THE MARRIAGE AND THE PLOT.
[August, 1572.]
Proposed German and English Alliances--Anjou’s Refusal--Treaty
with England--Capture of Mons--Defeat of Genlis--Walsingham’s
Dispatches--War-Excitement--Deliberations in Council--Charles
at Montpipeau--Catherine follows him--Her tears--Increasing
influence of Coligny--His Death resolved on--Joan of Navarre
in Paris--Her sudden Death--Distrust and Warnings--Coligny’s
firmness--Plot and Counterplot--Henry of Navarre enters
Paris--The Wedding--Masque at the Hôtel Bourbon--The Admiral’s
last Letter--Plot to Assassinate him--The Duchess of
Nemours--Maurevel sent for.
The Treaty of St. Germains was a serious blow to Spanish influence
in France. We have seen that peace had not only been concluded in
opposition to the remonstrances of Philip II., but that monarch had
experienced several slights from his brother-in-law which even so
cold-blooded a man must have felt deeply. In proportion, too, as the
loyalty and worth of Coligny became known, the distance between the two
courts grew wider. The “Politicians” took advantage of this change,
and becoming daily more convinced of the necessity of war with Spain,
tried to strengthen France by foreign alliances. Their choice was not
very great. Rome would never aid a power that went to war with Spain
to support heresy in Flanders. The Emperor of Germany would remain
neutral, for by reserving his forces he would be able to interfere
effectually between the combatants, when exhausted or tired of war.
The Catholic States of Northern Italy would take part with Spain and
threaten France on the Alpine frontier; and Switzerland would sell her
sword to either party. There only remained England and the Protestant
States of Germany, with whose help France might safely venture to
attack the power of Spain. That monarchy was held to be the greatest in
the world: it was not indeed so great as it appeared to be, for it was
rapidly declining, but the halo of its former glory still shone round
it.
The negotiations with Germany were so mismanaged that they came to
nothing. Those with England had assumed, as we have seen, the form of
proposals for a matrimonial alliance between Elizabeth and the Duke of
Anjou. Catherine, who believed in an old prophecy that all her sons
should be kings, was very earnest in the matter.[520] The Huguenots,
who are wrongly supposed to have originated the plan, also felt
anxious, and the correspondence of the English agents at the court of
France is full of their hopes and fears. They saw that such a union of
the two crowns would strengthen them, and help to preserve the fruits
of their past struggles; while they dreaded a failure, which would
discredit the Moderate party and bring back the Guises, and perhaps
plunge them again into all the miseries of civil strife from which
they had so recently escaped. The negotiations extended over many
months. It is doubtful whether Elizabeth was at any time sincere; but
it is certain that as one objection after another was removed, and
as she appeared to be more inclined to the match, Anjou grew cooler,
professed a great horror of heresy, and urged that his conscience would
not allow him to share the crown of the Queen of England. Still, as
he did not absolutely refuse the match, the English ministers were
frightened lest Elizabeth should anticipate him, and ruin every thing
by declaring her preference for a celibate life. A refusal from her
would ruin the Huguenot hopes. Elizabeth would probably have spoken
out, had not the various intrigues of which Mary Stuart was the prime
mover kept her silent and cautious. She would dally with France so
long as there was any danger from Spain. But Anjou, who was never
in want of evil advisers, listened to the seductions of the Spanish
court, and, allured by a large bribe from the pope,[521] refused--twice
refused--to wed a mature maiden of thirty-eight. The queen-mother was
confounded, and with reason; for the suspicions of Spain had been
aroused, and France unaided could not hope, in its state of exhaustion,
to withstand a well-directed attack. There was danger, too, on the
other side, for Elizabeth was touchy and susceptible; and though she
might have been insincere throughout, her feminine vanity might be
so wounded that she would not hesitate to avenge it by taking part
with Spain. The Moderate party were in despair; but fortunately the
negotiations were in the hands of prudent men. Walsingham in France
and La Mothe-Fénelon in England felt all the importance of the crisis,
and after some difficulty succeeded in arranging a defensive treaty
between the two countries (29th March, 1572). Though manifestly
directed against Spain, it was expressed in general terms, so as not
to wound the susceptibilities of the French Catholics.[522] Each
promised to aid the other with 6000 infantry and six ships of war. The
English statesmen were perhaps more anxious about this treaty than
their French colleagues; for Mary Stuart, now a prisoner in England,
was actively engaged in a complication of intrigues with Spain,[523]
the success of any of which would have endangered the cause of
Protestantism. Montmorency, “a lover of England as much as any man in
France,” was sent over to receive the ratification, and--if he saw fit
opportunity--to make a formal proposal of the Duke of Alençon to Queen
Elizabeth.[524] The marshal--or rather the Moderate party of which he
was leader--felt convinced that some foreign support was more necessary
than ever to keep the Catholic reactionists in check, and to neutralize
the efforts of Spain to rekindle the civil wars now so happily ended.
