THE ASSASSINATION.
[22d, 23d, and 24th August.]
Coligny in the Tennis-Court--The Fatal Shot--The
King’s Indignation and Threats--Letters to Provincial
Governors--Precautions in the City--Interview between Charles
and the Admiral--Despair of Catherine and Anjou--The Huguenot
Council--Threats of violence--De Pilles and Pardaillan
at the Louvre--The Turning-point--Conversation between
Catherine and Anjou--Meeting in the Tuileries Garden--Guard
sent to Coligny--Scene in the King’s Closet--Catherine’s
Argument--De Retz Protests--Charles Yields at last--Guise
in the City--Precautions--Anjou and Angoulême ride
through Paris--Municipal Arrangements--Charles and La
Rochefoucault--Margaret and her sister Claude--Coligny’s last
Night.
The 22d of August, 1572, fell on Friday. Early in the morning Coligny
had gone to the Louvre on business, and was on his way home, when he
met the king coming from chapel. He turned and accompanied Charles to
the tennis-court, where he stood a short time watching a match which
his son-in-law, Teligny, and another were playing against the king and
the Duke of Guise. When he took his leave, it was past ten o’clock, and
near his dinner-hour. To reach his hotel[560] in the Rue de l’Arbre
Sec, at the corner of the Rue de Bethisy, he had to pass along the Rue
des Fossés de St. Germain. As he was turning the corner with De Guerchy
on one side and Des Pruneaux on the other, a shot was fired from the
latticed window of a house on his right, known as the Hotel de Retz,
near one of the large doors of the cloister of St. Germain l’Auxerrois
adjoining the deanery. The admiral, who was reading a petition that
had just been placed in his hands, staggered backward, exclaiming, “I
am wounded,” and fell into the arms of the Sieur de Guerchy. He was
hit with two bullets: one carried off the first finger of the right
hand, the other wounded him in the left arm. Pointing to the house
whence the shot had proceeded, he bade Yolet, one of his esquires, go
to the king and tell him what had happened. Des Pruneaux hastily bound
a handkerchief round the wounded hand, and assisted the admiral to
his hotel, which was fortunately not more than a hundred yards off.
Meanwhile some of his attendants broke into the house, but found nobody
there except the old woman in charge and a horse-boy, from whom they
learned that the assassin Maurevel had escaped through the adjoining
cloisters, that the house belonged to Canon Villemur, formerly tutor to
the Duke of Guise, and that the horse on which Maurevel rode away came
from the duke’s stables. The arquebuse still lay in the window, and on
examination proved to belong to one of Anjou’s body-guard.
With this important but unsatisfactory information they returned to the
admiral, whom they found lying on his bed. Ambrose Paré, the king’s
surgeon-royal, had already amputated the finger and extracted the ball
from his arm; but the operation was a painful one, for the famous
surgeon’s instruments were not in good order. The admiral bore the
torture better than his friends, who could not restrain their tears:
“Why do you weep?” he asked; “I think myself blessed to have received
these wounds in God’s cause. Pray that he will strengthen me.” Then
turning to his chaplain Merlin, who was much distressed: “Why do you
not rather comfort me?” he said. “There is no greater or surer comfort
for you,” answered Merlin, “than to think continually that God does you
a great honor in deeming you worthy to suffer for his name’s sake.”
“Nay, dear Merlin, if God should handle me according to my deserts, I
should have far other manner of griefs to endure.” The conversation
then turned upon the attempted murder: “I forgive freely and with all
my heart,” said the admiral, “both him that struck me and those who
incited him to do it; for I am sure it is not in their power to do me
any evil, not even if they kill me.”
The news of the outrage spread instantaneously through Paris. A
messenger, all breathless, burst into the tennis-court, where the king
had continued playing after Coligny had left, and shouted: “The admiral
is killed! the admiral is killed!” Charles eagerly questioned him, and
then turning abruptly away, threw down his racket, angrily exclaiming
as he left the ground: “S’death! shall I never have a moment’s quiet?
Must I have fresh troubles every day?”[561] He withdrew to his
apartments, declaring that he would avenge the admiral, and, writing to
Mandelot a few hours later, he said: “I have sent in every direction to
try and catch the murderer and punish him, as his wicked act deserves.”
Then continuing in language whose sincerity can not be doubted: “And
insomuch as the news may excite many of my subjects on one side or the
other, I pray you make known everywhere how the affair happened, and
assure every body of my intention to observe inviolably my edicts of
pacification and to chastise sharply all who infringe them, so that
they may be convinced of my sincerity and follow my example.” To La
Mothe-Fénelon, Charles wrote that he would investigate this “infamous
deed,” and not suffer his edict to be outraged. He ordered Teligny
to mount his horse and ride after the assassin,[562] and sent to the
Provost of Paris, bidding him take precautions against any outbreak.
The municipal council were sitting when the royal messenger arrived,
and without delay they took such measures as seemed necessary to
preserve the public peace, which at that moment was in far greater
danger from the incensed Huguenots than from the amazed Catholics.
