CHAPTER V.

FROM THE ACCESSION OF CHARLES IX. TO THE MASSACRE AT VASSY.

[1560–1562.]

Character of the Boy-King--Portrait of Catherine--The

States-General--The Chancellor’s Address--Speeches of the Three

Orators--Agitation in the Provinces--Religious Amnesty--Edict

of July--Provincial Assemblies Convoked--Instructions of the

Isle of France--The Triumvirate--States of Pontoise--Proposals

of Reform--Colloquy of Poissy--Beza--Conference in the Queen’s

Chamber--King’s Speech--Beza’s Defense--Catherine’s Liberal

Spirit--Spread of New Doctrines--Monster Congregations--The

Guises Intrigue with Spain--Violence of the Clergy--Massacres

at Cahors and Aurillac--Amiens--Huguenot Outrages--Riot of

St. Médard--Notables at St. Germains--Edict of January,

1562--Violence at Dijon and Aix--Anthony’s Apostasy--The Duke

and the Cardinal at Saverne--Massacre at Vassy--Both Parties

Arm--Guise Enters Paris--Plot to Seize the King.

The accession of Charles IX., a child not eleven years old, was a

revolution. “Now we fell from a fever into a frenzy,” quaintly writes

an old historian; “a reign cursed in the city and cursed in the field;

cursed in the beginning and cursed in the ending.”[210]

The new king is described by the Venetian embassador as an amiable,

handsome boy, with fine eyes and graceful carriage, eating and drinking

little, quick-witted and spirited, gentle and liberal.[211]

The same gossiping writer supplies a striking picture of the

queen-mother at this time. He speaks of her keen comprehension, her

business habits, and her sound understanding. “She never loses sight

of the king, and permits no one to sleep in his room. She knows that

she is envied because she is a foreigner.... Her plans are deep, and

she holds every thing in her own hands.... She lives carelessly,

has an enormous appetite, and, to keep down her fat, she takes much

exercise, walks much, rides much on horseback, and hunts with the king.

Her complexion is very dark, and she is already [_ætat._ 43] a

stout woman.”[212] A letter she wrote about this time to her daughter

Elizabeth is eminently characteristic:[213]

“As I have given the messenger instructions to say many things to you,

I write only to pray you, my child, not to feel sadness on my behalf;

for I will try to demean myself so that God and the world may approve

of my actions; for my chief care shall be the honor of God and the

conservation of my authority; not, however, for my own benefit, but

for the preservation of this realm and the good of your brothers,

whom I love for the sake of him who was your common father. My dear

child, commend your happiness to the keeping of the Almighty; for you

have seen me as happy and prosperous as you are now yourself, when

my only sorrow was the fear of not being sufficiently beloved by the

king your father, who gave me more honor than I merited, but whom I so

loved that, in his presence, I always felt awe. God has bereaved me of

my husband; and now I weep for your brother. He has committed to my

charge three little children, a kingdom distracted by divisions, within

which there is not one individual in whom I can trust, or one who is

not swayed by private partiality. Therefore, my dear, take warning by

my fate: confide not exclusively in the love which you bear toward

your husband, and which he renders back to you; nor in the pomps and

luxuries of your present power: but lift up your heart to Him alone

who can continue these blessings to you; and who, when it is His

sovereign will, can bring you to my present condition; the which I

would rather die than see you suffer, from dread lest your constancy

might fail under the bitter trials which I have endured, solely through

His sustaining aid and protection.”

[Illustration: CATHERINE DE MEDICIS.]

There can be no doubt that Catherine was fully sensible of the

difficulties and dangers of her position. More than once she quoted

the well-known words: “_Væ tibi, terra, cujus rex est puer!_”

She toiled and intrigued and struggled for herself and for her

children--not for France. The Guises threatened both, and her task

was how to thwart, if not defeat, her rivals: “_Virilibus curis

vitia muliebria._” She was not persistent enough. Correro calls her

“timid,”[214] and her heart often failed her at a decisive moment. Her

first care, however, was to tranquilize the country; or, to use her

own words to the Bishop Limoges, her embassador in Spain, “to restore

gently all that the wickedness of the times had damaged in France.”

Nor was this an easy matter, if we may trust the Venetian reports,

which tell of “an administration almost without rule or guide, justice

violated and polluted, deadly hatreds, the passions and caprices of the

powerful ones, the opposing interests of the princes, which varied with

the opportunities; religious troubles; disobedience and tumult among

the people, with revolt among the grandees.”[215]

Charles being only ten years old--he was born on the 27th June,

1550--his mother, with the approval of the council of state,[216]

assumed the authority though not the title of regent. Condé was

released from prison and Anthony made lieutenant-general of France,

while the Constable Montmorency resumed the superintendence of the

army, and Guise retained his place of grand-master. When the Constable

entered Orleans, he dismissed the soldiers he found at the gate: “I

will take care,” he said, “that the king shall travel safely, without

guard, all over the kingdom.”

The members of the States-General were silent but not unobservant

spectators of these things. Having been summoned to meet at Orleans by

Francis II., the curious constitutional question arose, Whether they

were not _ipso facto_ dissolved? but it was ingeniously argued,

that though the man may die, the king does not, and therefore their

sittings would be perfectly legal.

The States-General, or assembly of the three orders (clergy, nobles,

and commons), date from the beginning of the fourteenth century, when

Philip the Fair called them together on the occasion of his quarrel

with Pope Boniface VIII. They held but one session, yet, in that, they

proclaimed the temporal independence of France, and scattered forever

the ideas of universal monarchy entertained by the papacy. The States

met at indeterminate epochs, and were at one time in a fair way to

lead the European nations in the difficult path of representative

government. In the assembly held at Tours, in 1484, they called for

extensive reforms, and asserted a claim to be summoned every two

years. They went farther, and in language as bold as that of our

Petition of Rights, a century and a half later, declared that “the said

States-General expected that henceforward no taxes would be imposed on

the people until they had been consulted on the subject, nor unless

the imposition of such taxes should be made with their free-will and

consent, as the guardians and keepers of the liberties and privileges

of the realm.” These resolutions came to nothing: the crown continued

to levy taxes by proclamation, and nearly fourscore years elapsed

before the Estates[217] were called together again. And now in 1560,

when France was in great peril from internal commotions, they were

to meet once more in the city of Orleans. Even had the country been

entirely quiet, the financial condition of the state was such, that

extraordinary means of raising supplies would have been required.

The expenditure exceeded the annual revenue by ten millions, and

though such a deficit may be easily met by modern finance-ministers,

there were not three hundred years ago the same convenient methods of

filling an empty exchequer. The Guises knew that the summoning of the

States-General was a hostile measure aimed at them, but had not opposed

it for two reasons: firstly, it would relieve them of the unpopularity

they might possibly incur by attempting to raise the necessary supplies

by increasing taxation under the royal mandate; secondly, they hoped

to receive a large accession of strength from the Catholic members.

Each party, indeed, labored to gain the popular support, and at the

electoral meetings throughout the kingdom there was an excitement that

augured well for the revival of constitutional forms of government. The

Huguenots of Paris went to the Hotel-de-Ville and insisted that their

remonstrance and confession should be embodied in the _cahier_

of instructions. In that drawn up by the municipality of Provins the

grievances of the people were declared in plain and forcible language.

“The clergy,” they said, “are too rich, the Church too wealthy; the

priests should have less money and keep fewer concubines; they should

give the people more instruction in good manners, distribute more

liberal alms to the poor, and be less disorderly in their passions,

less luxurious in their dress, less given to haunting taverns and

houses of ill-fame; they should not ride out a hunting so frequently

with hawks and hounds, or so grind the people in body and goods....

Justice is too dear, the fees are excessive, and the judge ought to

be paid out of the public purse.... The people are oppressed by the

soldiery, who beat and plunder them, and turn them out of house and

home, and kill them. They are grievously oppressed by taxes, from

which the rich by favor are exempt.... The salt is not good, dry, or

pure; it contains a sixth part of rubbish.... The gentry do not defend

their people or neighbors, as they are bound to do; they hold taxable

property, and carry on trades without paying for licenses.”[218]

The assembly of the Three Estates was solemnly inaugurated on the 13th

December, 1560, in the great hall of the castle of Orleans, where the

Black Prince had feasted, and Joan of Arc had sat in council with

Dunois, La Hire, Xaintrailles, and the flower of French chivalry,

while “the English wolves” under Talbot were prowling round the city

walls. The vaulted roof, long since crumbled to ruins, was painted

and decorated with fleur-de-lis; the walls were hung with tapestry

representing mythological and allegorical scenes. On a small carpeted

platform or dais, at the upper end, sat Charles IX.; at his left, the

queen-mother; beyond her the king’s sister and the Queen of Navarre;

while the king’s brother and Anthony of Navarre occupied similar places

to the right of the infant monarch. At the end of the platform sat the

Duke of Guise with his ivory staff as grand-master of the household;

at his right the constable with the naked sword of state; at his left

the chancellor with his golden mace. These were on low-backed chairs,

according to the strict etiquette of the court; all the other members

of the States sat on benches. To the right of the throne were the

cardinals in their robes of scarlet, and the high dignitaries of the

Church; opposite them, the nobility in court dresses of every costly

material and hue. The members of the Third Estate, dressed in sober

garments, faced the throne. Four secretaries of state were present to

record the proceedings. Soldiers with spear and cross-bow, halberd and

partisan, lined the walls; chamberlains and equerries, the esquires

of the nobles, and the chaplains and deacons in attendance upon the

churchmen, filled up the hall. A little behind the throne were two

galleries set apart for the ladies and other spectators, among whom

were several Huguenots of mark, whose grave faces and dress seemed

almost out of place among their brilliant companions.

