BERQUIN, THE MOST LEARNED OF THE NOBILITY, A MARTYR FOR THE GOSPEL.
(1529.)
When Calvin passed through the capital on his way from Bourges to Noyon,
on the occasion of his father's death, he might have remarked a certain
agitation among his acquaintances. In fact, the Sorbonne was increasing
its exertions to destroy Berquin, who, forsaken by almost everybody, had
no one to support him but God and the Queen of Navarre.
[Sidenote: MARGARET'S SORROWS.]
Margaret, who was at St. Germain-en-Laye, enjoyed but little repose. The
brilliant court of Francis I. filled the noble palace with their
pastimes. Early in the morning every one was afoot; the horns sounded,
and the king set off, accompanied by the King of Navarre, a crowd of
nobles, the Duchess of Etampes, and many other ladies, and joined one of
those great hunting parties of which he was so fond. Margaret, remaining
alone, recalled her sorrows, and sought the _one thing needful_. Her
husband sometimes indulged in gaming, and the queen entreated
Montmorency to give him good advice. Henry, who thought his wife rather
too pious, complained of this with all the impetuosity of his character.
It was not Margaret's only vexation. At first her mother had appeared to
take part with the Reformation. One day, in December 1522, Louisa of
Savoy had said to her daughter, who was delighted to hear it: 'By the
grace of the Holy Ghost, my son and I are beginning to know these
hypocrites, white, black, grey, and all colours.... May God, by his
mercy and infinite goodness, defend us from them; for, if Jesus Christ
is not a liar, there is no such dangerous brood in all human
nature.'[95] But this princess, whose morality was more than doubtful,
had now become reconciled, and even leagued with these 'hypocrites
black, white, and grey,' and the king was beginning to give them his
support. Thus Margaret saw the three objects of her tenderest affection
alienating themselves from God; and remaining at the palace while
Francis with his lords and ladies and his hounds was chasing the wild
animals, she walked sadly in the park, saying to herself:
Father and mother I have none;
Brother and sister—all are gone,
Save God, in whom I trust alone,
Who rules the earth from his high throne.
All these loved ones I would forget;
Parents and friends, the world, its joys,
Honour and wealth however great,
I hold my deepest enemies!
Hence, ye delights!
Whose vanity
Jesus the Christ has shown to me!
But God, God only is my hope;
I know that he is all in all,
Dearer than husband to the wife—
My father, mother, friend, my all!
He is my hope,
My resting-place,
My strength, my being, and my trust,
For he hath saved me by his grace.
Father and mother I have none;
Brother and sister—all are gone,
Save God, in whom I trust alone,
Who rules the earth from his high throne.[96]
[Sidenote: SORBONNE PLOTS AGAINST BERQUIN.]
Whilst Margaret was seeking consolation in God, there came a support
which she had not expected. Erasmus was growing uneasy; the letters
which he received were full of alarming news; he saw that Francis I., on
whom he had so much relied, was stumbling and ready to fall. This would
give the victory to the Sorbonne. Having a presentiment that the
ultramontanists were daring revolutionists, prepared to sacrifice not
only literature and the Gospel, but royalty itself, he laid aside his
usual prudence, and resolved to tear the veil from the king's eyes,
which concealed the perverted designs of the Roman party, and to show
him conspirators in those who called themselves the supporters of the
throne. 'These men,' he wrote, 'under the cloak of the interests of the
faith, creep into all sorts of dark ways. Their only thought is of
bringing the august heads of monarchs under their yoke and of suspending
their power. Wait a little. If a prince resists them, they call him a
favourer of heresy, and say that it is the duty of the Church (that is
to say, of a few apocryphal monks and false doctors) to dethrone him.
What! shall they be permitted to scatter their poisons everywhere, and
we be forbidden to apply the antidote?'[97]
This epistle from the prince of letters, who with so much discernment
placed his finger on the sore, soon became known; and when it reached
the Sorbonne, the doctors, dismayed that a man so moderate and respected
should reveal their secrets so boldly, saw no other means of saving
their cause than by striking their enemies with terror. They dared do
nothing against the sage of Rotterdam, who was besides out of their
reach; but they swore that his friend Berquin should pay for his master.