Spain was uneasy and wavering. St. Goar writes from Madrid (22d June,
1572): “I believe that Philip would fain avoid a rupture;” and again
(1st July): “The king assures me he would willingly preserve peace, but
that he has great cause to fear an attack from France.” Charles also
told St. Goar, in a letter dated 25th June, that “if he were only sure
they would undertake nothing against him, he would not mix himself up
with foreign transactions.”[525]
As soon as the important matters of the Navarre marriage and the
English treaty were concluded, Charles left Touraine (May 5th), and
proceeded by way of Fontainebleau to Paris, and thence to St. Maur.
The admiral attended him more as a friend than as one of the great
officers of state. The Guises had left the court almost in despair. If
any credit can be given to an intercepted dispatch of the 28th January
from the Countess of Northumberland, the duke had paid a long secret
visit to Alva.[526] This was denied by Catherine, but may have been
true, nevertheless. Although this visit may have had more to do with
the affairs of Mary Stuart, we may be sure that the state of France
and the Anjou marriage were not forgotten. It is not clear when the
Guises fell into disgrace, but their position at court in the spring
of 1572 is accurately discussed in a letter from Alva to Philip II.,
who had written advising him to keep up friendly relations with the
duke and the cardinal. The general replied that he had always seen
the importance of doing so: “But at this time there are two things
to be considered, namely, that none of the family have any share in
the management of public business, except the Cardinal of Lorraine;
and he, when in favor, is insolent and forgets every body, and when
in disgrace, is good for nothing.” Then, as if to brand the treason
of the churchman, and show the unfriendly nature of the relations
between the courts of Paris and Madrid, Alva continues: “He has warned
me, through Fray Garcia de Ribeira, to be on my guard, as he foresees
trouble in France, and believes that the fleet assembling at Rochelle
is intended to operate against the Low Countries.”[527] When the Duke
of Guise and Coligny were at Paris in May, the former was forbidden to
undertake any thing against the Chatillons, to which he replied, that
if the admiral had any thing to complain of, he was ready to meet him
at any time in single combat.[528] The king, finding the duke (whom he
called “un mauvais garçon”) so implacable, required of him a complete
and formal denial of every project of outrage against Coligny, which he
gave, though with reluctance (12th May, 1572). There is another story
that the king did not press Duke Henry to be reconciled, having already
had proof of his impracticable character; but to Aumale, his brother,
who seemed more tractable, he said: “Have a little patience, and you
will soon see a pretty game.”[529] Were the story true, it would not
necessarily imply the existence of a plot to get rid of the Huguenots.
The deliberations about the Flemish war now became more frequent than
ever. The time was opportune for the projected invasion. In Flanders
the first part of the year had been distinguished by a series of
triumphs. “With one fierce bound of enthusiasm,” says the eloquent
historian of the Dutch Republic, “the nation shook off its chain.” Alva
was ill, and anxiously awaiting his successor. The hour was approaching
when Charles IX. would feel it safe as well as politic to throw off
all disguise. “When you have captured two of the frontier cities, the
king will once more take council about the war,” said Tavannes to Count
Louis; and before the end of May, Mons and Valenciennes were in his
hands. With the connivance of the government, Louis had got together
a number of Huguenot gentlemen, including Genlis and La Noue, besides
some 1500 soldiers, and with these he surprised Mons. He was soon
after strongly reinforced by nearly 5000 French troops. Alva had no
doubt whence the blow came, and threatening to repay Catherine in her
own coin, immediately prepared to recover the town. Unless he were
reinforced, Count Louis had no hope of resisting with success, and
accordingly Genlis was dispatched to France to procure more troops.
The admiral strongly advised Charles to back up the count with a large
force; but the king was still unwilling to declare himself openly,
though he had committed himself almost beyond recall. “You would be
astounded,” writes Albornez to Secretary Cayas, “could you see a
letter in my hands written by the King of France to Prince Louis.”
It was dated the 27th April, 1572, and in it Charles expressed his
determination to do all in his power “to extricate the Low Countries
from the oppression under which they groaned.”[530]
In this juncture the Huguenot champion, who was “daily at court and
very well used by the king and his brothers,”[531] laid before his
royal master a memoir drawn up by the celebrated Duplessis-Mornay, in
which he argued that a foreign war was necessary to preserve internal
peace. “The Frenchman,” he says, “who has once had a taste of war
will often, from mere _gaieté de cœur_, or from want of some
other enemy, fight his own countryman and friend. The Spaniard,” he
continued, “is weak from the dispersion of his forces, and you have
England on your side, who formerly used to take part in every quarrel
against us. You will acquire a province superior to any in France by
the fertility of its soil, the beauty of its cities, and the wealth of
its inhabitants. The Germans will fear you, your own people will be
enriched by commerce, and you, Sire, will reap immortal honor from the
conquest.”[532] The motives are not very noble, but they were admirably
adapted to Charles’s temper: a higher morality would have fallen dead
upon his ear. Still he hesitated to declare himself, leaning toward
Coligny at one moment, and toward the Catholic party at the next.