The proceedings were opened by an address from the Chancellor Michel

de l’Hopital, one of the greatest and noblest men of the sixteenth

century. When he rose to speak, his lofty stature, pale face, and long

white beard filled the spectators with admiration, and an involuntary

murmur ran through the assembly. He seemed the very model of a senator

and magistrate. First bending the knee to his royal master, and then

seating himself again at the king’s desire, he proceeded to state the

motives that had induced the government to call the Estates together,

and to point out very explicitly that they were mere “counters in the

king’s hands,” and that their sole duty was to “petition and obey.”

It did not occur to any of his hearers to ask why they were assembled

at all if such were their duties and position. Adverting to the

religious dissensions, the chancellor advised the Catholic members “to

adorn themselves with virtue and holy living,” and to attack their

adversaries with arms of charity, prayer, and persuasion. “The sword,”

he added, “is of little avail against the understanding; gentleness

will make more converts than violence.” Yet even this large-hearted

man could not see the possibility of two forms of religion existing

side by side in the same state: he wanted uniformity, where he should

have been satisfied with harmony. “It is foolish,” he said, “to look

for peace, repose, and friendship between persons of different creeds.

An Englishman and a Frenchman may live together on good terms,

but not two people of different religions, who dwell in the same

city. One faith, one law, one king.” For this reason he proposed a

national council, which might reform abuses, and so reconcile the two

parties, adding “that if the pope did not call one the king would.”

The chancellor concluded his long harangue by drawing their attention

to the disordered state of the finances. “No orphan was ever more

destitute of resources than our young king,” he said. The public debt

amounted to forty-three million livres, paying the enormous though

ordinary rate of interest, namely, twelve per cent. Nor was it easy

to see how such a debt could be met, considering that the expenditure

exceeded twenty-two million livres, while the total annual revenue

barely amounted to twelve millions.[219]

The assembly now broke up, the three Estates proceeding to their

separate deliberations: the Clergy in the refectory of the

Franciscans, the Nobles at the Dominicans’, and the Tiers État at

the Carmelites’.[220] The first act of each body was to choose its

orator or speaker. The Clergy elected the Cardinal of Lorraine, and

recommended the other two orders to concur in their choice. This they

refused to do,[221] on the ground that they might have something to say

against him[222]--a hint which drove the cardinal from Orleans. Jean

Quentin, a canon of Notre Dame, was elected in his place, the Nobles

having chosen Jacques de Silly, baron of Rochefort; and the Third

Estate, an advocate of Bordeaux, named Lange (Angelus) or Langin.

On the 1st January, 1561, the Three Estates assembled again in the

great hall of the castle, where the king attended to hear the Speakers

of the orders deliver their addresses. Jean Lange began by denouncing

“the three ruling passions of the clergy--ignorance, avarice, and

wantonness. Livings are given to those who have never learned. Bishops

transfer their duties to unworthy deputies; while the prelates ruin

themselves by prodigality and loose living. These things can only be

reformed by means of a council--a national council.” He went on farther

to demand the restitution to the clergy of the right of electing the

bishops, as in the time of the primitive Church, the dedication of a

portion of the ecclesiastical property to the foundation of hospitals,

colleges, and schools, the suppression of every kind of tribute or

payment to the court of Rome, and a check upon the tyranny of the

nobles over the peasantry. Of the sufferings of this class, Lange’s

cahier presented a distressing picture. It may be overcolored, but its

substantial truth is unfortunately established by other evidence. “Some

poor creatures,” he said, “having been robbed of their little store to

pay their taxes, have starved to death during the winter. Others in

despair have murdered their wives and children and then themselves.

Others have been dragged to prison and there left to die for want of

food. Some have forsaken their families and fled. Many are in such

distress, that, having neither horse nor ox, they are constrained to

harness their own bodies to the plough.” The last of the three hundred

and fifty articles of this cahier contained a demand which would have

changed the current of French history had it been granted: it was that

the States-General should be held every five years.

Jacques de Silly, the orator of the Nobility, began by making a

preposterous defense of the divine origin of his order, and went on

to accuse the Clergy of encroaching on the power of the judicial

tribunals.[223] “It is your business,” he said, “not to interfere

with edicts, but to pray, preach, and administer the sacraments.” The

Nobility were more eager for change than the Tiers État. Those of

Touraine demanded a church reform in conformity with the pure word of

God; others, that all religious differences should be decided by the

Bible alone.

The Clergy wisely thought that their best policy would be to stand

mainly on the defensive.[224] Their orator, Jean Quentin, who read his

speech, acknowledged that their discipline needed correction, but that

such a reform could not be brought about by profaning the churches,

destroying the images, and expelling the priests. “I contend,” he said,

“that it is necessary to preserve the Catholic religion in France, and

consequently to refuse liberty of conscience to such as dissent from

it.” He then argued that all ecclesiastical property ought to be used

according to the wishes of the donors, and that the clergy should be

relieved of the _décimes_ and other imposts by which they were

oppressed. In the course of his speech, Quentin went out of his way to

insult Coligny, as a “reviver of old heresies;” and advised “that any

one petitioning for freedom of worship should be declared heretical,

and proceeded against accordingly, so that the evil might be removed

from among us.”[225] He gave point to his words by looking at the

admiral, who complained of such language and demanded an apology, which

was made. This humiliation, added to the satires and epigrams showered

upon him by the offended Huguenots, gave poor Quentin such a shock that

he is reported to have died a few days after.

In the last sitting of the Estates the Abbot of Bois Aubry, secretary

of the Clergy in the preparation of their cahier, strongly condemned

the use of force in religious matters. “The conscience,” he said,

“suffers no one to command it but reason; and therefore to desire in

our days to deprive the followers of the pretended Reformed religion

of the exercise of their reason can produce nothing but evil. It would

be driving them to atheism;--a thing which every good Catholic should

hold in horror and execration.... It is only by means of a Council

that we can remedy the evil of religious diversity now among us, and

not by the sword or the gibbet. Nine royal edicts were issued during

the former reigns, and the courts of Parliament have published decrees

without number, in order to abolish this so-called Reformed religion,

by the punishment of fire and other severe pains and penalties. They

omitted nothing to prevent its growth, and did not succeed. Our Holy

Father (it is said) will never consent to permit the exercise of their

religion; but what answer would he make if any one should ask him why

he allows the Jews the exercise of their religion at Rome and Avignon,

and in all the States of the Church? Would he say that the religion of

the Jews, who do not believe in Christ, is better than the religion of

those who do believe in him?”

The Estates separated without settling any thing: they did nothing

toward reconciling the two religious parties or relieving the finances

of the kingdom. They called for the redress of many grievances; and

when the court would have been willing to concede a few reforms

in exchange for pecuniary supplies, the Estates said that their

instructions, which they could not exceed, gave them no power or

authority to raise money. They thus virtually threw away “the keys of

the purse”--the most potent guarantee of good government. It was a

fatal mistake, but it does not appear that the court observed it any

more than the Estates. The government saw only that the States-General

was a body too numerous for the dispatch of business, and it was agreed

that the provincial Estates, grouped into thirteen assemblies, should

each elect three deputies, and that the thirty-nine thus returned

should meet in the following August. The bishops were also convoked to

this assembly, and a great number of them actually obeyed the summons.

The meeting of the States-General did not quiet the agitation in the

provinces. The war of words soon became a war of blows, and serious

riots occurred in many large towns. At Beauvais, Cardinal Chatillon,

the admiral’s brother, nearly lost his life, because on Easter Sunday

he had celebrated divine service in his private chapel and not in the

cathedral, and had administered the holy communion in both kinds, after

the Huguenot fashion. The mob broke into the houses of some persons

suspected of heresy, and catching one Adrian Fourré, a priest, they

killed him, and were dragging him to the _voirie_ to burn him,

when the public executioner interfered, asserted his rights, and burned

the body himself amid the shouts of the populace. Some of the rioters

were afterward hanged, when the fanatic people rose and hanged the

executioner. At Le Mans a Protestant was killed, and the bishop did

not scruple to write to the king, asking pardon for the murderers.

At Rennes, the Huguenots ventured to worship openly, for which they

were attacked by a “noisy bawling bully” of a grey friar, who exhorted

his hearers to fall upon them by night. The municipal officers did

not attempt to silence him, fearing that if they should not succeed

they would next day be “publicly and scandalously preached at before

the people.”[226] In December, 1560, an image of the Virgin was found

lying in the kennel at Carcassonne. The sacrilege was imputed to the

Huguenots, and the mob rose upon them, and many were killed. One man

had his mouth cut from ear to ear, and an iron bit was fastened into

it. The town hangman murdered five Huguenots, whom he skinned, and then

ate the heart of one of them. He also sawed another, a private enemy,

in two.

It must not, however, be supposed that the provocation and insult

were all on one side. On the 25th March, 1561, the high bailiff of

Blois sent the queen-mother a long account of the mischievous doings

and profanity of the Huguenots; how they had broken open churches,

shattered images and crucifixes, and carried away thirteen young women

from the convent of Guiche. Even in Paris, the hot-bed of Romish

fanaticism, the Huguenots broke the images set up in the streets, and

in some of the churches. They also held tumultuous meetings in the Pré

aux Clercs, which were at last put down.