The theologians of the Sorbonne demanded that this gentleman should be
brought to trial; Duprat, Louisa of Savoy, and Montmorency supported
their petition. There was no means of evading it, and twelve judges were
nominated by the pope and by the king.[98] These men were greatly
embarrassed, for Berquin's irreproachable life, amiable character,
inexhaustible charity, and regular attendance at public worship, had won
universal esteem. However, as the first president De Selva, the fourth
president Pailot, and some others, were either weak or fanatical
persons, the Sorbonne did not lose all hope. One alone of the twelve
caused any fear: this was William Budæus, called by Erasmus 'the prodigy
of France;' an enlightened man, who, while professing a great respect
for the Catholic Church, had more than once betrayed certain evangelical
tendencies to his wife and children. The twelve judges proceeded with
their investigation, without requiring the accused man to be shut up in
prison. Berquin went and came as he pleased; he spoke to the judges and
parliament, and convinced them of his innocence. But terror began to
paralyse the weak minds among them; they were afraid of the righteous
man; they would have nothing to do with 'that sort of people,' and
turned their backs upon him.
[Sidenote: MARGARET INTERCEDES FOR BERQUIN]
Berquin now resolved to address the king and to get Margaret to support
him. 'It was generally reported,' says one of the enemies of the Reform,
'that the Queen of Navarre took wondrous pains to save those who were in
danger, and that she alone prevented the Reformation from being stifled
in the cradle.'[99] Berquin went to the palace, and made his danger
known to the queen. He found in Margaret the compassion which failed him
elsewhere. She knew that we ought not 'to stand aside from those who
suffer persecution for the name of Christ, and would not be ashamed of
those in whom there was nothing shameful.'[100] Margaret immediately
took up her pen, and sitting down at that table where she had so often
pleaded both in prose and verse the cause of Christ and of christians,
she wrote the king the following letter:—
'Monseigneur,—The unhappy Berquin, who maintains that God, through your
goodness, has twice saved his life, presents himself before you, to make
manifest his innocence to you, having no one else to whom he can apply.
Knowing, Monseigneur, the esteem in which you hold him, and the desire
which he has now and always has had to serve you, I fear not to entreat
that you will be pleased to have pity upon him. He will convince you
that these heretic-finders are more slanderous and disobedient towards
you than zealous for the faith. He knows, Monseigneur, that you desire
to maintain the rights of every one, and that the just man needs no
advocate in the eyes of your compassion. For this cause I shall say no
more. Entreating Him who has given you such graces and virtues to grant
you a long and happy life, in order that he may long be glorified by you
in this world and everlastingly in the world to come,
'Your most obedient and most humble subject and sister,
'MARGARET.'[101]
Having finished, the queen rose and gave the letter to Berquin, who
immediately sought an audience of the king. We know not how he was
received, or what effect Margaret's intercession had upon Francis. It
would seem, however, that the king addressed a few kind words to him. We
know at least that Beda and the Sorbonne were uneasy, and that, fearing
to see their victim once more escape them, they increased their
exertions, and brought one charge after another against him. At last the
authorities gave way; the police received orders to avoid every
demonstration calculated to alarm him, lest he should escape to Erasmus
at Basle. All their measures were arranged, and at the moment when he
least expected it, about three weeks before Easter (in March 1529),
Berquin was arrested and taken to the Conciergerie.
[Sidenote: BERQUIN'S LETTER DISCOVERED.]