Meanwhile Genlis had succeeded in collecting a number of volunteers,
and was making his way toward Mons, with about 4000 men,[533] when he
was met and defeated by a Spanish force under Don Frederick of Toledo
(19th July, 1572). Twelve hundred of the French were left upon the
field, and a much larger number were butchered by the peasantry as they
were seeking to escape. Tavannes, a trustworthy authority on such a
point, says that Don Frederick had been treacherously informed of the
road Genlis would take with his troops.
The news of this terrible overthrow caused an extraordinary agitation
at court. Some fancied in their panic that the Spaniard was already
at the gates of Paris; while the outspoken admiral declared that the
catastrophe lay at the doors of those who had dissuaded the king
from declaring himself. The government everywhere ostentatiously
protested--at Rome, Vienna, Brussels, and Madrid--that they desired
peace, and were not privy to the attack on Mons or the advance of
Genlis; indeed Mondoucet congratulated Alva on his success over the
invaders, while St. Goar assured Philip that his master saw with regret
his vassals joining the rebels in the Low Countries. Neither Alva
nor Philip believed this, but were determined to give no cause for a
rupture of friendly relations.[534] And hence it was that when the
Spanish army captured some sixty Frenchmen who tried to enter Mons,
Alva only hanged a part, taking the others to Ruppelmonde to be drowned
secretly in the river.
Walsingham’s correspondence reflects minutely the state of feeling
among the Huguenots at this moment. “Such of the religion as before
slept in security,” he writes to Burghley on the 26th July, “begin
now to awake and to see their danger, and do therefore conclude,
that unless this enterprise in the Low Countries have good success,
their cause groweth desperate. They have therefore of late sent to
the king, who is absent from home, to show him that if the Prince of
Orange quail, it shall not lie in him [Charles] to maintain him in
his protection by virtue of his edict; they desire him, therefore,
out of hand, to resolve upon something that may be of assistance,
offering themselves to employ therein their lives, lands, and goods.”
Writing the same day to the Earl of Leicester, the embassador says:
“Those of the religion have made demonstration to the king that his
[Orange’s] enterprise lacking good success, it shall not then lie in
his power to maintain his edict;” apparently meaning, that if the
Flemish rebels were subdued, Spain would again be so formidable that
it would be dangerous to tolerate the Huguenots in defiance of Philip
II. Walsingham then adds that the Reformed party “desire him to weigh
well, whether it were better to have foreign war with advantage, or
inward war to the ruin of himself and his estate.” This was one of
those unfortunate passages which Catherine afterward employed with so
much effect to terrify Charles into the August massacre. The meaning
of the words is plain enough, but an unscrupulous advocate would easily
convert them into a threat of rebellion against the king’s authority.
As soon as the French had recovered from the first shock caused by the
news of Genlis’s defeat, they began to vapor and talk of revenge; and
their hostile feelings were still farther exasperated by the report
of certain contemptuous expressions ascribed to Alva. Every thing
betokened an approaching rupture between France and Spain, and ere
long the rumors of war became so loud that the Venetian Senate hastily
dispatched an embassador with authority to mediate between the angry
governments.[535] Michieli writes in July to his superiors of volunteer
expeditions of horse and foot setting off daily: “For four or five days
war was regarded in Paris as declared; it was openly talked of.”[536]
On the 23d July, Petrucci, the Tuscan embassador, writes to his ducal
master, that the royal council have been in deliberation about the
ransom of the prisoners, but “does not know how the king [Charles] can
grant this, without giving the greatest suspicion to the Catholic king;
and yet he shows great interest in the matter.”[537]
Elizabeth had done her part in the anti-Spanish movement by sending
troops to Flushing. Sir T. Smith wrote to inform Walsingham that Sir
Humphrey Gilbert had been “sent over with his band of Englishmen and
some Frenchmen, who have taken Sluys and besieged the castle.”[538]
Just at this juncture the queen-mother happened to be in Lorraine
tending her sick daughter, and the news of the martial outburst brought
her back in haste to Paris. She was too wise to oppose her son’s
warlike humor openly, but she so far shook his resolution as to have
the whole subject brought before the council. She was adverse to the
war on many grounds, but principally because she felt assured that if
Coligny carried on a successful campaign, his influence with the king
would quite supersede her own. She did not know how far the king and
the admiral had gone already. The latter, who was always with Charles,
even to a late hour, wrote on the 11th August to Prince William of
Orange, that there could be no doubt as to the king’s earnestness
(Walsingham says: “But for the king, all had quailed long before”),
and that he hoped in a few days to come to his help with 12,000
arquebusiers and 3000 cavalry. Yet only one day before this, Walsingham
wrote home: “Commonly it is given out that the king will no more
meddle, ... yet I am assured that underhand he is content there shall
[be] somewhat done, for that he seeth the peril that will befall unto
him, if the Prince of Orange quail.” The English embassador’s means of
information were so complete, that he actually knew more of what was
going on in the cabinet than the admiral did.
The extreme Catholic party had rallied and were trying every thing in
their power to destroy the Huguenot ascendancy at court, and Charles’s
resolution fluctuated from day to day. That he might enjoy a little
quiet, he suddenly started for Montpipeau, a pleasant hunting-lodge,
intending to remain there until the eve of his sister’s marriage.
