been forewarned by a friend who swam
across the river to him. Guise set off in hot pursuit, and would
probably have caught him up had he not been waiting for the keys of the
city gate. Some sixty gentlemen, also, lodging near him in the Faubourg
St. Germain, were the companions of his flight.
Sully, afterward the famous minister of Henry IV, had a narrow escape.
He was in his twelfth year, and had gone to Paris in the train of Joan
of Navarre for the purpose of continuing his studies. "About three after
midnight," he says, "I was awoke by the ringing of bells and the
confused cries of the populace. My governor, St. Julian, with my
_valet-de-chambre_, went out to know the cause; and I never heard
of them afterward. They, no doubt, were among the first sacrificed to
the public fury. I continued alone in my chamber, dressing myself, when
in a few moments my landlord entered, pale and in the most utmost
consternation. He was of the Reformed religion, and, having learned what
was the matter, had consented to go to mass to save his life and
preserve his house from being pillaged. He came to persuade me to do the
same and to take me with him. I did not think proper to follow him, but
resolved to try if I could gain the College of Burgundy, where I had
studied; though the great distance between the house in which I then was
and the college made the attempt very dangerous. Having disguised myself
in a scholar's gown, I put a large prayer-book under my arm, and went
into the street. I was seized with horror inexpressible at the sight of
the furious murderers, running from all parts, forcing open the houses,
and shouting out: 'Kill, kill! Massacre the Huguenots!' The blood which
I saw shed before my eyes, redoubled my terror. I fell into the midst of
a body of guards, who stopped and questioned me, and were beginning to
use me ill, when, happily for me, the book that I carried was perceived
and served me for a passport. Twice after this I fell into the same
danger, from which I extricated myself with the same good-fortune. At
last I arrived at the College of Burgundy, where a danger still greater
than any that I had yet met with awaited me. The porter having twice
refused me entrance, I continued standing in the midst of the street, at
the mercy of the savage murderers, whose number increased every moment,
and who were evidently seeking for their prey, when it came into my head
to ask for La Faye, the principal of the college, a good man, by whom I
was tenderly beloved. The porter, prevailed upon by some small pieces of
money which I put in his hand, admitted me; and my friend carried me to
his apartment, where two inhuman priests whom I heard mention 'Sicilian
Vespers,' wanted to force me from him, that they might cut me in pieces,
saying the order was, not to spare even infants at the breast. All the
good man could do was to conduct me privately to a distant chamber,
where he locked me up. Here I was confined three days, uncertain of my
destiny, and saw no one but a servant of my friend's, who came from time
to time to bring me provisions."
Not until the second day does there appear to have been any remorse or
pity for the horrors inflicted upon the wretched Huguenots. Elizabeth of
Austria, the young Queen who hoped shortly to become a mother,
interceded for Condé, and so great was her agitation and distress that
her "features were quite disfigured by the tears she had shed night and
day." And, the Duke of Alençon, a youth of by no means lovable
character, "wept much," we are told, "over the fate of those brave
captains and soldiers." For this tenderness he was so bitterly
reproached by Charles and his mother that he was forced to keep out of
their sight. Alençon was partial to Coligny, and when there was found
among the admiral's papers a report in which he condemned appanages, the
grants usually given by the crown to the younger members of the royal
family, Catherine exultingly showed it to him--"See what a fine friend
he was to you."
"I know not how far he may have been my friend," replied the Duke, "but
the advice he gave me was very good."
If Mezeray is to be trusted, Charles broke down on the second day of the
massacre. Since Saturday he had been in a state of extraordinary
excitement, more like madness than sanity, and at last his mind gave way
under the pressure. To his surgeon, Ambrose Paré, who kept at his side
all through these dreadful hours, he said: "I do not know what ails me.
For these two or three days past, both mind and body have been quite
upset. I burn with fever; all around me grin pale blood-stained faces.
Ah! Ambrose, if they had but spared the weak and innocent." A change,
indeed, had come over him; be became more restless than ever, his looks
savage, his buffoonery coarser and more boisterous. "_Ne mai poteva
pigliar requie_" says Sigismond Cavalli. Like Macbeth, he had murdered
sleep. "I saw the King on my return from Rochelle," says Brantome, "and
found him entirely changed. His features had lost all the gentleness
[_douceur_] usually visible in them."