Thus then was 'the most learned of the nobles,' as he was termed, thrown
into prison in despite of the queen. He paced sadly up and down his
cell, and one thought haunted him. Having been seized very unexpectedly,
he had left in his room at Paris certain books which were condemned at
Rome, and which consequently might ruin him. 'Alas!' he exclaimed, 'they
will cost me serious trouble!'[102] Berquin resolved to apply to a
christian friend whom he could trust, to prevent the evil which he
foresaw; and the next day after his incarceration, when the domestic,
who had free access to him, and passed in and out on business, came for
orders, the prisoner gave him, with an anxious and mysterious air, a
letter which he said was of the greatest importance. The servant
immediately hid it under his dress. 'My life is at stake,' repeated
Berquin. In that letter, addressed to a familiar friend, the prisoner
begged him without delay to remove the books pointed out to him and to
burn them.
The servant, who did not possess the courage of a hero, departed
trembling. His emotion increased as he proceeded, his strength failed
him, and as he was crossing the Pont au Change, and found himself in
front of the image of Our Lady, known as _la belle ymage_, the poor
fellow, who was rather superstitious, although in Berquin's service,
lost his presence of mind and fainted. 'A sinking of the heart came over
him, and he fell to the ground as if in a swoon,' says the catholic
chronicler.[103] The neighbours and the passers-by gathered round him,
and lifted him up. One of these kind citizens, eager to assist him,
unbuttoned his coat to give him room to breathe, and found the letter
which had been so carefully hidden. The man opened and read it; he was
frightened, and told the surrounding crowd what were its contents. The
people declared it to be a miracle: 'He is a heretic,' they said. 'If he
has fallen like a dead man, it is the penalty of his crime; it was Our
Lady who did it.'—'Give me the letter,' said one of the spectators; 'the
famous Jacobin doctor who is preaching the Lent sermons at St.
Bartholomew's dines with me to-day. I will show it to him.' When the
dinner-hour came, the company invited by this citizen arrived, and among
them was the celebrated preacher of the Rue St. Jacques in his white
robe and scapulary and pointed hood. This Jacobin monk was no holiday
inquisitor. He understood the great importance of the letter, and,
quitting the table, hastened with it to Beda, who, quite overjoyed at
the discovery, eagerly laid it before the court. The christian gentleman
was ruined. The judges found the letter very compromising. 'Let the said
Berquin,' they ordered, 'be closely confined in a strong tower.' This
was done. Beda, on his side, displayed fresh activity; for time pressed,
and it was necessary to strike a decisive blow. With some the impetuous
syndic spoke gently, with others he spoke loudly; he employed threats
and promises, and nothing seemed to tire him.
From that hour Berquin's case appeared desperate. Most of his friends
abandoned him; they were afraid lest Margaret's intervention, always so
powerful, should now prove unavailing. The captive alone did not give
way to despair. Although shut up in a strong tower, he possessed liberty
and joy, and uplifting his soul to God, he hoped even against hope.
[Sidenote: BERQUIN'S SENTENCE.]
On Friday, the 16th of April, 1529, the inquiry was finished, and at
noon Berquin was brought into court. The countenance of Budæus was
sorrowful and kind; but the other judges bore the stamp of severity on
their features. The prisoner's heart was free from rancour, his hands
pure from revenge, and the calm of innocence was on his face. 'Louis
Berquin,' said the president, 'you are convicted of belonging to the
sect of Luther, and of having written wicked books against the majesty
of God and of his glorious mother. Wherefore we condemn you to do public
penance, bareheaded and with a lighted taper in your hand, in the great
court of our palace, asking pardon of God, of the king, and of justice,
for the offence you have committed. You shall then be taken, bareheaded
and on foot, to the Grève, where you shall see your books burnt. Next
you shall be led to the front of the church of Notre Dame, where you
shall do penance to God and the glorious Virgin, his mother. Afterwards
you shall have your tongue pierced—that instrument of unrighteousness by
which you have so grievously sinned.[104] Lastly, you shall be taken to
the prison of Monsieur de Paris (the bishop), and be shut up there all
your life between four walls of stone; and we forbid you to be supplied
either with books to read, or pen and ink to write.'
Berquin, startled at hearing such a sentence, which Erasmus terms
'atrocious,' and which the pious nobleman was far from expecting,[105]
at first remained silent, but soon regaining his usual courage, and
looking firmly at his judges,[106] he said: 'I appeal to the
king.'—'Take care,' answered his judges; 'if you do not acquiesce in our
sentence, we will find means to prevent you from ever appealing again.'