Meanwhile bad news reached the French court; Catherine discovered that
Queen Elizabeth was playing her false, and while pretending zeal for
an alliance against Spain, was actually treating with that power. De
Foix and Fénelon both wrote from private information that she had been
advised to recall her troops from Flanders and not quarrel with Spain.
“Whereupon,” writes Walsingham, on the 10th August, “the queen-mother
fell into such fear that the enterprise must necessarily fail without
the aid of England.”[539] The report was untrue, and was probably a
mere invention of some of the traitors in the English council.[540] But
it frightened Catherine, and she determined to make one more attempt to
recover her ascendancy over the king. She hurried to Montpipeau with
such impetuous haste that two of her horses fell dead on the road.
With tears in her eyes, she accused Charles of ingratitude to a mother
“who had sacrificed herself for his welfare and incurred every risk
for his advantage.” “You hide yourself from me,” she continued, “and
take counsel with my enemies. You are about to plunge your kingdom into
a war with Spain, and yet England, in whose alliance you trusted, is
false to you. Alone you can not resist so powerful an enemy. You will
only make France a prey to the Huguenots, who desire the subversion
of the kingdom for their own benefit. If you will no longer be guided
by my advice, suffer me to return to my native country, that I may
not witness such disgrace.” “This artful harangue,” says Tavannes,
“frightened the king, who, wondering to see his secret counsels
revealed, confessed them all, begged his mother’s pardon, and promised
obedience.” Tavannes, whose authority for circumstances of which he
was not an eye-witness is rather doubtful, alludes to the common rumor
that M. de Sauve, the king’s secretary, had revealed these “secret
counsels” to his wife, Charlotte de Beaune, by whom they were told to
her lover the Duke of Anjou, who, in his turn, communicated them to his
mother. Whatever secrets may have been divulged, certainly this of the
projected Flemish war was not one; for if it was unknown to Catherine,
she must have been the only person in the court ignorant of it.[541]
She was undoubtedly alarmed at the apparently isolated position of
France; and we shall see that, finding all other methods fail of
averting war, she did not shrink from murder. No doubt her “affetto
di signorreggiare” had much to do with her bloody resolution; but she
may also have believed Coligny to be a dangerous adviser, and in an
unscrupulous age there was little difficulty in getting rid of such a
man.
The exact date of the interview at Montpipeau is not known, but it
probably took place during the first week in August, for Walsingham
evidently refers to it in his letter of the 10th of that month:
“Touching Flanders matters, such of the council here as incline to
Spain have put the queen-mother in such a fear, that she _with
tears_ had dissuaded the king for the time, who otherwise was very
resolute.... The admiral in this brunt, whose mind is invincible and
foreseeth what is like to ensue, doth not now give over, but layeth
before the king his peril if the Prince of Orange quail.” And again:
“The king is _grown cold_, who before was _very forward_,
and nothing prevailed so much as _the tears of his mother_....
How perplexed the admiral is, who foreseeth the mischief that is
likely to follow, your lordship [Leicester] may easily guess. He never
showed greater magnanimity, nor never was better followed nor more
honored of those of the religion, than he now is, _which doth not a
little appall_ the enemies. He layeth before the king and council
the peril and danger of his estate; and though he can not obtain
what he would, yet doth he obtain something from him.”[542] This was
the admiral’s death-warrant. Charles listened to him rather than to
his mother. “What do you learn in your long conversations with the
admiral?” asked Catherine one day. “I learn,” he replied, “that I have
no greater enemy than my mother.” She saw her power slipping from
her, and her son Anjou, her beloved, her favorite son, in danger; for
she knew how violent Charles could be when he was once aroused. And
all depended upon the life of one man! And when in those days did any
body, especially an Italian man or woman, allow a single life to stand
between them and their desire? Coligny must be got rid of; then the
queen-mother would recover her influence; then there would be an end of
this perplexing Flemish business; and with Henry of Navarre, the head
of the Huguenot party, married to her daughter, there would be no cause
to fear a revival of internal disturbances.
But these political negotiations and discussions were not permitted to
delay the preparations for the marriage that was to unite Catholics and
Reformers into one homogeneous people.
On the 6th of May Joan left Blois, and arrived in Paris eight or nine
days after, such being the rate at which royalty traveled a distance
that now does not require as many hours. She took up her abode in
a house belonging to Jean Guillart, Bishop of Chartres, one of the
prelates who had been excommunicated in 1563 for his liberal opinions.