The government, desirous of acting with mildness in the distracted

state of the country, had summoned a meeting of the Privy Council on

the very day of the dissolution of the States-General of Orleans, in

order to take into consideration the petitions of the Huguenots for

leave to celebrate their worship in private. The prayer was refused,

for the Lorraine party was still strong; but the queen-mother not

long after issued a general pardon, liberating all persons who had

been imprisoned for their religion, and commanding the magistrates

to restore the property of which the lawful owners had been deprived

in consequence of their heretical opinions. At the same time all the

king’s subjects were exhorted to conform to the rites and usages of

the national Church, and the penalty of death was denounced against

those who, under pretense of supporting the interests of religion,

should disturb the public tranquillity. As this was not a sufficient

protection to the Reformed party, letters patent were issued in April,

repeating the former salutary provisions, forbidding men to revile

each other with the odious appellations of Papist and Huguenot, or to

assemble in large bodies, or to make domiciliary visits under pretense

of discovering religious practices contrary to law; and permitting the

return of all who had been forced to leave the kingdom in consequence

of their opinions, provided they were willing to conform externally

to the Catholic religion. Such persons as would not submit to these

regulations had liberty to sell their property and leave France.

The revised edict was ordered to be read in all the churches, and a

cordelier at Provins introduced it in the following grotesque terms:

“My dear Christian brethren, I have received instructions to read an

edict ordering the cats and mice to live in peace together, and that we

in France--that is to say, the Heretics and the Catholics--should do

the same, and that such is the king’s pleasure. I am sorry for it, and

I am grieved to see the new reign begin so unpromisingly.”

Even the small concessions made by this edict were severely blamed

by the pope and the King of Spain;[227] while numerous outbreaks in

various parts of France--bloody protests against toleration, like our

own Gordon riots--showed that the people were very much divided in

their sentiments upon it. In order, therefore, to tranquillize the

public mind, the chancellor advised the queen-mother to consult the

Parliament of Paris on the best means of suppressing these religious

disorders. A solemn meeting was held in July (1561), Charles,

Catherine, and the chief nobility being present. The debate, which

De l’Hopital opened with a wise and conciliatory address, was long

and stormy. “We have not met to discuss points of doctrine,” he said,

“but to deliberate on the best means of preventing the dissensions

occasioned by the difference of religious opinion, and to put an end

to the license and rebellion of which that difference has hitherto

proved a constant source. The devil has entered into these contests,

and no one thinks of reforming himself.” In other words, religion

was a mere pretext. The parliament was much divided: some contended

that the edicts against the Huguenots ought to be wholly suspended

until a meeting of the National Council; another that they should be

carried out more strictly; while a third party were of opinion that

the sole cognizance of heresy should be assigned to the bishops, and

that a severe penalty, short of death, should be inflicted upon all

who assembled, even peacefully, for religious worship.[228] This

proposal was carried by a majority of three votes, and the result was

the Edict of July, 1561, forbidding, under pain of death, the use of

insulting terms, and any act of violence under color of religion. All

public and private meetings were interdicted; the bishops were still

to take cognizance of the crime of heresy, but the penalties were

restricted to banishment; and, finally, the king granted a general

amnesty, on condition that every body lived peaceably and catholically.

The Huguenots gained little by this decree beyond the abolition of

the death penalty in cases of heresy; indeed, it actually diminished

the toleration they already enjoyed; and yet the Parliament of Paris

would only register it provisionally, on the ground that it was too

favorable. That this opinion was not shared by the Huguenots is clear

from a hymn written on the occasion, of which the following is a

portion:

Quant à moi, je ne peux vivre

Qu’avec ce qu’il interdit;

Aussi le mien corps je livre

Aux peines de son Édit.

Qu’il me commande exiler,

Qu’il fasse mes os brûler,

Qu’il m’étrangle d’une corde,

Je le veux et m’y accorde....

N’aie donc, ô peuple, crainte

Du supplice qui t’attend,

Car cette dure contrainte

Jusqu’à l’âme ne s’étend.

That the restrictions and penalties of the July edict were unnecessary

is clear enough from indisputable contemporaneous evidence. On April

25th of this very year De Crussol wrote to the queen-regent from

Montpellier, that the Reformed had petitioned him to be allowed to

live in peace; that he found in them nothing but “great obedience and

reverence,” and that they were loyal subjects. He goes on to complain

of the Parliament of Toulouse, infringing the edict and detaining

the Huguenots in prison: “It looks as if they wanted to amend the

said edict, or to make a new one.” Six months later we find Prosper

de Sainte Croix (Santa Croce), the papal legate, equally emphatic in

his praise of the Reformed. Writing to Cardinal Borromeo, the pope’s

nephew, on the 16th October, 1561, he says: “In Gascony and other

places, I saw no mutilated images, no broken crosses, no deserted

churches, as I had been told I should;” and then proceeds to speak of

the proper feeling of the people on the matter where a cross had been

broken.

Ever since the accession of Charles IX. the Huguenots had been growing

in favor at court, and the true cause of this favor was not far to

seek. Philip II. was known to be intriguing with the Guises to marry

the widowed Mary Stuart to his son Don Carlos. This was the first step

in a well-devised plot to aggrandize Spain and crush the Reformation.

By this marriage Philip would become master of Scotland, paralyze

England by exciting the hopes of the Romanists in both countries, and

prevent Elizabeth from sending aid to the rebels in Flanders. The

influence of the Guises would also be so far increased that France

would be entirely under their control. All this Catherine saw, and to

checkmate Spain she drew nearer to England, and only three years later

(Sept. 1564) actually proposed a marriage between Charles IX. and

Elizabeth.[229]

The favor shown to the Huguenots greatly annoyed the orthodox party.

Old Montmorency was greatly scandalized that Condé, Coligny, and others

ate meat in Lent; and that Archbishop Montluc, brother of the brutal

soldier of that name, openly preached that it was not wrong to pray

to God in French, and that the Scriptures ought to be translated into

the vulgar tongue. The halls of St. Germain’s and Fontainebleau were

thrown open to Huguenot ministers, and “it seemed as if the whole court

had become Calvinist,” says the Jesuit Maimbourg. Catherine received

the Protestant leaders with favor, and assumed the character of a

devout inquirer after truth.[230] Chantonnay, the Spanish embassador,

scarcely wrote a letter to his royal master in which he did not

complain of the toleration shown to heretics,[231] and of the influence

of the admiral, whose chaplain often preached to a congregation of

more than 300 persons. Another time he writes: “The day after Easter

Sunday the public preachings in the great court of Fontainebleau,

before the lodgings of Admiral Coligny, in the presence of M. de Condé,

have been forbidden.” On the 9th July he says that not a day passes

without preaching “in the mansion of some lord or lady of the court.”

The same busy correspondent informs us that in August, 1561, Beza

preached in the hotel of the Prince of Condé at St. Germains and in

the royal palace, and that the Reformed ministers “were more confident

than the Catholic.” At another time we read that, in consequence of

the favor shown to the heretics, there had occurred every day at

Paris and elsewhere, “seditions, tumults, and murders of Protestants

and Catholics.”[232] A little later Chantonnay mentions that certain

bishops, adopting the doctrine and language of the heretics, called for

reform in the Church; and that the clergy were made a laughing-stock in

the presence even of the papal legate. “After supper the other evening,

when the cardinal-legate was with the queen, the king, his brother the

Duke of Orleans, and the Prince of Bearn, entered the room, followed

by many others, all of them dressed up as cardinals, bishops, abbots,

and priests, riding upon asses, and each carrying on the crupper behind

him a page dressed as a loose woman.[233] There was a good laugh at

it, and they continue to amuse themselves, calling the Prince of Bearn

legate, because he was dressed as a cardinal.” The nuncio complained of

this masque, for which Catherine apologized as being “only a childish

jest.” Margaret of Valois, afterward wife of Henry IV., writes in her

memoirs that “all the court was infected with heresy,” that “many of

the lords and ladies tried to convert her,” that “her brother of Anjou

[afterward Henry III.] had not escaped the unhappy influence, and that

he used to throw her prayer-book into the fire and give her Huguenot

hymns instead.” Considering that Margaret was at this time barely

eight years old, her testimony, given nearly forty years later, is

of little value, except as corroborating from another point of view,

the evidence of other witnesses. The Duke of Bouillon writes in his

memoirs, that another of Margaret’s brothers, Alençon, “favored the

cause of the Religion.”[234] From all this it is pretty clear that

France, at the beginning of the new reign, was on the brink of great

changes, and that, if Catherine had been a woman of good principles,

the current of French history would have been turned into another and

a better channel. The Huguenots, believing her to be sincere in her

protestations, exhorted her “to say but one word, and Christ would be

worshiped in truth and purity throughout the kingdom.” But that word

the queen-mother had no intention of uttering. Like many of those

trained beneath the shadow of St. Peter’s, she was outwardly fervent

enough, “pious after the Italian fashion,” but at heart she believed

more in witchcraft and astrology than in God.