This was clear. Berquin was sent back to prison.
Margaret began to fear that her brother would withdraw his support from
the evangelicals. If the Reformation had been a courtly religion,
Francis would have protected it; but the independent air that it seemed
to take, and, above all, its inflexible holiness, made it distasteful to
him. The Queen of Navarre saw that the unhappy prisoner had none but the
Lord on his side. She prayed:
Thou, God, alone canst say:
Touch not my son, take not his life away.
Thou only canst thy sovereign hand outstretch
To ward the blow.[107]
Everything indicated that the blow would be struck. On the afternoon of
the very day when the sentence had been delivered, Maillard, the
lieutenant-criminal, with the archers, bowmen, and arquebusiers of the
city, surrounded the Conciergerie. It was thought that Berquin's last
hour had come, and an immense crowd hurried to the spot. 'More than
twenty thousand people came to see the execution,' says a
manuscript.[108] 'They are going to take one of the king's officers to
the Grève,' said the spectators. Maillard, leaving his troops under
arms, entered the prison, ordered the martyr's cell to be opened, and
told him that he had come to execute the sentence. 'I have appealed to
the king,' replied the prisoner. The lieutenant-criminal withdrew.
Everybody expected to see him followed by Berquin, and all eyes were
fixed upon the gate; but no one appeared. The commander of the troops
ordered them to retire; the archers marched back, and 'the great throng
of people that was round the court-house and in the city separated.' The
first president immediately called the court together, to take the
necessary measures. 'We must lose no time,' said some, 'for the king has
twice already rescued him from our hands.' Was there no hope left?
[Sidenote: BUDÆUS TRIES TO SAVE BERQUIN.]
There were in France at that time two men of the noblest character, both
friends of learning, whose whole lives had been consecrated to doing
what was right: they were Budæus on the bench, and Berquin in his cell.
The first was united to the second by the purest friendship, and his
only thought was how to save him. But what could he do singly against
the parliament and the Sorbonne? Budæus shuddered when he heard of his
friend's appeal; he knew the danger to which this step exposed him, and
hastened to the prison. 'Pray do not appeal!' said he; 'a second
sentence is all ready, and it orders you to be put to death. If you
accept the first, we shall be able to save you eventually. Pray do not
ruin yourself!' Berquin, a more decided man than Budæus, would rather
die than make any concession to error. His friend, however, did not
slacken his exertions; he desired at whatever risk to save one of the
most distinguished men of France. Three whole days were spent by him in
the most energetic efforts.[109] He had hardly quitted his friend before
he returned and sat down by his side or walked with him sorrowfully up
and down the prison. He entreated him for his own safety, for the good
of the Church, and for the welfare of France. Berquin made no reply;
only, after a long appeal from Budæus, he gave a nod of dissent.
Berquin, says the historian of the University of Paris, 'sustained the
encounter with indomitable obstinacy.'[110]
[Sidenote: BERQUIN'S FALL AND RECOVERY]
Would he continue firm? Many evangelicals were anxiously watching the
struggle. Remembering the fall of the apostle Peter at the voice of a
serving-maid, they said one to another that a trifling opposition was
sufficient to make the strongest stumble. 'Ah!' said Calvin, 'if we
cease but for an instant to lean upon the hand of God, a puff of wind,
or the rustling of a falling leaf, is enough ... and straightway we
fall!' It was not a puff of wind, but a tempest rather, by which Berquin
was assailed. While the threatening voices of his enemies were roaring
around him, the gentle voice of Budæus, full of the tenderest affection,
penetrated the prisoner's heart and shook his firmest resolutions. 'O my
dear friend,' said Budæus, 'there are better times coming, for which you
ought to preserve yourself.' Then he stopped, and added in a more
serious tone: 'You are guilty towards God and man if by your own act you
give yourself up to death.'[111]
Berquin was touched at last by the perseverance of this great man; he
began to waver; his sight became troubled. Turning his face away from
God, he bent it to the ground. The power of the Holy Spirit was
extinguished in him for a moment (to use the language of a reformer),
and he thought he might be more useful to the kingdom of God by
preserving himself for the future, than by yielding himself up to
present death. 'All that we ask of you is to beg for pardon. Do we not
all need pardon?' Berquin consented to ask pardon of God and the king in
the great court of the palace of justice.