The removal to Paris was fatal to her: within a month she sickened
and died (9th June, 1572),[543] not without suspicion of poison
administered by means of a pair of gloves sent to her by René, the
queen-mother’s perfumer. There is not the slightest ground for the
suspicion: the season was unhealthy. “People are dying here very fast,”
wrote the dowager Princess of Condé, “for which reason I do not send
for my children.”[544] What wonder, then, that the Queen of Navarre,
who was ill at ease, should pine and sicken in the hot ill-cleansed
streets of Paris.[545] De Thou says she died of an abscess brought on
by excessive fatigue. Although suffering acutely, she bore the pain
without a word of impatience or complaint. When she saw her women
weeping round her bed: “Do not cry,” she said; “God is calling me to
that better life, which I have always longed for.” Her great anxiety
was about her children--her son Henry and her daughter the amiable
Catherine: “I trust that God will be a father and protector to them, as
he has been to me in my sorest trials. To his providence I commit them,
feeling sure he will provide for them.” With these words she died, at
the age of forty-four, leaving a name still mentioned with fond respect
among the mountains of Bearn. There were some who openly exulted in her
death, calling it “a judgment from heaven upon Jezebel the Huguenot
queen.” But hers was a character which, though deficient in some of the
milder features of a woman’s nature, could despise such uncharitable
judgment. Voltaire describes her as
Grande par des vertus qui manquaient à son fils,
and one of her contemporaries, adopting the words of Quintus Curtius,
speaks of her as possessing _nil muliebre nisi sexum_ (nothing in
common with her sex except the name of woman). After her conversion,
she devoted all her energies to the propagation of the Reformed
faith, even (it is said) to the extent of preaching, though the
strongest evidence that she ever ascended the pulpit is a doubtful
contemporaneous caricature. Queen Elizabeth was as much attached to
her as her vain and selfish nature permitted. Henry, fully alive
to the importance of keeping up this friendship, wrote to announce
his mother’s death, and to request a continuance of her friendship:
“Entertaining the same desire which the late queen, my mother, always
manifested toward you, I most humbly entreat you will impart to me that
friendship and kindness which you always showed her, and the effects
of which we have known in so many instances that I shall always feel
myself your debtor, which I will testify in every thing you may be
pleased to command me to obey and do service, whenever I have the
power.”[546]
The queen’s death increased the distrust with which many of the
Huguenot party looked upon the demonstrations and favors of the court.
From every quarter the admiral continued to receive cautions and
warnings of treachery; but firm in his own integrity and good faith,
he put them all aside.[547] Many of his friends urged him to be on his
guard. The people of La Rochelle sent him more than one address on the
rumors that were abroad and on the suspicious aspect of affairs; but
he told them there was no occasion to fear (7th August). Another time
he made answer: “A man would never be at ease, if he interpreted every
action to his own disadvantage. It would be better to die a hundred
times than live in constant apprehension. I am tired of such alarms,
and have lived long enough.” To others who advised him to leave Paris,
he said: “By so doing I must show either fear or distrust. My honor
would be injured by the one, the king by the other. I should be again
obliged to have recourse to a civil war; and I would rather die a
thousand deaths than see again the miseries I have seen, and suffer
the distress I have already suffered.” Another time he said: “I can
not leave without plunging the country into fresh wars. I would rather
be dragged through the gutters than resort to such extremity.” An
intercepted letter from Cardinal Pelvé to the Cardinal of Lorraine, who
had just departed for Rome, was brought to him. He read in it: “There
are great hopes of success in the enterprise; the admiral suspects
nothing; the war with Flanders is a mere trick; the King of Spain knows
all about it.” The letter was manifestly a forgery--a device to prevent
the marriage, and the admiral treated it with contempt. Many of the
warnings he received were like prophetic dreams--remembered only when
the event confirms their forecastings. How could a man of such a noble
and generous character be suspicious when his royal master was treating
him with so much kindness and deference! Charles had learned at last
that Philip was continually intriguing and fomenting disturbances in
France. He was not so blind as his mother thought him: with all her
art, she could not effectually repress those generous flashes which
from time to time burst out only to make us regret that a better
education had not fitted Charles for his royal station. When he wrote
inviting the admiral to leave Chatillon and come to Paris, the latter
declined on account of the hostility of the citizens. “You have no
cause to fear,” replied the king; “they will attempt nothing against
my will.” At the same time he ordered Marcel, the provost of the
merchants, to see that there was no “scandal” (disturbance) on account
of the admiral’s arrival, or he would be answerable for it.
Coligny had need of all his patience and all his loyalty. What he built
up one day the queen-mother pulled down the next. Catherine told the
Venetian envoy, Giovanni Michieli, that she would not go to war against
Spain unless Philip compelled her: “Assure their lordships of Venice,”
she added, “that not only my words but my acts shall prove the firmness
of my resolutions.”[548] In a few hours, as we have seen, Catherine had
recovered her empire over her son, who, though physically brave, had
no moral courage, and could not bring himself to tell the admiral of
his altered purposes. No one else would venture to do so, and it was
therefore suggested that, in consequence of certain intelligence which
the king had received, Coligny should be requested to lay his plans
before a committee of the council (consisting of Montpensier, Louis of
Gonzaga, Cossé, and others), who were certain to condemn them. They
unanimously opposed the war, and after ineffectually trying to bend
the king, he turned to the queen-mother, and said: “Madam, the king
refuses to enter upon a war with Spain. God grant he may not be engaged
in another which he may perhaps find it not so easy to renounce.”[549]
This, which is the language of disappointed hopes, sounded very like a
threat, and there may probably have been a bitterness in his tone that
gave a meaning to his words he never intended they should bear. He only
meant, what he had often said before, that the best mode of healing the
wounds of the past wars would be to march the two parties side by side
to fight a common enemy. But his enemies put the worst construction on
his language, and his death was resolved on.[550] The king was very
impressionable: if he were suffered to consult with the admiral again,
the old ascendancy might be recovered, and would Coligny be inclined
to use his new power mercifully? The blow must be struck at once, but
first the union of the two families must be cemented by the marriage of
Henry and Margaret.