Preparatory to the reassembling of the States-General, it had been

thought advisable to call together the provincial assemblies with

the view of coming to an understanding regarding the matters to be

brought before the general body. Each locality had its grievances

and its remedies to propose, the clergy being the chief object of

attack. But an unexpected turn was given to the course of events by

the constituency of the Isle of France, who suggested the propriety of

making those court favorites disgorge, who had been enriched by the

prodigality of former reigns.[235] The idea of being called upon to

restore his ill-gotten gains alarmed Montmorency, not only for himself

but for his son, who had married a daughter of the notorious Diana

of Poitiers. He was also offended by the Huguenot opinions of his

nephews, the Chatillons, and the favor shown them by the queen-mother.

In such a state of mind it needed but little persuasion on the part of

Diana--fit instrument for such a scheme--to reconcile the constable

with the Lorraines. A common danger drew them close together, and that

fatal TRIUMVIRATE was formed which brought so much evil upon

France.[236] In token of reconciliation, and as a pledge of mutual

support, Montmorency, the Duke of Guise, and Marshal St. André took the

sacrament together. The constable, who feared that a religious would

lead to a political change, carried the whole weight of his influence

to the Catholic side, toward which the King of Navarre was gradually

inclining. His brother Condé, aided by Coligny, alone resisted the

violent proposals of the Romish party, and advocated the assembling

of a national council to arrange the religious differences, in which

course they were supported by petitions from the Huguenots too numerous

to be neglected. To gratify so just a request, a meeting of the clergy

was summoned, at which a number of Protestant divines were to appear to

explain and defend their doctrine.

In the interval came the meeting of the States of Pontoise (17th

August, 1561), and their first step was to confirm the minutes of

the Orleans meeting. The chancellor, who had grown in wisdom and

toleration, said in his opening speech: “I do not understand those who

desire to exclude the new religion from the kingdom--to issue edict

after edict against it. Our only concern is, to learn whether the

interests of the state are best served by the permission, or by the

prohibition of the meetings of the Calvinists. To decide this, we need

not inquire into their doctrine; for supposing the Reformed religion to

be bad, is that a sufficient reason for proscribing its professors? Is

it not possible to be a good subject without being a Catholic or even

a Christian? Can not fellow-citizens, differing in religious opinions,

still live in harmony? We have met not to establish articles of faith,

but to regulate the state.”

The orator of the nobility demanded, with the almost unanimous consent

of the order, that all religious controversies should be decided in

conformity with Holy Scripture;[237] that heresy should no longer be

considered an offense against the state; and that the Apostles’ and the

Athanasian Creeds should be the only test of orthodoxy. The nobles also

called for reforms in the judicature and in the government, but their

scope belongs rather to the political than the religious history of the

times.

The orator of the Tiers État demanded still greater changes: such

as a national council, under the royal presidency, in which all the

controverted questions should be decided by the Word of God; and a

cessation of persecution, on the ground that it was unreasonable to

force any man to do what his conscience condemned. The Third Estate

farther proposed that cardinals and bishops should be disqualified

for seats in the royal council; that the States-General should be

convened every two years; and that the Reformed should enjoy full

liberty of worship, either in the existing churches, or in such as

they might build for themselves. “As both religions have the same

foundation,” said one speaker, “there is no reason why they should

hate and persecute one another. Perseverance in penal enactments

will kindle a fire which no power under heaven can extinguish.”

After suggesting various ecclesiastical reforms, he continued: “If

the king wants money, let him do as they have done in Germany and

England--take the money that makes the Church luxurious. One-third of

what it possesses is enough for its wants. The people are ruined and

can pay no more taxes.” The idea of paying their debts and getting

rich by seizing the property of the clergy pleased even the orthodox;

but the churchmen caught the alarm, and set every engine at work to

ward off the threatened blow. The property of the Church was valued at

one hundred and twenty millions. Out of this it was proposed to allot

forty-eight millions, which would produce a revenue of four millions

for the clergy, and which, men argued, was quite ample for their

support. Forty-two millions were to be appropriated to the payment of

the debt, and the balance of thirty millions would, if judiciously

distributed in loans among the chief cities of France, develop trade

and increase the general wealth of the country, while the interest

would suffice to pay the army and keep the fortresses in repair. To

carry out such a sweeping confiscation required a strong government,

and then it could be done only at the risk of a revolution; but the

very proposal made the clergy more willing to take their share of the

public burdens, and they offered not only to redeem at their own cost

all the royal domains pawned or mortgaged by the crown, but to pay

annually for six years a tribute of sixteen hundred thousand livres.

The queen-regent having thus obtained the necessary supplies, and a

promise of more, the popular demands (with a few trivial exceptions)

were evaded, but liberty of conscience was promised. If the meetings at

Orleans and Pontoise did not effect much good, they materially promoted

the interests of the Huguenots by recognizing the great principle of

toleration, though more than two centuries were to pass away before it

was fully carried out.

As soon as the meetings at Pontoise were ended, all eyes were turned

to the approaching colloquy to be held at Poissy. The clergy, in

return for their liberal contribution toward the burdens of the state,

had called for the thorough execution of the Edict of July. “_Non

impetrarunt_,” says Beza laconically. The regent took the money,

but answered their prayer in very vague terms. What she really thought

of the matters in dispute between the two religious parties may be

gathered from her instructions to Cardinal Ferrara to be laid before

the pope (4th August, 1561):--“The number of those professing the

Reformed religion is so great, and their party is so powerful, that

they are no longer to be put down by severe laws or force of arms. They

are neither anabaptists nor libertines; they believe all the articles

of the Apostles’ Creed, and therefore many are of opinion that they

ought not to be cut off from communion with the Church. What danger can

there be in removing the images from the churches, and doing away with

certain useless forms in the administration of the sacraments? It would

farther be advantageous to allow to all persons the communion under

both kinds, and to permit divine worship to be celebrated in the vulgar

tongue.”[238]

How far Catherine was sincere in her letter to Cardinal Ferrara is

hardly a question for those who hold her to have been always more

influenced by policy than by principle. She was sincere, when it served

her purpose to be so. Long before the Triumvirate--that precursor of

the League--took a definite form, she had seen the necessity of uniting

with the Huguenots, in order to counterbalance the Lorraine party.

It was this that made her write to the pope; that made her pretend

to entertain Calvinistic ideas; in short, that made her deceive both

parties. Without entirely adopting the views of Davila (at the end of

his 2d book), we agree in his conclusion, that “she deceived not only

simple people, but the craftiest and most skillful also.”

Whatever may have been Catherine’s motives, the pope would not yield an

inch; he wrote to encourage the Catholic party to resistance. Meanwhile

Chancellor de l’Hôpital was addressing the Calvinists of Geneva,

praising in the king’s name--in reality according to the queen-mother’s

instructions--the purity of their motives and the rectitude of their

principles, and exhorting them to restrain “the malice of certain

preachers and dogmatizers who abuse the name and purity of the religion

which they profess, by sowing in the minds of the king’s subjects a

damnable disobedience, not only by their libels and slanders, but by

their sermons.”[239]

It was under such circumstances and in accordance with the promise

made in the Edict of July, that the celebrated colloquy of Poissy

was held, in September, 1561. On both sides great preparations had

been made for the grand discussion; and in order to counterbalance

the eloquence and skill of the Catholic party, Calvin, Beza, Peter

Martyr,[240] and other ministers were invited, under safe conduct, from

Switzerland. Calvin did not answer to the appeal, but the Protestants

had no cause to regret his absence, for Theodore Beza was altogether

a fitter person for such an occasion. Beza was a man of noble birth

and a ripe scholar; he had seen much of courts, and in the fashionable

society of Paris had acquired a remarkable grace of manner. He was

converted by a serious illness: “As soon as I could leave my bed,” he

told his friend and tutor, Melchior Wolmar, “I broke all my chains and

went into voluntary exile with my wife to follow Christ.” At Geneva,

he was nominated professor of theology, and ordained to the ministry;

and became so strongly attached to Calvin that he scarcely ever left

him. His appearance was a recommendation, being a handsome man of

middle stature and pleasing address. On the 23d August, the day after

his arrival at St. Germain’s, he preached before the court in Condé’s

apartment, and was summoned at midnight to a private conference in the

drawing-room of the Queen of Navarre,[241] where he was graciously

received by the queen-mother, the Cardinals of Lorraine and Bourbon,

and others. Catherine asked him many questions about Calvin’s health,

age, and occupations. The Cardinal of Lorraine, after some well-turned

compliments, declared that the difference in the Christian churches

on transubstantiation and consubstantiation were not in his opinion a

sufficient cause of schism. Beza replied: “We hold the bread to be the

sacramental body, and we define _sacramentaliter_ by maintaining,

that though the body be now in heaven and nowhere else, and the

signs on earth with us, yet it is as truly given and received by us,

through faith in eternal life, as the sign is given naturally by the

hands.” The cardinal, turning to the queen-mother, observed: “Such is

my belief, madam, and I am satisfied.” Beza took advantage of this

unexpected concession to add, “And these are the Sacramentarians who

have been so long and so cruelly persecuted and slandered.”

Early on the morning of the 9th of September, 1561, Beza left St.

Germain’s for Poissy (a small town about four leagues from Paris),

escorted by a brilliant train of gentlemen, among whom must have been

many of his old friends.[242] The members of the council, or colloquy

as it was termed, in order not to wound the susceptibility of the papal

court, assembled in the refectory of the great convent. The king, then

only eleven years of age, presided, and around him were gathered the

princes of the blood royal, with the officers and ladies of the court.