Budæus ran off with delight and emotion to inform his colleagues of the
prisoner's concession. But at the very moment when he thought he had
saved his friend, he felt a sudden sadness come over him. He knew at
what a price Berquin would have to purchase his life; besides, had he
not seen that it was only after a struggle of nearly sixty hours that
the prisoner had given way? Budæus was uneasy. 'I know the man's mind,'
he said. 'His ingenuousness, and the confidence he has in the goodness
of his cause, will be his ruin.'[112]
During this interval there was a fierce struggle in Berquin's soul. All
peace had forsaken him; his conscience spoke tumultuously. 'No!' he said
to himself, 'no sophistry! Truth before all things! We must fear neither
man nor torture, but render all obedience to God. I will persevere to
the end; I will not pray the leader of this good war for my discharge.
Christ will not have his soldiers take their ease until they have
conquered over death.'
Budæus returned to the prison shortly afterwards. 'I will retract
nothing,' said his friend; 'I would rather die than by my silence
countenance the condemnation of truth.'[113] He was lost! Budæus
withdrew, pale and frightened, and communicated the terrible news to his
colleagues. Beda and his friends were filled with joy, being convinced
that to remove Berquin from the number of the living was to remove the
Reformation from France. The judges, by an unprecedented exercise of
power, revised their sentence, and condemned the nobleman to be
strangled and then burnt on the Grève.
Margaret, who was at St. Germain, was heartbroken when she heard of this
unexpected severity. Alas! the king was at Blois with Madame ——....
Would there be time to reach him? She would try. She wrote to him again,
apologising for the very humble recommendations she was continually
laying before him, and adding: 'Be pleased, Sire, to have pity on poor
Berquin, who is suffering only because he loves the Word of God and
obeys you. This is the reason why those who did the contrary during your
captivity hate him so; and their malicious hypocrisy has enabled them to
find advocates about you to make you forget his sincere faith in God and
his love for you.'[114] After having uttered this cry of anguish, the
Queen of Navarre waited.
[Sidenote: THE EXECUTION HURRIED ON.]
But Francis gave no signs of life. In his excuse it has been urged that
if he had at that time been victorious abroad and honoured at home, he
would have saved Berquin once more; but the troubles in Italy and the
intrigues mixed up with the treaty of Cambray, signed three months
later, occupied all his thoughts. These are strange reasons. The fact
is, that if the king (as is probable) had desired to save Berquin, he
had not the opportunity; the enemies of this faithful christian had
provided against that. They had scarcely got the sentence in their
hands, when they called for its immediate execution. They fancied they
could already hear the gallop of the horse arriving from Blois, and see
the messenger bringing the pardon. Beda fanned the flame. Not a week's
delay, not even a day or an hour! 'But,' said some, 'this prevents the
king from exercising the right of pardon, and is an encroachment upon
his royal authority.'—'It matters not! put him to death!'—The judges
determined to have the sentence carried out the very day it was
delivered, '_in order that he might not be helped by the king_.'[115]
In the morning of the 22nd of April, 1529,[116] the officers of
parliament entered the gloomy cell where Berquin was confined. The pious
disciple, on the point of offering up his life voluntarily for the name
of Jesus Christ, was absorbed in prayer; he had long sought for God and
had found him; the Lord was near him, and peace filled his soul. Having
God for his father, he knew that nothing would be wanting to him in that
last hour when everything else was to fail him: he saw a triumph in
reproach, a deliverance in death. At the sight of the officers of the
court, some of whom appeared embarrassed, Berquin understood what they
wanted. He was ready; he rose calm and firm, and followed them. The
officers handed him over to the lieutenant-criminal and his sergeants,
who were to carry out the sentence.