On the 8th of July, Henry, now King of Navarre, entered Paris, attended
by the Prince of Condé, the Cardinal of Bourbon, the admiral, and
800 of the most gallant gentlemen in France, all dressed in mourning
garments, very different from the gay costumes worn by the Catholic
gentlemen, who went out to meet him. At the gate of St. Jacques he was
received by the Duke of Anjou and a magnificent train of nobles and
officers attached to the court. The corporation of the city attended in
their scarlet robes. Condé and his brother the marquis rode between the
Duke of Guise and the Chevalier d’Angoulême; Henry between the king’s
two brothers, Anjou and Alençon. The united trains, amounting to 1500
horsemen, proceeded in ominous silence through the crowded streets
to the Louvre. No voice was raised to greet the Huguenot princes,
though many a murmur showed the feeling of the populace, who from time
to time raised the cry of “Guise” or “Anjou.” But the ladies at the
windows were more demonstrative, as Henry of Navarre with his handsome
features and winning smile bowed to the saddle-bow, or occasionally
pointed to some group more attractive than usual, which caught his eye
in balcony or window. In after years, he used to look back to this as
the happiest day of his life.
For a moment the mocking humor of the Parisian populace was overawed.
But when the escort began to separate and to move in smaller bodies
through the streets to gain their lodgings, the mob recovered their
audacity: “Come and see the accursed Huguenots, these outcasts of
heaven!” As the Protestants wandered through the city, they greatly
offended the superstitious prejudices of the citizens by neglecting
to raise their hats as they passed the crosses or the images at the
corners. “Deniers of God!” muttered the bigoted priests, as they
scowled on the men who passed them with a look of scorn and pity. The
Huguenots have been accurately designated as “quasi aliens,”--men
alien in language, costume, and religion. For years the sound of
psalm-singing had not offended Parisian ears, and now the hated
words of Marot were heard once more in their streets. What wonder if
there were frequent quarrels, if blood was shed, and if it was found
necessary to keep the Huguenots pretty much by themselves. “Both
parties,” says Haton, “were armed and equipped as if about to enter
upon a campaign.” The Protestants were walking over a volcano, and
there were bigots and fanatics among them who seemed to court rather
than avoid an explosion.
The wedding-day had been originally fixed for the 10th June, but
difficulties about the dispensation, and then the illness and death of
Joan of Navarre, had caused the ceremony to be delayed. Pius V. had (as
we have seen) constantly opposed the marriage, and refused to grant the
dispensation required when the parties were of different religions,
and also so nearly related. But the new pope, Gregory XIII., appears
to have been more compliant, or the letter stating that the bull of
dispensation was on the road must have been a forgery.[551] There were
many reasons why the marriage should be put off no longer. As the young
queen’s health was delicate, and she was soon to become a mother, it
was advisable to get her away as early as possible from the noise and
malaria of the capital.[552] It was therefore arranged that the wedding
should take place on the 18th August. The betrothal was solemnized the
day before at the Louvre, whence, after a supper and ball, the bride
was conducted by the king and queen, the queen-mother, the Duchess of
Lorraine, and other lords and ladies, to the palace of the Bishop of
Paris, where, according to the ceremonial observed in such cases, she
passed the night. On Monday the King of Navarre went to fetch her: he
was accompanied by Anjou and Alençon and a host of other lords of both
religions. Charles, Henry, and Condé were dressed alike to show their
close affection. “Every body hates me but my brother of Navarre,” the
king once said; “and he loves me, and I love him.” Their dress was of
pale yellow satin, embroidered with silver, and adorned with pearls
and precious stones. The other lords were richly dressed according
to their fancy, and contemporaries speak with wonder of the costly
ornaments they wore. Michieli, the Venetian embassador, says: “You
would not believe there was any distress in the kingdom. The king’s
toque, charger, and garments cost from five to six hundred thousand
crowns. Anjou, among other jewels in his toque, had a set of thirty-two
pearls bought for the occasion at the cost of 23,000 gold crowns of
the sun. More than one hundred and twenty ladies dazzled the eyes
with the brilliancy of their sumptuous silks, brocades, and velvets,
thickly interwoven with gold or silver.” Margaret very complacently
describes her own large blue mantle with its train four ells long.
According to the custom observed on the marriage of a king’s daughter,
the nuptial ceremony was to be performed in a pavilion constructed on
the open space fronting the cathedral of Notre Dame. It was a beautiful
summer day; cannons roared, the bells rang out cheerily from every
steeple, and every roof, window, or spot of ground whence a view of the
procession could be caught was densely crowded. But the spectators were
not so joyous as they usually are when any great parade of state is to
be exhibited. The marriage was not popular, and ominous murmurs against
the heretics were heard from time to time. A raised covered platform
led from the bishop’s palace to the pavilion, and along it marched
bishops and archbishops leading the way in copes of cloth of gold.