"About a week after the massacre," says a contemporary, "a number of
crows flew croaking round and settled on the Louvre. The noise they made
drew everybody out to see them, and the superstitious women infected the
King with their own timidity. That very night Charles had not been in
bed two hours when he jumped up and called for the King of Navarre, to
listen to a horrible tumult in the air; shrieks, groans, yells, mingled
with blasphemous oaths and threats, just as they were heard on the night
of the massacre. The sound returned seven successive nights, precisely
at the same hour." Juvenal des Ursins tells the story rather
differently. "On August 31st I supped at the Louvre with Madame de
Fiesque. As the day was very hot we went down into the garden and sat in
an arbor by the river. Suddenly the air was filled with a horrible noise
of tumultuous voices and groans, mingled with cries of rage and madness.
We could not move for terror; we turned pale and were unable to speak.
The noise lasted for half an hour, and was heard by the King, who was so
terrified that he could not sleep the rest of the night." As for
Catherine; knowing that strong emotions would spoil her digestion and
impair her good looks, she kept up her spirits. "For my part," she said,
"there are only six of them on my conscience;" which is a lie, for when
she ordered the tocsin to be rung, she must have foreseen the
horrors--perhaps not all the horrors--that would ensue.
ISAAC D'ISRAELI
An original document now lying before me, the autograph letter of
Charles IX, will prove that that unparalleled massacre, called by the
world religious, was, in the French cabinet, considered merely as
political; one of those revolting state expedients which a pretended
instant necessity has too often inflicted on that part of a nation
which, like the under-current, subterraneously works its way, and runs
counter to the great stream, till the critical moment arrives when one
or the other must cease.
The massacre began on St. Bartholomew Day, in August, 1572, lasted in
France during seven days; that awful event interrupted the
correspondence of our court with that of France. A long silence ensued;
the one did not dare tell the tale which the other could not listen to.
But sovereigns know how to convert a mere domestic event into a
political expedient. Charles IX, on the birth of a daughter, sent over
an ambassador extraordinary to request Elizabeth to stand as sponsor; by
this the French monarch obtained a double purpose; it served to renew
his interrupted intercourse with the silent Queen, and alarmed the
French Protestants by abating their hopes, which long rested on the aid
of the English Queen.
The following letter, dated February 8, 1573, is addressed by the King
to La Motte Fénelon, his resident ambassador at London. The King in this
letter minutely details a confidential intercourse with his mother,
Catherine de' Medici, who, perhaps, may have dictated this letter to the
secretary, although signed by the King with his own hand. Such minute
particulars could only have been known to herself. The Earl of
Wolchester (Worcester) was now taking departure, having come to Paris on
the baptism of the princess; and accompanied by Walsingham, our resident
ambassador, after taking leave of Charles, had the following interview
with Catherine de' Medici. An interview with the young monarch was
usually concluded by a separate audience with his mother, who probably
was still the directress of his councils.
After Catherine de' Medici had assured the Earl of Worcester of her
great affection for the Queen of England, and the King's strict
intention to preserve it, she took this opportunity of inquiring of the
Earl of Worcester the cause of the Queen his mistress' marked coolness
toward them. The narrative becomes now dramatic.
"On this, Walsingham, who always kept close by the side of the Count
[Earl of Worcester], here took on himself to answer, acknowledging that
the said Count had indeed been charged to speak on this head; and he
then addressed some words in English to Worcester. And afterward the
Count gave to my lady and mother to understand that the Queen his
mistress had been waiting for an answer on two articles; the one
concerning religion, and the other for an interview.
"In regard to what has occurred these latter days, that he must have
seen how it happened by the fault of the chiefs of those who remained
here; for when the late admiral was treacherously wounded at Notre Dame,
he knew the affliction it threw us into--fearful that it might have
occasioned great troubles in this kingdom--and the diligence we used to
verify judicially whence it proceeded; and the verification was nearly
finished, when they were so forgetful as to raise a conspiracy, to
attempt the lives of myself, my lady and mother, and my brothers, and
endanger the whole state; which was the cause that to avoid this I was
compelled, to my very great regret, to permit what had happened in
Paris; but as he had witnessed, I gave orders to stop, as soon as
possible, this fury of the people, and place everyone on repose. On
this, the Sieur Walsingham replied to my lady and mother that the
exercise of the said religion had been interdicted in this kingdom. To
which she also answered that this had not been done but for a good and
holy purpose; namely, that the fury of the Catholic people might the
sooner be allayed, who else had been reminded of the past calamities,
and would again have been let loose against those of the said religion
had they continued to preach in this kingdom. Also should these once
more fix on any chiefs, which I will prevent as much as possible, giving
him clearly and pointedly to understand that what is done here is much
the same as what has been done and is now practised by the Queen his
mistress in her kingdom. For she permits the exercise but of one
religion, although there are many of her people who are of another; and
having also during her reign punished those of her subjects whom she
found seditious and rebellious. It is true this has been done by the
laws, but I, indeed, could not act in the same manner; for finding
myself in such imminent peril, and the conspiracy raised against me and
mine and my kingdom ready to be executed, I had no time to arraign and
try in open justice as much as I wished, but was constrained, to my very
great regret, to strike the blow [_lascher la main_] in what has been
done in this city."