Meanwhile several companies of archers and bowmen were drawn up in front
of the Conciergerie. These armed men were not alone around the prison.
The news had spread far and wide that a gentleman of the court, a friend
of Erasmus and of the Queen of Navarre, was about to be put to death;
and accordingly there was a great commotion in the capital. A crowd of
common people, citizens, priests and monks, with a few gentlemen and
friends of the condemned noble, waited, some with anger, others with
curiosity, and others with anguish, for the moment when he would appear.
Budæus was not there; he had not the courage to be present at the
punishment. Margaret, who was at St. Germain, could almost see the
flames of the burning pile from the terrace of the château.
When the clock struck twelve, the escort began to move. At its head was
the grand penitentiary Merlin; then followed the archers and bowmen, and
after them the officers of justice and more armed men. In the middle of
the escort was the prisoner. A wretched tumbrel was bearing him slowly
to punishment. He wore a cloak of velvet, a doublet of satin and damask,
and golden hose, says the Bourgeois of Paris, who probably saw him
pass.[117] The King of heaven having invited him to the wedding, Berquin
had joyfully put on his finest clothes. 'Alas!' said many as they saw
him, 'he is of noble lineage, a very great scholar, expert and quick in
learning ... and yet he has gone out of his mind!' There was nothing in
the looks or gestures of the reformer which indicated the least
confusion or pride. He neither braved nor feared death: he approached it
with tranquillity, meekness, and hope, as if entering the gates of
heaven. Men saw peace unchangeable written on his face. Montius, a
friend of Erasmus, who had desired to accompany this pious man even to
the stake, said in the highest admiration: 'There was in him none of
that boldness, of that hardened air which men led to death often assume;
the calmness of a good conscience was visible in every feature.'—'He
looks,' said other spectators, 'as if he were in God's house meditating
upon heavenly things.'[118]
[Sidenote: BERQUIN'S MARTYRDOM.]
At last the tumbrel had reached the place of punishment, and the escort
halted. The chief executioner approached and desired Berquin to alight.
He did so, and the crowd pressed more closely round the ill-omened spot.
The principal officer of the court, having beckoned for silence with his
hand, unrolled a parchment, and read the sentence 'with a husky voice,'
says the chronicler. But Berquin was about to die for the Son of God who
had died for him; his heart did not flinch one jot; he felt no
confusion, and wishing to make the Saviour who supported him in that
hour of trial known to the poor people around him, he uttered a few
christian words. But the doctors of the Sorbonne were watching all his
movements, and had even posted about a certain number of their creatures
in order to make a noise if they thought it was necessary. Alarmed at
hearing the soft voice of the evangelist, and fearing lest the people
should be touched by his words, these 'sycophants' hastily gave the
signal. Their agents immediately began to shout, the soldiers clashed
their arms, 'and so great was the uproar that the voice of the holy
martyr was not heard in the extremity of death.' When Berquin found that
these clamours drowned his voice, he held his peace. A Franciscan friar,
who had accompanied him from the prison, eager to extort from him one
word of recantation, redoubled his importunities at this last moment;
but the martyr remained firm. At length the monk was silent, and the
executioner drew near. Berquin meekly stretched out his head; the
hangman passed the cord round his neck and strangled him.
[Sidenote: EFFECT ON THE SPECTATORS.]
There was a pause of solemn silence ... but not for long. It was broken
by the doctors of the Sorbonne and the monks, who hastily went up and
contemplated the lifeless body of their victim. No one cried 'Jesus!