Then came the cardinals resplendent in scarlet, knights of St. Michael
with their orders, followed by all the great officers of state, whose
places and the interval between them were regulated by the strictest
etiquette. Among these was Henry, Duke of Guise, then twenty-two years
old, one of the handsomest men of the day. Countless fingers were
pointed to him, and his reception, compared with that afterward given
to the king, reminds us of that so inimitably described by our great
dramatic poet:
You would have thought the very windows spoke,
So many greedy looks of young and old
Through casements darted their desiring eyes
Upon his visage; and that all the walls,
With painted imagery, said at once:
Jesus preserve thee! welcome!
When “the well grac’d actor left the stage,” men’s eyes would have
“idly bent” upon the rest of the procession, but that it consisted
of the fairest dames and damsels of the court, chief of whom was the
bride herself, whose beauty deserved all the raptures that poets have
lavished upon it. Ronsard calls her “the fair grace Pasithea,” and
compares her hands to the “fingers of young Aurora, rose-dyed and
steeped in dew.” At church her dazzling beauty disturbed the devotions
of the worshipers. She had just completed her twentieth year: her
complexion was clear, her hair black, her eyes full of fire, though at
times remarkable for a dreamy languor, which gave her a voluptuous and
tender look, as if to indicate a heart that was framed for love. All
her movements were full of grace and majesty. She was unrivaled in the
dance, and played on the lute and sang with exquisite taste. But there
was a frightful reverse to this charming picture: she was untruthful,
vain, extravagant, and hoped by her devotion to the forms of religion
to atone for the errors of her daily life. In justice, however, to
Margaret, let it be said that this last defect was not peculiar to
herself or to the sixteenth century; nor dare we affirm that such
compromises between God and the world were more common then than they
are now.
Margaret’s dress on her wedding-day was long the talk of court gossips.
In such matters her taste was peculiar and exquisite. Brilliants flamed
like stars among her hair; her stomacher was sprinkled with pearls, so
as to resemble a silvery coat of mail; her dress was of cloth of gold,
and rare lace of the same precious metal fringed her handkerchief and
gloves.
After the marriage ceremony had been performed in the pavilion,[553]
Henry led his bride into the Church of Notre Dame to hear mass, and
then withdrew with Condé, the admiral, and other lords, who passed
the interval walking up and down the cathedral close. The historian
De Thou, then a youth at college, was among the spectators of the
ceremony. After the bridal train had left the church, he leaped over
the barriers, and found himself close to the admiral, who was showing
Damville the banners captured at Jarnac and Moncontour, which hung as
trophies from the wall. “I heard him say,” continues De Thou: “Ere long
these will be down, and others more agreeable to the eyes put up in
their place.”
Henry conducted his wife to the bishop’s palace, where a magnificent
dinner had been prepared for them; but there was no dancing: not that
bishops had any objection to such amusements, but because there was
no time, for a magnificent supper awaited all the wedding-party at
the Louvre. The next three days were passed in festivities, balls and
banquets, masques and tourneys, in which both Huguenots and Catholics
took part. Old enmities seemed forgotten.[554] In all these amusements
Henry of Navarre distinguished himself. He had a kind word for every
body, was ready with jest and humor, charmed the ladies by his
gallantry, which, though rather unpolished (for he had seen more of
camps than of courts) was the more pleasing from its novelty. Charles
grew fonder of him than ever, while his dislike for Anjou increased
proportionately.
On the evening of Wednesday, the 20th August, a splendid masque was
represented, in which some historians imagine that the coming tragedy
was actually prefigured. In the great hall of the Hotel Bourbon,
which adjoined the Louvre, the eternal struggle between good and
evil was depicted in a very curious way. On the right was Paradise,
defended by three armed knights (the king and his two brothers): on
the left was Hell, and between them flowed the Styx, on which Charon
plied his ferry-boat. Behind Paradise lay the Elysian fields and
Heaven resplendent with glittering stars. A body of knights, armed
_cap-à-pie_, and distinguished by various scarves and favors,
attempted to make their way into Paradise, but they were all defeated
and dragged into Hell, to the great exultation of the devil and his
imps, who closed the doors upon them. And now Heaven opened, and
there descended from it Mercury and Cupid. After a song to the three
victorious knights, Mercury (who was Étienne le Roi, the first singer
of the day) re-entered his car, which was borne by a cock that kept
crowing lustily, and was taken back to Heaven. A ballet followed, then
a tilting-match--the combatants, it is to be presumed, were on foot.