On the two sides of the hall were ranged, according to their rank,

six cardinals with archbishops and bishops to the number of forty and

more, besides a vast array of doctors and lawyers who accompanied these

prelates, all in scarlet or purple robes. Along the lower part of the

room ran a bar, but the space beyond it was empty, the Protestants

not being as yet admitted into the presence of the king. Charles IX.

opened the proceedings by reading a formal speech, in which he said

that he hoped “they would inquire into the things necessary to be

reformed, without passion or prejudice, but solely for God’s honor,

the discharge of their consciences, and the public peace.”...“What I

desire,” he continued, “is that you will not separate until you have

put matters into such good order that my subjects may live together

in peace and unity.”[243] He was followed by Chancellor de l’Hopital,

who, by the king’s express order, kept his seat while speaking. After

a formal explanatory introduction he went on, “I caution you against

subtle and curious questions that lead to nothing. We do not require

many books, but only to understand thoroughly the Word of God, and to

live in conformity with it as well as we can. The ministers of the new

sect have been invited hither by his majesty to confer with you. I pray

you receive them as a father receives his children, and graciously

teach and instruct them, so that they can not hereafter say, they were

condemned unheard.”

After some little discussion on the chancellor’s speech, which had

offended the Cardinal de Tournon by its liberality, the Huguenots

were introduced into the chamber. They were thirty-three in number,

eleven ministers and twenty-two lay deputies[244] from the Calvinistic

churches. Immediately on entering the hall they knelt down in homage

to the king, and taking advantage of that position, Beza implored the

Divine blessing upon the assembly. As they stood below the bar at the

lower end of the room, their homely dark dresses formed a striking

contrast to the silks and furs, and gold and bright colors of the

dignitaries of the Romish Church, who sat on the two sides of the hall.

Standing a little in front of his colleagues, Beza proceeded to explain

the articles of the faith held by himself and his brethren. His speech,

which presents few salient points for modern readers, was a remarkable

mixture of address, wisdom, and Scripture. He had gained the ear of an

unwilling audience, and was listened to with many marks of approval,

until he came to the doctrine of the Eucharist. He admitted (as we

have already seen) the spiritual presence of Christ, but qualified

it thus: “We say that his body is as remote from the bread and wine,

as heaven is from earth.”[245] This so startled the Romish prelates,

“that they began to murmur and make a great noise,”[246] calling him a

“blasphemer.” Beza, however, took no notice of it, but continued his

address, winding up by a statement of their doctrines on the obedience

due to the king, appealing to their writings, to the condition of

the Protestant states in Germany, and to Scripture. Such a defense

would appear unnecessary in these days; but the orthodox constantly

maintained that those who were rebels against the Church were also and

necessarily rebels against the State. After a week’s adjournment the

prelates, through their mouth-piece, the Cardinal of Lorraine, put in

a reply to Beza’s statement, but would allow of no discussion except

upon two points: the authority of the Church in matters of faith and

the Real Presence. Beza offered to reply immediately, but the court

rose, and when the turn of the Huguenot champion came, he spoke not

so much with the hope of converting his antagonists as of softening

them.[247] After his speech the public proceedings were discontinued,

as the discussion was becoming unpopular; but at the suggestion of the

queen-mother, several private conferences were held, at one of which a

monk named Saintes maintained “that tradition was based on a firmer and

surer foundation than Scripture;” and at another, the Jesuit Lainez,

to the great scandal of all present, called the ministers “wolves,

foxes, serpents, and assassins,” and declared that “women and soldiers

could be no judges of points of faith.” The Reformed delegates put

in a declaration on the Lord’s Supper, which the bishops rejected as

heretical; and presenting a counter confession of their own, called

upon the queen-mother to “compel the Huguenots to accept it, or else

exterminate them, for France is a country that has never put up with

heresy.” Catherine, however, did not yield, but sharply charged them

with a perverse desire to prolong the disturbances of the kingdom. The

Moderate party still clung to the hope of reconciliation, and at a

later meeting the chancellor boldly said: “The State and Church are two

things, not one. A man may be a good subject, though a bad Christian.

You may excommunicate a man, but he is still a citizen.” L’Hopital was

too far in advance of his age.[248]

Catherine appears to have acted in a straightforward manner during the

colloquy; and, when the members had separated, she did not relax in her

exertions to arrive at an acceptable compromise. She suggested that the

French bishops should present an address to the king, praying him to

move the pope to permit the marriage of priests and the communion in

both kinds. They did so, and Pius IV. replied that he had always held

these changes to be right and fair, for which he had been taunted with

Lutheranism at the last conclave; but he could do nothing without the

cardinals, who would not consent.[249] Writing to the embassador at the

imperial court (16th February, 1562), the queen-regent complains of the

time spent in “idle disputes;” and in a letter to De Lisle, his envoy

at Rome, Charles defends what had been done at Poissy, on the ground

that it was impossible to carry out the existing edicts; “I therefore

resolved,” he says, “to leave my kingdom no longer in a confusion,

which became greater the more the remedy was deferred.” The government,

enlightened by what had taken place in Germany and Switzerland, began

to look upon Protestantism as a barrier against anarchy. Minds that

had left the safe anchorage of the Church of Rome were drifting to

and fro, and the only resting-place against the torrent which had

hurried so many into the errors of anabaptism was the creed of Luther

and of Calvin. Heresy was better than a revival of the excesses of

Munster.[250]

During the colloquy a synod was held, at which the impracticable

temper of the Huguenot pastors was forcibly shown by a memoir they

drew up, demanding “the exclusion of women from the government of the

state, and the establishment of a legitimate regency;” thus alienating

the queen-mother, who was drawing nearer to them every day. They

also called for severe measures against “infidels, libertines, and

atheists;” like some modern patriots, who love liberty so much that

they would keep it all for themselves.

Although the colloquy came to nothing, the actual result was a victory

to the Huguenots by clearing their character from the many aspersions

cast upon it. They had shown that they were not disloyal subjects,

and were not in the habit of practicing infamous crimes; and their

faith spread so rapidly in consequence, that the demand for pastors to

preside over the new congregations was greater than the Swiss churches

could supply. The countenance of the court gave them boldness. During

the sittings at Poissy they assembled by thousands outside the walls

of Paris to listen to Beza, whose enemies have computed his hearers

at 8000, and whose friends at 50,000.[251] The smaller number appears

quite large enough for any voice to reach in the open air. Necessity

very early compelled these congregations to assume a sort of military

formation. The women and children were placed in the centre nearest

the preacher; behind them stood the men on foot, next came the men

on horseback, and outside all were ranged armed men, soldiers or

arquebusiers, to protect the unarmed crowd. As Paris was particularly

lawless, Condé collected a volunteer guard of about 400 gentlemen,

to whom were added 300 old soldiers under Andelot, with 300 students

and as many citizens. Certainly no public worship was safe without

some such precautions, but the wisdom of such a display of force, when

private worship was possible, is open to doubt.

From a list presented to the queen-mother about this time by Coligny,

it would seem that there were more than 2000 Reformed and organized

churches in France. Some have calculated the Huguenots to number

one-half of the population, while the least sanguine reckoned them at

one-tenth. The Chancellor l’Hopital estimated that “a fourth part of

the kingdom was separated from the communion of the Church.” This part,

he adds, “consists of gentlemen, of the principal citizens, and of such

members of the poorer sort as have seen the world and are accustomed

to bear arms. They have with them more than three-fourths of the men

of letters, and a great proportion of the large and good houses,

both of the nobility and third estate, being on their side, they do

not want money to carry on their affairs.”[252] To the same effect

wrote Castelnau; and Micheli, the Venetian embassador, one of the

shrewdest of observers, declared that there was no province of France

untainted by Protestantism; and that Normandy and Brittany, Gascony

and Languedoc, Poitou and Touraine, Provence and Dauphiny--comprising

three-fourths of the kingdom--were full of it. “In many provinces,”

he says, “meetings are held, sermons preached, and rules of life

adopted, entirely in accordance with the example of Geneva, and without

any regard to the royal prohibition. Every one has embraced these

opinions, and, what is most remarkable, even the religious body, not

only priests, monks, and nuns--very few of the convents have escaped

the infection--but even the bishops and many of the most distinguished

prelates.... Your highness (the Doge) may be assured that, excepting

the common people, who still zealously frequent the churches, all have

fallen away. The nobles most especially, the men under forty almost

without exception; for although many of them still go to mass, it is

only from regard to appearances and through fear. When they are sure

to be unobserved, they shun both mass and church.”[253] He considered

it indispensable that religious freedom--at least an “_interim_,”

as he called it--should be accorded to the French Protestants, if they

would avoid a general war.

Catherine and the least fanatical portion of her advisers saw clearly

enough that a compromise was necessary. Though greatly disappointed

at the result of the Poissy conference, she recognized the necessity

of moderation, and had called upon the chiefs of the Huguenots to

assist her by restoring the churches which their followers had seized

for their religious services. She then gave them tacit permission to

assemble to the number of five hundred[254] in places appointed for

that purpose, forbidding them at the same time to wear arms, or to

indulge in irritating language.[255] In Paris, the number who could

meet together was limited to two hundred, and that in private.[256]

But the question of toleration or persecution was too important to be

settled in this irregular fashion, and the queen-regent summoned an

assembly of Notables, composed of the ordinary members of the Privy

Council, with two delegates from each parliament in the kingdom, to

advise with her on what had become a matter of high state policy.