This letter of Charles IX, however, does not here conclude. "My lady and
mother" plainly acquaints the Earl of Worcester and Sir Francis
Walsingham that her son had never interfered between their mistress and
her subjects, and in return expects the same favor although, by accounts
they had received from England, many ships were arming to assist their
rebels at La Rochelle. "My lady and mother" advances another step, and
declares that Elizabeth by treaty is bound to assist her son against his
rebellious subjects; and they expect, at least, that Elizabeth will not
only stop these armaments in all her ports, but exemplarily punish the
offenders. I resume the letter.
"And on hearing this, the said Walsingham changed color, and appeared
somewhat astonished, as my lady and mother well perceived by his face;
and on this he requested the Count of Worcester to mention the order
which he knew the Queen his mistress had issued to prevent these people
from assisting those of La Rochelle; but that in England, so numerous
were the seamen and others who gained their livelihood by maritime
affairs, and who would starve without the entire freedom of the seas,
that it was impossible to interdict them."
Such is the first letter on English affairs which Charles IX despatched
to his ambassador, after an awful silence of six months, during which
time La Motte Fénelon was not admitted into the presence of Elizabeth.
The apology for the massacre of St. Bartholomew comes from the King
himself, and contains several remarkable expressions, which are at least
divested of that style of bigotry and exultation we might have expected:
on the contrary, this sanguinary and inconsiderate young monarch, as he
is represented, writes in a subdued and sorrowing tone, lamenting his
hard necessity, regretting he could not have recourse to the laws, and
appealing to others for his efforts to check the fury of the people,
which he himself had let loose. Catherine de' Medici, who had governed
from the tender age of eleven years, when he ascended the throne, might
unquestionably have persuaded him that a conspiracy was on the point of
explosion. Charles IX died young, and his character is unfavorably
viewed by the historians. In the voluminous correspondence which I have
examined, could we judge by state letters of the character of him who
subscribes them, we must form a very different notion; they are so
prolix and so earnest that one might conceive they were dictated by the
young monarch himself!
[Illustration: Catherine de Medici, accompanied by her suite, issues
from the gate of the Louvre the morning after the massacre of St.
Bartholomew
Painting by Ed. Debat-Ponsan.]
JNO. RUDD
Popular error has done more injury to the memory of Catherine de' Medici
than to that of any other woman famous in history. To understand
Catherine, and the part she played on the stage of French politics, her
training and the position she held must be understood. It is one thing
to look upon her on the obverse as wholly without heart, a trafficker in
human life, a ghoul who smiled with complacency on the victims of her
hate, and another to look on the reverse of the medal. The Massacre of
St. Bartholomew is pointed to as a crime--a religious crime. But is this
true? It may not have been an act in accordance with twentieth-century
morality, but bad, horrible indeed as it was, were there not extenuating
circumstances attending it--looked upon in the light of that age? To
Catherine de' Medici--perhaps justly--has been given the credit--or
infamy, if you will--of its conception and execution.
"Historians are privileged liars"--this is a truism as valid to-day as
when expressed by its brilliant creator. The throne of France was saved
by Catherine de' Medici, the royal power was maintained by her under
such difficulties as few rulers would have withstood. She is painted by
Catholic and Protestant writers alike as standing without the gates of
the Louvre, the morning after the massacre, and there gloating over the
bodies of the slain lying about the palace entrance.
Apart from her political duty, as she understood it, and which meant the
upholding of the monarchy, Catherine was a true woman; kind to her
suite, faithful to her friends. She had none of the weaknesses of her
sex; she lived chaste amid the debauchery of the most licentious court
in Europe. The losses to art caused by the destructive Calvinists she
replaced by erecting noble buildings and beautifying Paris. But she had
the sense of royalty developed to the utmost; she defended it to the
extreme. In France the opposition was always Protestant. It was her
enemy, the enemy of the crown, the arch-enemy of France. It is laid to
her charge that she coquetted with the Huguenots, whom she afterward
slew. This there is no denying; she had but her craft with which to
oppose the Guise faction, the various court cliques, and the Huguenots
themselves.