The amusements were terminated by firing trains of gunpowder laid
round a fountain in the centre of the hall. It is absurd to attach any
importance to these allegorical representations, which were the fashion
of the day, and were probably prepared by the court poet as a mere
matter of business, and who certainly would not have been let into the
secret--if there were any. But after the massacre the Catholics used
to boast that the king had driven the Huguenots into hell. The next
day, Thursday, other shows were exhibited, to the great disgust of the
admiral, who wanted to leave Paris, which he could not do until he had
transacted some very important business with the king, and Charles was
so taken up with the wedding festivities, and entered into them so
heartily, that he scarcely gave himself time for sleep, much less for
business. “Give me three or four days more of relaxation,” he said,
“and after that I promise you, on my royal word, that you shall be
satisfied.” Still the admiral wanted to get away, and would probably
have left, but for a deputation from the Huguenot churches, who prayed
him to remain until their affairs were satisfactorily arranged. The
admiral longed to be at home. On the wedding-day of the King of
Navarre, he wrote to his wife the last letter she was ever to receive
from him.
PARIS, 18th August, 1572.
MY DEAREST AND MOST BELOVED WIFE.
To-day the marriage of the king’s sister with the King of
Navarre was celebrated, and the next three or four days will be
occupied with banquets, masques, and other amusements; and when
these are over the king has promised to devote some days to an
inquiry into the complaints that are made from different parts
of the kingdom about the infractions of the edict, in which
it is most reasonable that I should employ myself as much as
possible; and though I have an infinite desire to see you, yet
I should be very sorry, and I believe you would grieve also, if
I failed to interest myself to the extent of my power. At all
events the delay will not be long, and I hope to leave next
week. If I studied my own convenience only, I would rather be
with you than stay any longer at court, for reasons I will tell
you; but we must set the public advantage before our own.[555] I
have much to tell you, when I see you, which I desire night and
day. As for news--the wedding-mass was sung this afternoon at
four o’clock, the King of Navarre walking about in a court-yard
with all those of the religion who had accompanied him. Other
matters I leave till we meet; meanwhile I pray God to have you,
my beloved wife, in his holy keeping.
* * * * *
P.S. Three days ago I suffered with colic pains, which lasted
eight or ten hours, but I thank God that by his goodness I am
now quite free from them. Be assured that during these pastimes
and festivities I will give offense to no man. Farewell, from
your beloved husband,
CHATILLON.
On Wednesday the admiral had an audience of the king, in the course of
which Charles spoke to him about the Guise faction, remarking that he
was not sure of them; they had come in strong force to the wedding, and
were well armed; and to keep them in order he proposed to introduce
“his arquebusiers” into the city under certain officers whom he named.
Coligny thanked his majesty: “Although I believe myself quite safe,
I willingly leave the matter in your hands.” In the course of the
day, 1200 of the guard marched into Paris, and were quartered in the
Louvre and its vicinity. This was a measure of precaution. There was
every probability of a collision in the streets, and a strong force
was necessary to command the respect of both factions. Charles was
gradually recovering from the effects of his mother’s entreaties at
Montpipeau: the more he saw of the admiral, the more he was pleased
with the loyalty and honesty of the old Huguenot warrior. Anjou and
Catherine had attentively watched the change. In that remarkable
statement which the duke is believed to have made to one of his
attendants, he says: “We had observed that if either of us ventured to
speak with the king after the long and frequent conversations he used
to have with the admiral, we found him strangely out of temper; he
looked angry, and the answers he gave were unaccompanied by the honor
and respect he used to show the queen. One day, shortly before the
massacre, I went expressly to see the king, and entered his closet as
the admiral left it; but as soon as my brother observed me, he began
to pace the room angrily, looking at me askance, and playing with the
handle of his dagger, so that I expected he would attack me every
minute. As he continued in this furious mood, I began to regret having
entered the room, and with some trouble contrived to leave it without
attracting his notice. I went straight to my mother, and told her what
had happened, and after comparing things together, we came to the
conclusion that the admiral had inspired the king with some sinister
opinion of us, and we therefore determined to get rid of him, and to
concert the means with the Duchess of Nemours, whom alone we ventured
to admit into the plot, because of the mortal hatred she bore to the
admiral.”[556] One account says that a council was held at Monceaux,
shortly after the scene at Montpipeau, at which Anjou, Tavannes,
Retz, Sauve, and Catherine were present, and where it was resolved to
assassinate Coligny; that Catherine told the Duchess of Nemours, and
that the court then returned to Paris. This does not contradict Anjou’s
narrative, though it does not exactly harmonize with it.
The Duchess of Nemours was the widow of the late Duke of Guise. She had
married again, but still nourished the most rancorous hatred against
the supposed murderer of her first husband. Her son, who had been
admitted into the plot, proposed that she should kill the admiral with
her own hand, in the midst of the court festivities, and before the
eyes of the king.[557] When the duchess refused to take so active a
part in Coligny’s murder, they sent for Maurevel, the king’s assassin
(_le tueur du roi_), as he was called.[558] This man had been
brought up in the late Duke of Guise’s household; and when a price had
been set upon the admiral’s head, he made an attempt on Coligny’s life,
but killed Jacques de Mouy instead. He was rewarded, however, for his
good intentions, and not only received the promised 2000 crowns, but at
the king’s express desire the collar of the Order was conferred upon
him. This was the ruffian whom Anjou and Henry of Guise hired to murder
the great Huguenot leader. After receiving the necessary instructions
he repaired to his post; and while he was watching day after day for
his victim, Catherine was devising fresh amusements in honor of her
daughter’s marriage.[559]