The fanatical Romish party were by no means pleased with these

tolerant symptoms in the court and government; and finding their power

and influence diminishing every day, they began to look about them for

foreign help. In their perplexity they naturally turned to the pope and

the King of Spain; and there is a story of a petition, emanating from

the Cardinal of Lorraine and certain doctors of the Sorbonne, imploring

Philip II. to aid the Church of France against the heretics, on the

ground that he was the mightiest and most religious of princes. The

petition never reached its destination in consequence of its bearer,

a priest, being arrested and compelled to give it up. The story is

not well authenticated, but there is evidence enough without it to

show that the Guises and a part of the French clergy were engaged in

a treasonable correspondence. Supported by this correspondence, the

King of Spain took a high tone in his letters to the queen-regent,

blaming her for holding the colloquy at Poissy, and condemning the

mere idea of a national council. He said bluntly that all heretics

ought to be punished without respect of persons, and added that if she

failed in her duty, he was determined to sacrifice every thing, even

his life, to check the progress of the pestilence, which was equally

threatening to France and to Spain. The Spanish embassador Chantonnay,

whom Anquetil describes as “acting the part of a French minister of

state,” scarcely wrote a letter to his royal master in which he did

not denounce Catherine’s favor to the Protestants. As it was Philip’s

interest to keep France in a disturbed state, he naturally courted the

Guise faction, promising them both men and money, but not willing to

give either very liberally. Secret as were their manœuvres, they did

not escape Catherine’s vigilance, and to prevent any violent outbreak

she disarmed the populace of Paris.[257]

Catherine became more unpopular every day among the extreme Romanists,

and the discontent with her policy became general: many of the nobility

remonstrated with her for her toleration, and the monks gladly seized

the opportunity of arousing the fanaticism of the populace. One of

these tonsured preachers of sedition actually exhorted the citizens

of Paris not to permit the watch, who were paid by them, to protect

the heretics. The violence of the Romish clergy--especially of the

regulars--at this time can hardly be exaggerated. Simon Vigor,[258]

whose sermons are still extant, spoke thus ferociously from his pulpit:

“Our nobility will not strike.... Is it not very cruel, they say, to

draw the sword against one’s uncle or father?... Come now, which is

nearest and dearest to you, your Catholic and Christian brother or

your carnal Huguenot brother? The spiritual affinity or relationship

is much higher than the carnal, and therefore I tell you that since

you will not strike the Huguenots, you have no religion. Accordingly

some morning God will execute justice, and permit this bastard

nobility to be trodden down by the commonalty. I do not say that it

ought to be done, but that God will permit it to be done.”[259] The

garrulous Claude Haton declares that Vigor far surpassed all others

in violence, and gives an outline of a sermon in which he accused the

king’s government of favoring Huguenotry, and “destroying the Church of

Christ.” Claude de Sainctes, who was in the household of the Cardinal

of Lorraine, declared in one of his writings, “that if the fires which

had been lighted up in France for the destruction of Calvinism had not

been extinguished, that sect would not have spread.”[260]

This incendiary language produced the intended effect, and the whole

kingdom became the theatre of frightful disorders. At Cahors the tocsin

called the people to arms (26th December, 1561). The Catholics shut up

the Huguenots in their place of meeting and then set fire to it. As the

poor wretches forced their way through the flames, they were struck

down by the pikes and swords of the savage crowd. Similar disturbances

occurred in other parts of France--at Pamiers, Dijon, Troyes,

Amiens, Abbeville, Tours, Bordeaux, Montpellier, Marseilles--the

Roman Catholics being determined to prevent all assemblies that were

not authorized by edict. François Channeil and Louis de Brezous,

accompanied by 600 horse and foot, entered Aurillac, and shutting the

gates so that none might escape, began to fire upon the inhabitants,

killing one of their own number. Many Protestants were thus murdered.

The soldiers hanged without trial a book-seller and a hosier, who died

bravely singing the 27th Psalm to the last moment:

God is my strong salvation,

What foe have I to fear?

In darkness and temptation

My light, my help is near.

It was impossible that such “lynch-law” violence could have any

permanent repressive effect upon men who felt that “persecution was the

ladder by which they were to reach heaven.”[261] The Huguenot was not

likely to be less fervent than the Mahometan, who looks upon the sword

of his enemy as the key to Paradise.

There were perhaps few cities where the magistrates showed so much good

sense as at Amiens in adopting vigorous measures to preserve peace

between both religious parties. About four years before this time

the heretics in that city were estimated at 500, a body too numerous

to be openly molested. The monks, therefore, organized processions

of children between the ages of eight and twelve, and these to the

number of 200 paraded the streets at night with toy crosses and

banners, halting from time to time and singing the _Ave Maria_

at certain doors, according as their leader, a man bearing a sword,

directed them: “Sing, children, sing, in spite of the Huguenots.”

The Jacobin preachers used their pulpits as instruments of sedition,

employing language that could hardly fail to lead to rioting. Indeed

(to anticipate our narrative), on the 7th and 8th of December, 1561,

the tocsin was rung, the Catholics fell upon the Huguenots as they were

returning from divine worship, wounded many, and maltreated some of the

civic officers and others who had come to help the weaker party. It was

in consequence of these and similar outbreaks that the magistrates, in

order to prevent the mere possibility of rioting, interfered so far

with individual liberty as to forbid the inhabitants to assemble in

the streets to the number of more than four, or to leave their houses

after curfew, to carry arms, to discuss the sermons, or to call each

other names, such as “Huguenots, Lutherans, papists, hypocrites, and

caffards,” under pain of death. Still the magistrates were not in the

least inclined to tolerate heterodoxy, for they went on to prohibit

assemblies either in the city or without, for the purpose of preaching,

reading, or psalm-singing, contrary to the practice of the Church.[262]

Although the Catholic party appears to have become stronger in the

municipal body, still their measures inclined to tolerance. On the 22d

May, 1562, the ministers were ordered to leave the city within three

days, and school-masters were forbidden to teach the new doctrine to

their pupils. Five days later we find the Notables assembled to devise

means for compelling some eighteen or twenty Huguenots to decorate

their houses for the procession of the Holy Sacrament, with a view “to

avoid any demonstration of feeling on the part of the people, who would

be scandalized by any want of reverence.” The men were summoned before

them, and consented under protest to adorn their windows. “They pleaded

their conscience,” says the register; “and when they were asked

how that could be wounded by such an act, they refused to give any

explanation.”[263] The men, however, did not keep their word, and were

sent to prison. A proclamation was then issued ordering all persons to

decorate their houses under pain of being fined twenty livres parisis;

but this had so little effect that, the very next Sunday, two hundred

and sixty persons refused to comply with the order.

Although the liberal-minded Christians of our days may think these

Amiens Reformers overscrupulous, we are hardly in position to blame

them. They looked upon the procession of the Corpus Christi as an act

of idolatrous worship, and to hang tapestry on the walls of their

houses was indirectly to countenance the idolatry. It is not very long

ago that a similar argument was urged in the House of Commons against

the turning-out of the guard at Malta when the host was carried past

the guard-house.

But the Huguenots were almost as turbulent as the Romanists: in many

places they had become strong enough to defy the penal laws passed

against them. They seized upon the churches, drove the monks from

their convents, made bonfires of the crosses, images, and relics, and

demanded an enlargement of their privileges. During the procession of

the Fête Dieu at Lyons (5th June, 1561) a Huguenot tried to snatch the

host out of the priest’s hand. There was an instant riot: “Down with

the heretics! To the Rhone with them!” was the cry. Many were drowned,

and the principal of the college of the Trinity was dragged a corpse

through the streets. In all times of excitement there are hot-headed

partisans who add to the confusion and thwart the exertions of those

who are inclined to conciliatory measures. The early Reformed Church

was not without them: each Protestant country had its iconoclasts.

These indiscreet Reformers were the dread of the moderate Beza: “I fear

our friends more than our enemies,” he wrote.[264] After receiving

intelligence of an outrage at Montpellier he said that, if he were

judge, he would punish those “madmen” with extreme severity.[265] And

in a letter to Calvin he says (18th January, 1562): “You will scarcely

believe how intemperate our people are, as if they wanted to rival our

enemies in impatience.” It was necessary to do something, for the two

parties were coming into collision, and blood had been shed not only

in Paris, the head-quarters of orthodoxy, but in other parts of the

country.

One day the populace of the capital having insulted the Huguenots as

they were returning from divine service, the gentlemen of the Reform

resolved to be present at the next meeting to the number of 2000

horsemen, with the intention, if the insult should be repeated, of

seizing upon the adjoining churches and expelling the monks. There

were frequent conflicts in the city, and in one of them, known as the

riot of St. Medard, both parties were equally violent and equally

guilty. It appears that, on St. John’s Day, the priests of the Church

of St. Medard, in the southern suburb beyond the walls, rang the

bells in their belfry to drown the voice of the Huguenot preaching

in an adjoining house. The congregation remonstrated, and one of

their number was fired on and killed. The Huguenots drew their swords

directly. Andelot entered the Church on horseback, and in the struggle

that followed fifty persons were killed and wounded. The riot was

renewed the next day by the Catholics, who broke into the house where

the Protestants used to worship, and burned it to the ground after

smashing the pulpit and benches to pieces. The matter was taken up by

the Parliament of Paris, and the next year (1562), at the close of a

procession to expiate the profanation of the church, a great number

of citizens suspected of heresy were hanged or drowned without trial,

among them being the captain of the watch[266] and some archers whose

only crime was that they had not stopped the riot. They were pelted by

the children, and “if they had possessed a hundred lives all would have

been taken, the people were so exasperated.” The corpses of the poor

wretches were seized by some fanatics, who dragged them through the

streets and then flung them into the river.[267] The nuncio Santa Croce

wrote to the court of Rome: “Some Huguenots are put to death every day.