Jesus!'—a cry of mercy heard even at the execution of a parricide. The
most virtuous man in France was treated worse than a murderer. One
person, however, standing near the stake, showed some emotion, and,
strange to say, it was the grand penitentiary Merlin. 'Truly,' he said,
'so good a christian has not died these hundred years and more.' The
dead body was thrown into the flames, which mounted up and devoured
those limbs once so vigorous and now so pale and lifeless. A few men,
led away by passion, looked on with joy at the progress of the fire,
which soon consumed the precious remains of him who should have been the
reformer of France. They imagined they saw heresy burnt out, and when
the body was entirely destroyed, they thought that the Reformation was
destroyed with it, and that not a fragment of it remained. But all the
spectators were not so cruel. They gazed upon the burning pile with
sorrow and with love. The christians who had looked upon Berquin as the
future reformer of France, were overwhelmed with anguish when they saw
the hero in whom they had hoped reduced to a handful of dust. The temper
of the people seemed changed, and tears were seen to flow down many a
face. In order to calm this emotion, certain rumours were set afloat. A
man stepped out of the crowd, and going up to the Franciscan confessor,
asked him: 'Did Berquin acknowledge his error?'—'Yes, certainly,'
answered the monk, 'and I doubt not that his soul departed in peace.'
This man was Montius; he wrote and told the anecdote to Erasmus. 'I do
not believe a word of it,' answered the latter. 'It is the usual story
which those people invent after the death of their victims, in order to
appease the anger of the people.'
Some such stratagems were necessary, for the general agitation was
increasing. Berquin's innocence, stamped on his features and on all his
words, struck those who saw him die, and they were beginning to murmur.
The monks noticed this, and had prepared themselves beforehand in case
the indignation of the people should break out. They penetrated into the
thickest of the crowd, making presents to the children and to the common
people; and having worked them up, they sent them off in every
direction. The impressionable crowd spread over the Grève and through
the neighbouring streets, shouting out that Berquin was a heretic. Yet
here and there men gathered in little groups, talking of the excellent
man who had been sacrificed to the passion of the theological faculty.
'Alas!' said some with tears in their eyes, 'there never was a more
virtuous man.'[119] Many were astonished that a nobleman who held a high
place in the king's affections should be strangled like a criminal.
'Alas!' rejoined others indignantly, 'what caused his ruin was the
liberty which animated him, which is always the faithful companion of a
good conscience.'[120] Others of more spirit exclaimed: 'Condemn,
quarter, crucify, burn, behead ... that is what pirates and tyrants can
do; but God is the only just judge, and blessed is the man whom he
pardoneth.' The more pious looked for consolation to the future. 'It is
only through the cross,' they said, 'that Christ will triumph in this
kingdom.'[121] The crowd dispersed.
[Sidenote: THE MARTYRS' HYMN.]
The news of this tragedy soon spread through France, everywhere causing
the deepest sorrow. Berquin was not the only person struck down; other
christians also suffered the last punishment. Philip Huaut was burnt
alive, after having his tongue cut out; and Francis Desus had both hand
and head cut off. The story of these deaths, especially that of Berquin,
was told in the shops of the workmen and in the cottages of the
peasants. Many were terrified at it; but more than one evangelical
christian, when he heard the tale at his own fireside, raised his head
and cast a look towards heaven, expressive of his joy at having a
Redeemer and a _Father's house_ beyond the sky. 'We too are ready,'
said these men and women of the Reformation to one another, 'we are
ready to meet death cheerfully, setting our eyes on the life that is to
come.' One of these christian souls, who had known Berquin best, and who
shed most tears over him, was the Queen of Navarre. Distressed and
alarmed by his death and by the deaths of the christians sacrificed in
other places for the Gospel, she prayed fervently to God to come to the
help of his people. She called to mind these words of the Gospel:
_Shall not God avenge his own elect, which cry day and night unto
him?_[122] A stranger to all hatred, free from every evil desire of
revenge, she called to the Lord's remembrance how dear the safety of his
children is to him, and implored his protection for them:
O Lord our God, arise,
Chastise thy enemies
Thy saints who slay.
Death, which to heathen men
Is full of grief and pain,
To all who in heaven shall reign
With thee is dear.
They through the gloomy vale
Walk firm, and do not quail,
To rest with thee.
Such death is happiness,
Leading to that glad place
Where in eternal bliss
Thy sons abide.