An expert at the game, she played one piece against another, skilfully
avoiding the checkmate. Pawns might be lost, bishops fall to her hand,
knights be unhorsed, but her king was secured. She could only triumph by
cunning.
A state cannot be governed by the same rule of morality as that which
should govern individual conduct; it is impossible that it should be so.
Professor Saintsbury says: "Every cool-headed student of history and
ethics will admit that it was precisely the abuse of the principle at
this time, and by the persons of whom Catherine de' Medici, if not the
most blamable, _has had the most blame put on her_, that brought the
principle itself into discredit."[1]
[1] The author, not Professor Saintsbury, is responsible for the
Italics.
Casimir Périer, the noted French statesman, wrote, "All power is a
permanent conspiracy." This is as true to-day in republican America as
it was at that time in monarchical France. And it was not religion, as
such, that led to the horrible scenes of that fatal August 24th; it was
a move in the game of politics. Protestantism spelt republicanism; to
one raised as Catherine had been, taught her life through by bitter
experience, any means available, any course adopted, was righteous if it
answered the purpose of saving the realm.
Research into this period will amply repay the explorer with enlarged
ideas of its meaning and its issues. Of the Queen-mother "naught
extenuate nor aught set down in malice." Catherine compares more than
favorably with Marie de' Medici, whom history has painted in brighter
hue. Bigotry has blasted the name of one who for her time was at least
the equal of any ruler in Europe.
HEROIC AGE OF THE NETHERLANDS
SIEGE OF LEYDEN
A.D. 1573
THOMAS HENRY DYER
Events followed one another rapidly after the rising of the
Netherlanders in 1566. The organization of the Gueux ("beggars"),
the league of noblemen pledged to resist the introduction of the
Inquisition into the Low Countries by Philip II of Spain, had shown
itself prepared for extreme action in self-defence. The name Gueux,
first used in contempt, was borne in honor by the patriots in the
ensuing war, which Philip conducted as a "war of extermination."
In 1567 the Duke of Alva, a famous veteran of the wars of Charles V
and of Philip, was sent to the Netherlands as governor, where his
cruelties soon made him notorious. He established the court known as
the Council of Blood, which first sat in September, 1567. In less
than three months this tribunal put to death eighteen hundred
persons, including Horn, Egmont, and other eminent patriots. As many
as one hundred thousand of the population are said to have emigrated
at this time to England.
William of Orange, the great leader of the Netherlanders, refused to
appear before the Council of Blood. He had resigned his offices,
civil and military, and now retired to Dillenburg, still proclaiming
his adhesion to the Protestant faith. But in 1568 he gathered two
armies. Alva destroyed one of them, and the other was disbanded. In
1570 William issued letters of marque to seamen who were nicknamed
"Sea Beggars," and bore a prominent part in the war of independence.
In 1572 they captured Briel. That year Mons was captured by Louis of
Nassau, William's brother, but in September it was retaken by Alva.
In Dyer's narrative the subsequent course of events, to the
Pacification of Ghent, is clearly and succinctly traced.
Soon after the capture of Mons, Alva went to Brussels and left the
conduct of the war to his son, Frederick de Toledo. Zutphen and Naarden
successively yielded to Frederick's arms, and became the scenes of the
most detestable violence. Alva ordered his son not to leave a single man
alive in Zutphen, and to burn down all the houses--commands which were
almost literally obeyed. The treatment of Naarden was still more
revolting. The town had capitulated, and Don Julian Romero, an officer
of Don Frederick's, had pledged his word that the lives and property of
the inhabitants should be respected. Romero then entered the town with
some five hundred musketeers, for whom the citizens provided a sumptuous
feast; and he summoned the inhabitants to assemble in the Gast Huis
Church, then used as a town hall. More than five hundred of them had
entered the church when a priest, suddenly rushing in, bade them prepare
for death. Scarcely had the announcement been made when a band of
Spanish soldiers entered and, after discharging a volley into the
defenceless crowd, attacked them sword in hand. The church was then
fired and the dead and dying consumed together.
But these cruelties only steeled the Hollanders to a more obstinate
resistance; nor must it be concealed that in these _plusquam civilia
bella_, where civil hatred was still further embittered by sectarian
malignancy, the Dutch sometimes displayed as much savageness as their
adversaries. Thus, during the struggle in Zealand, a surgeon at Veer cut
out the heart of a Spanish prisoner, and, fixing it on the prow of a
vessel, invited his fellow-townsmen to fix their teeth in it, an
invitation with which many complied.