Yesterday, four of those who committed such sacrilege in the Church of

St. Medard were burned, and to-day they are preparing for a similar

spectacle.”[268]

Such was the condition of France when the assembly of Notables met

at St. Germains. The Chancellor L’Hopital, who had been growing more

tolerant every day, addressed them in a speech full of eloquence and

sound sense. He called their attention to the actual state of the

Huguenots, their number, and their strength; and showed the injustice

and impolicy of those who wished the king to put himself at the head

of one part of his subjects, and establish peace by the destruction of

the other. “In such a war,” he continued, “where is the king to find

soldiers? Among his subjects. Against whom is he to lead them? Against

his subjects. A triumph or a defeat is equally the destruction of his

subjects. I resign controversies on religion to the theologians; our

business is not to settle articles of faith, but to regulate the state.

A man may be a good subject without being a Catholic. I see no reason

why we should not live in peace with those who do not observe the same

religious ceremonies as ourselves.”

After a long and warm discussion the opinions of the Moderate or

“political” party triumphed, and sixteen articles were drawn up, which

became the basis of the celebrated Edict of January, 1562. It suspended

all preceding edicts, and authorized “those of the religion” to

assemble unarmed outside the towns to preach, pray, and perform other

religious exercises. By this means it was hoped to avoid collision

with the Catholics. The edict farther stipulated that the Protestants

should restore the churches and other ecclesiastical property they

had seized; that they should not resist the collection of tithes, or

criticise the ceremonies of the Catholic religion in their sermons,

books, or conversation. They were also forbidden to hold synods without

the permission of the crown, or to travel from town to town to preach,

but were to confine themselves to one church. As a natural corollary

Catholic preachers were likewise enjoined to abstain from invectives,

“as things serving rather to excite the people to sedition than

persuade them to devotion.” The various Parliaments at first refused

to register the edict, without which ceremony it would not have the

force of law; but their opposition was overcome in every instance

except that of Dijon, where it was “virtuously resisted” by Gaspard

de Saulx-Tavannes, lieutenant-general of Burgundy, a stanch partisan

of the Guises, and one of the most sanguinary leaders of the age. The

Parliament of Paris was characteristically obstinate. To the first

summons they replied, _Nec possumus nec debemus_; and when they

yielded at last to a threat of physical force, they would only register

the edict under protest, “considering the urgent necessity of a

temporary measure.” The Cardinal of Lorraine accepted it, acknowledging

to Throckmorton that some reformation was necessary, but he seemed to

think that the reform should come from above, and not from “men of

their own authority.”[269]

The Huguenots received the edict with gratitude, if not with

exultation. Limited as were the privileges it granted, still it was a

victory over their opponents. The right of assembling was conceded to

them, and for such a right the blood of their martyred brethren had

not been shed in vain. The preachers took immediate advantage of the

liberty given them by the edict, and preached more boldly than ever in

fields and gardens or any open space, and, if the weather was bad, in

such sheds and barns as they could find. “The people,” says Castelnau,

“curious about every thing new, crowded to hear them, Catholics as

well as Protestants.” The Romish party, who undoubtedly formed the

great majority of the nation, and the most ignorant portion of it, were

greatly disgusted with this Edict of Pacification, imperfect as it

was, and began to range themselves in opposition to the crown. Brulart

only echoed the public opinion when he declared the Edict of January

to be “the most pernicious possible for the repose and welfare of the

state, and the support of the kingdom,” and “a wholesale approval of

that wretched Calvinistic sect.” Tn certain provinces it had been well

received; but, in Burgundy, Tavannes would hear of no toleration. He

drove a large number--report says more than 2000--of the Reformed out

of Dijon, and issued an order to the neighboring peasantry “to massacre

all who prayed elsewhere than in the churches, and to refuse drink,

food, and shelter to the expelled rebels.” At Aix, the Protestants had

been accustomed to worship under a fir-tree outside the walls. Every

morning for weeks men and women were seen hanging from its branches;

they had been seized in the night, and executed without trial, on the

mere denunciation of an enemy.

The Cardinal of Lorraine and the Duke of Guise had retired from the

Privy Council in December, in order that they might take no part in

deliberations in which they knew the majority would be against them.

Such a silent protest added largely to their popularity, and they

were already looked upon as the heads of an anti-Huguenot league.

They placed orthodoxy before loyalty, and were ready to oppose the

crown whenever it showed any toleration to heretics. Nearly twelve

months before this date the duke had told the queen-mother in answer

to her question, that the Catholics would not obey the king if he

changed his religion. Still there are good reasons to believe that all

would have gone on quietly but for the defection of the weak-minded

Anthony of Navarre, whose ruling passion was to change his nominal

sovereignty of Navarre for a real crown and real subjects. The Guises

played upon this weakness; Philip II. gave him a choice of several

thrones; and the pope’s legate “very cleverly” offered to divorce him

from his excellent wife Joan of Albret, so that he might marry the

widowed Mary Stuart. But there was one condition: he must apostatize.

By such a man as Anthony, who had no principle, that little obstacle

was soon surmounted; and in February, 1562, he sold himself to the

enemy. Davila’s language leaves no doubt as to the motives of his

conversion.[270]

Anthony’s secession brought a great increase of power to the side of

the Triumvirate by placing at their disposal the troops that obeyed

him as lieutenant-general of France. The insolence of the Guises

increased with success. Their pride and contempt for all who did not

belong to their family or dependents almost bordered on insanity.

They could brook no opposition, and that the Huguenots should think

for themselves was a crime to be expiated only by death. They aimed

at political supremacy, and Coligny, now the acknowledged Huguenot

chief, though Condé was the nominal head, stood in the way of their

ambition. The Triumvirate, therefore, decided upon carrying matters to

extremity, and willingly accepted the aid proffered them by the King

of Spain. Philip II., the self-constituted champion of Romanism, the

“démon du midi,”[271] was trying to crush the Reform in Flanders by

a persecution unparalleled for its merciless severity in the history

of the world. He saw clearly that if France were reformed, or even

if the Reformers were tolerated, success would be impossible; and he

had therefore instructed his embassador, Chantonnay, as early as the

16th October, 1561, to tell the regent that if religious matters were

not arranged--by which he meant, unless the late proscriptions were

renewed--he would send troops to the aid of the Catholics. Catherine

was not the woman to submit to such an unsolicited intervention, even

at the hands of her royal son-in-law, and she answered the ambassador

haughtily, that “she did not know what his Spanish Majesty meant, but

the king had troops enough to enforce obedience from his subjects,

and that she would severely punish any who sought for foreign aid

without the authority of the crown.” There can hardly be a doubt that,

at this time, Catherine was sincere in her determination to maintain

a religious toleration, even at the risk of hostilities with Spain;

and she appears to have consulted Coligny as to the number of men the

Reformed churches could bring into the field.[272] But events moved so

swiftly that she had for the time no alternative but to go with the

stream.

Anthony’s defection had destroyed that balance of parties which the

queen-mother had so diligently labored to maintain. As rash and violent

now as he had previously been dilatory and weak, he had hastened to

Paris, whence he wrote, inviting Guise to join him, and make a combined

attack upon the Protestants. The Duke was at the castle of Joinville

in Champagne, having just returned from Saverne in Alsace, where the

Lorraine princes had met Duke Christopher of Wurtemberg. Their object

in visiting Germany was to mislead the Protestants of that country,

and alienate them entirely from the Calvinists of France, thinking

that, if the latter were deprived of all external support, they must

soon be crushed.[273] The Cardinal of Lorraine twice preached sermons

so Lutheran in spirit, that his open adoption of the Confession of

Augsburg was eagerly looked for;[274] and the language of the Duke

of Guise and his brother Charles, in their conferences with Duke

Christopher and his chancellor, Brentz, is so extraordinary, and, as

regards Duke Francis, so unlike what we read of him at other times,

as almost to shake our faith in the genuineness of the report of the

conference.[275] Brentz entreated the cardinal to put an end to the

persecutions in France. “I will do so,” he replied, adding with a

solemn look, “that he had not put one single man to death on account of

his religion.” Francis corroborated his brother’s words, and said: “We

will do the Reformed no injury.” We shall see how well the two Lorraine

princes kept their promise.

Vassy is a small fortified town of Champagne (Haute Marne), on

the river Braise, about sixty leagues from Paris. It now contains

a population of little more than 3000, and, three centuries ago,

probably did not contain half that number. The Reformed Church,

however, must have been strong in that quarter, for on Christmas Day,

1561, as many as 3000 persons are reported to have assembled for

divine worship, of whom 900 partook of the Holy Communion.[276] Such

an assertion of liberty of thought greatly offended Antoinette de

Bourbon, the dowager duchess of Guise. She could not understand how her

vassals--or, to speak more correctly, the vassals of Mary Stuart, her

granddaughter--should dare choose a religion for themselves, and urged

her son Francis to punish their presumption. The duke, notwithstanding

what he had promised at Saverne, needed no stimulants to the discharge

of so agreeable a duty. His way to Paris lay through Vassy, and

as he came near the town on Sunday morning (1st March, 1562), he

heard the sound of a bell. “What noise is that?” he asked. “They are

calling the Huguenots to their sermon,” was the reply. “Huguenots!