Stretch out thy hand, O Lord,
Help those who trust thy Word,
And give for sole reward
This death of joy.
O Lord our God, arise,
Chastise thy enemies
Thy saints who slay.[123]
This little poem by the Queen of Navarre, which contains several other
verses, was the martyrs' hymn in the sixteenth century. Nothing shows
more clearly that she was heart and soul with the evangelicals.
Terror reigned among the reformed christians for some time after
Berquin's martyrdom. They endured reproach, without putting themselves
forward; they did not wish to irritate their enemies, and many of them
retired to _the desert_, that is, to some unknown hiding-place. It
was during this period of sorrow and alarm, when the adversaries
imagined that by getting rid of Berquin they had got rid of the
Reformation as well, and when the remains of the noble martyr were
hardly scattered to the winds of heaven, that Calvin once more took up
his abode in Paris, not far from the spot where his friend had been
burnt. Rome thought she had put the reformer to death; but he was about
to rise again from his ashes, more spiritual, more clear, and more
powerful, to labour at the renovation of society and the salvation of
mankind.
[Footnote 95: _Journal de Louise de Savoie._]
[Footnote 96: _Marguerites de la Marguerite_, i. p. 502.]
[Footnote 97: 'Illis licere venena sua spargere, nobis non licere
admovere antidota.'—Erasmi _Epp._ p. 1109.]
[Footnote 98: _Journal d'un Bourgeois de Paris sous François I._
p. 380.]
[Footnote 99: Flor. Rémond, _Hist. de l'Hérésie_, p. 348.]
[Footnote 100: Calvin.]
[Footnote 101: _Lettres de la Reine de Navarre_, ii. p. 96.]
[Footnote 102: _Journal d'un Bourgeois de Paris_, p. 381.]
[Footnote 103: Ibid.]
[Footnote 104: 'Lingua illi ferro perfoderetur.'—Erasmi _Epp._ p. 1277.
_Journal d'un Bourgeois de Paris_, p. 382.]
[Footnote 105: 'Audita præter expectationem atroci sententia.'—Erasmi
_Epp._]
[Footnote 106: 'Constanti vultu.'—Ibid.]
[Footnote 107: _Marguerites de la Marguerite_, i. p. 444.]
[Footnote 108: _Chronique du Roi François I._ p. 76, note.]
[Footnote 109: 'Budæum triduo privatim egisse cum Berquino.'—Erasmi
_Epp._]
[Footnote 110: Crévier, v. p. 206.]
[Footnote 111: Crespin, _Martyrologue_, p. 103, verso.]
[Footnote 112: Crespin, _Martyrologue_, p. 103, verso.]
[Footnote 113: 'At ego mortem subire, quam veritatis damnationem, vel
tacitus approbare velim.'—Bezæ _Icones_.]
[Footnote 114: _Lettres de la Reine de Navarre_, ii. p. 99.]
[Footnote 115: _Journal d'un Bourgeois de Paris_, p. 383.]
[Footnote 116: Crespin and Theodore Beza speak of the month of November;
the Bourgeois de Paris mentions the 17th of April, but most of the
authorities give the 22nd.]
[Footnote 117: 'Des chausses d'or.'—_Journal d'un Bourgeois de Paris_,
p. 384.]
[Footnote 118: 'Dixisses illum in templo de rebus cœlestibus cogitare.'—
Erasmi _Epp._ p. 1277.]
[Footnote 119: 'Prædicant eo nihil fuisse integrius.'—Erasmi _Epp._
p. 1313.]
[Footnote 120: 'Libertas, bonæ conscientiæ comes, perdidit virum.'—Ibid.
p. 113.]
[Footnote 121: 'Christo, nonnisi sub cruce, in Gallis triumphaturo.'—
Bezæ _Icones_.]
[Footnote 122: Luke xviii. 7.]
[Footnote 123:
'Reveille-toi, Seigneur Dieu,
Fais ton effort,
Et viens venger en tout lieu
Des tiens la mort.'
_Les Marguerites de la Marguerite_, i. p. 508.]