Huguenots!” he swore; “S’death! I will _huguenotize_ them before

long.” He rode into the town, alighted at the convent where he dined,

and after dinner--for that meal was then eaten in the forenoon--he

ordered out his soldiers, between 200 and 300 in number, and marched

them to the barn in which the Huguenots, trades-people for the most

part, had assembled to hear a new preacher who had just been sent to

them from Geneva. The ducal retainers began the strife by abusing

the congregation as “heretics, dogs, and rebels,” murdering three,

and wounding several who attempted to close the door. The Huguenots

endeavored to defend themselves with such weapons as they could snatch

up: two, who were probably gentlemen, drew their swords, others flung

stones, one of which struck the duke in the cheek as he stood near the

door. In a whirlwind of rage he gave his followers orders to spare

nobody, and these orders were but too faithfully carried out.[277]

Such as escaped the sword were killed by the arquebuse as they were

making their way through the windows or over the roof. For one hour the

bloody work continued, during which time between fifty and sixty of the

Huguenots were murdered on the spot, and about two hundred wounded,

some of them mortally. “There were left forty-two poor widows burdened

with orphan children,” wrote Beza. Many who succeeded in escaping from

the barn, were pursued and killed in the town, and probably none would

have been spared but for the Duchess of Guise, who, remembering the

bloody scenes at Amboise, interceded for the women. When all was over a

book was brought the duke; he looked at it contemptuously, he had never

seen such a volume before. “Here,” said he, handing it to the cardinal,

“here is one of the Huguenot books.” “There is no harm in it,” his

brother answered; “it is the Bible.” It was probably the one used in

public worship. “S’blood! how is that? This book has only been printed

a year, and they say the Bible is more than fifteen hundred years old.”

“My brother is mistaken,” quietly observed the cardinal, as he turned

away to hide a smile of contempt at the duke’s ignorance.[278]

The news of the “blood-bath of Vassy” spread like wild-fire through

France, everywhere creating the deepest agitation. Such an outrage was

not only an infringement of the Edict of January, the ink of which

was scarcely dry, but a direct defiance of it; the act (as it were)

of a man who, in pursuance of his own ends, had resolved to trample

upon all law.[279] If the offense were not punished, no one would be

safe hereafter; no law would be binding. As soon as the tidings of

the massacre reached Paris, Marshal Montmorency, the governor, who

was not unfriendly to the Huguenots, advised the ministers to adjourn

their preachings for a few days, lest there should be a riot; but with

characteristic obstinacy they refused, as it would be “acknowledging

they were in the wrong.” They farther asked for a guard to protect them

in their ministrations. Meanwhile Beza went to Monceaux, and appealed

personally to the queen-regent. The apostate Anthony of Navarre

attempted to defend the Duke, and, throwing the blame on the Huguenots,

said that Beza ought to be hanged.[280] Beza replied that the Church of

Christ was more apt to receive blows than to inflict them, adding, in

words that have since passed into a proverb, “Remember, Sire, it is an

anvil on which many a hammer has been broken.” The queen-mother made a

gracious answer, and promised that the edict should be enforced. She

bade Navarre watch over the safety of the king, and summoned Guise to

court, “unattended by any men-at-arms.” Marshal St. André was ordered

to repair to his government at Lyons, but refused to go.

The excitement was so great in Paris that each party took up arms,

declaring they did so in self-defense; and had there been a reckless

leader on either side, the streets would have run with blood shed in

civil strife. The hotels of Montmorency and of Guise were turned into

fortresses, and strongly garrisoned by their respective partisans. The

constable, as representative of the oldest barony of France, was urged

by his wife to act up to his motto, and defend the faith; and he would

possibly have been induced to adopt an extreme course but for his son

Marshal Montmorency, who advised moderation, and urged that it would be

wiser to conciliate the queen-mother than attempt to coerce her.

The slaughter at Vassy was as much exulted over by the ignorant and

fanatical Catholic populace as it was bewailed by the Calvinists.

Priests in the pulpit declared Duke Francis to be a second Moses, a

Jehu, who “by shedding the blood of the wicked had consecrated his

hands, and avenged the Lord’s quarrel.” Ballads were made upon it,

and the orthodox street-singers extolled the Duke of Guise in very

laudatory if not very polished strains:

Nous avons un bon seigneur

En ce pays de France,

Et prince de grand honneur

Vaillant par excellence,

Et très-humain,

Doux et bénin;

C’est le bon duc de Guise,

Qui à Vassy,

Par sa merci,

A défendu l’église.

The Calvinists replied in coarse and more vigorous terms:

Un morceau de pâte

Il fait adorer,

Le rompt de sa patte

Pour le dévorer,

Le gourmet qu’il est!

Hari, hari l’âne, le gourmet qu’il est!

Hari bouriquet.

Le dieu qu’il fait faire

La bouche le prend,

Le cœur le digère,

Au ventre le rend

Au fond du retrait.

Hari, hari l’âne, au fond du retrait.

Hari bouriquet.

Meanwhile the duke, escorted by a body of 1200 gentlemen on horseback,

continued his journey to Paris, which he entered in triumph by the

St. Denis gate--a gate usually reserved for kings.[281] The multitude

cheered him loudly as he passed down that long narrow street, hailing

him as a second Judas Maccabæus; the trades harangued him, and called

upon him to extirpate heresy. On the same day--or on the next, as

others write--Beza preached a sermon beyond the city walls, which the

Prince of Condé attended with three or four hundred men, horse and

foot, armed with pistols and arquebuses, to protect the preacher, who

also wore a breastplate. The prince had gone to Paris to support the

governor and obtain justice for the massacre. He charged the duke with

attempting to seize the government, and advised Catherine to accept

the aid of the Protestants. The queen-mother did not know how to act,

fearing to trust herself wholly to either party. At last she prevailed

upon Condé and Guise to leave the capital so as to avoid all chances of

collision. The duke readily consented, feeling secure of the citizens;

on the other hand, Condé clearly foresaw that he would lose the city if

he quitted it; but being too weak to hold his ground, he withdrew to

his estate at La Ferté-sous-Jouarre, on the Marne, to the north-east of

Paris.

The queen-mother soon found out that she had made a great mistake

in urging Condé to leave the capital: she saw that the power had

passed out of her hands, and that the Guises were preparing to make a

tyrannous use of it. She feared the Triumvirate, for herself as well

as for her son; and there is a story that she overheard St. André

proposing to throw her into the Seine. To preserve her freedom of

action she quitted Monceaux in great secrecy, and removed to Melun,

taking Charles IX. with her,[282] having apparently made up her mind

to act with decision. She appealed to Condé to protect her and the

young king “from the greatest enemy France can have, and who is also

yours:” and the prince lost no time in summoning Coligny, Andelot, La

Rochefoucauld, and other chiefs of the Huguenot party to meet him at

Meaux, to take the queen’s letters into consideration. As they were

not strong enough to force their way back to Paris, they resolved to

get possession of the king’s person, and carry him off to Orleans,

knowing well the great strength their cause would derive from the royal

presence among them. But the Triumvirate were equally clear on this

point, and being more prompt became masters of the coveted prize.

Meanwhile the Parisians had begun to murmur at the absence of their

sovereign, and to quiet their remonstrances the queen-mother removed at

Easter to Fontainebleau, which was farther from Condé’s head-quarters

at Meaux. The Guises, suspecting her intentions, determined to

anticipate them by a _coup-de-main_. The King of Navarre was

dispatched with a strong body of Catholic gentlemen, including the

constable, to escort the young king to Paris, on the ground that he

was not safe so long as the Huguenots were at Meaux. Anthony, as

first prince of the blood, was to a certain extent the guardian of

his infant master, and no doubt he would have asserted that right had

Catherine resisted. She held out indeed for a time, but gave way at

last, saying, “I know how useless it is to speak to you of your duty;

but alone, deserted, and betrayed as I am, I shall defend the liberty

of my son--your king.” Being thus “benetted round with villains,” she

yielded only when Navarre had actually issued orders for dismantling

the royal apartments; for such were the scanty comforts even of royalty

in those days, that when the court moved from place to place, carpets,

tapestry, beds and furniture were moved also. The queen-regent sent off

a hasty express to Condé, in the hope that he would be able to rescue

her on the road; but the hope was vain. The journey to Paris--or, to

be verbally accurate, to Melun and Vincennes--was a sad one; Catherine

hardly spoke a word to the escort during the three days it occupied;

and the boy-king, who imagined they were taking him to prison, wept

several times with all the violence of childish grief.

Condé came at last, but only to see the king and his mother carried

off in triumph; his force was not strong enough to rescue them,

even had the attempt been safe. Henceforth the regent was in the

hands of the reactionists, and must follow wherever they led. With

contemptuous politeness they assured her, if we may believe Chantonnay,

“that they had never thought of depriving her of the government, and

would not attempt it, so long as she gave her hand to the support

of true religion and of the king’s authority.”[283] Supporting true

religion meant depriving the Huguenots of their privileges, the

first step toward which was to interdict the Reformers of Paris from

meeting to worship within the walls of the capital--a deprivation

partly justifiable under the circumstances. The mutual jealousy of

the triumvirs prevented the exercise of any harsh measures toward

Catherine: each intrigued against the other, and hoped to make use of

her for his own private ends. Each was aware that if she were removed,

his own position would be imperiled by the rival ambitions of his

colleagues.