The civic guards were mustered, the post at the Hotel-de-Ville was
strengthened, the sentries at the gates were doubled, the citizens were
forbidden to close their shops, and no person was allowed to come armed
into the streets.[563]
Meanwhile the King of Navarre, accompanied by some 600 or 700 Huguenot
gentlemen, visited the admiral, threatening vengeance upon the
assassins. Marshals Damville and Cossé came in together. “Never in my
life,” said the former, “have I suffered such a heavy blow. Tell me
what I can do to serve you. I wonder who could be the contriver of
so foul an outrage.” “I suspect no one,” replied the admiral, adding
after a pause, “unless it be the Duke of Guise, and that I dare not say
for certain. I am grieved to find myself kept to my bed, as I wished
to show the king how much I would have done for his sake. Would God I
might talk a little with him, for there are certain things which he
ought to know, and I am afraid there is no one who dares tell him.”
Teligny immediately proceeded to the Louvre, where he met Henry of
Navarre and the Prince of Condé, who had just left the royal presence.
They had gone to ask permission to leave the court on the ground that
they could no longer remain there in security. Charles was greatly
excited, and earnestly begged them to stay. Breaking into one of his
tempestuous passions he declared, with his usual blasphemous oaths,
that the admiral’s blood should be atoned for; that he would punish
all concerned in the outrage, “so that the child unborn should rue
the vengeance of the day.” Even Catherine was alarmed at this burst
of fury, and, with tears in her eyes, exclaimed, that if this bloody
deed were suffered to pass unavenged, the king would not be safe in his
palace. Teligny delivered his message that the admiral desired to see
the king before he died, and Charles promised to visit his old friend.
It seems pretty clear that Charles suspected whence the blow proceeded.
His sister Margaret, whose memory on this point at least is likely to
be faithful, says that “if M. de Guise had not kept out of the way that
day, he would have been hanged.” And no doubt the king, in the first
burst of passion, would have carried out his threats.
All this time the queen-mother and Anjou were in a dreadful state of
agitation. The blow had failed, and if the victim recovered from his
wounds, their participation in the plot could not be concealed. “Our
notable enterprise[564] having miscarried,” says the duke, “my mother
and myself[565] had ample matter for reflection and uneasiness during
the greater part of the day.” There was still hope, for the bullets
might be poisoned, or the wounds mortal. There was danger all around
them; Paris was in a terrible ferment; the Huguenots were angry and
suspicious. The Queen of Navarre had been poisoned (they said), and
now their old leader was assassinated. Who would be the next victim?
Murmuring crowds filled the streets, and it seemed almost impossible to
prevent an outbreak.
About two o’clock in the afternoon, Charles, accompanied by his mother
and his brother Henry, and attended by many who were a few hours later
to stain their hands in innocent blood, went to see Coligny. The king
walked in moody silence, so absorbed with his own thoughts as to omit
lifting his hat to an image of the Virgin at a street corner. He hardly
responded to the salutations of the people who crowded the street in
front of the admiral’s hotel, which also was filled with anxious and
uneasy friends. Up the wide staircase, lined with veterans who had
fought by the side of Coligny on many a bloody field--through the
antechamber, where the Huguenot gentry frowned defiance at Catherine
and Anjou, whose enmity to the admiral was well known--into the large
chamber whose windows overlooked the court-yard--passed the royal
party. Charles went to the admiral’s bedside, and calling him by the
affectionate name of “father,” asked him how he felt. “I humbly thank
your majesty,” he replied, “for the great honor you have done me, and
the great trouble you have taken on my account.” Charles desired him
to cheer up, and hoped he would soon be well of his wounds. “There
are three things about which I longed to talk with your majesty. The
first is my own faithfulness and allegiance toward your highness. So
may I have the favor and mercy of God, at whose judgment-seat this
mischance will probably set me ere long, as I have ever borne a good
heart toward your majesty’s person and crown. And yet I am well aware
that malicious persons have accused me to your highness, and condemned
me as a troubler of the State.[566] But God will judge between me and
my slanderers, and decide according to his righteousness.... Now as to
the Flanders matter, a straw can scarcely be stirred in your secret
council but it is by and by carried to the Duke of Alva. Sire, I would
very fain that you had a care of this thing.[567]... The last which I
would wish you to have no less care of, is the observing of your Edict
of Pacification. You know you have oftentimes confirmed it by oath,
and you know that not foreign nations only, but also your neighbors
and friends are witnesses of the oft renewing of the same oath. Oh,
Sire, how unseemly is it that this your oath should be counted but for
a jest and a mockery. Within these few days past, a nurse was carrying
home a young babe from baptism, not far from Troyes in Champagne, after
attending a sermon in a certain village, by you assigned for the same
purpose, when certain persons, who lay in wait by the way, killed both
the nurse and the child, and some of the company which had been bidden
to the christening. Consider, I beseech you, how terrible that murder
was, and how it may stand with your honor and dignity to suffer such
great outrages to go unrevenged and unpunished in your kingdom.”
The king replied that he had never doubted the admiral’s loyalty,
but had always taken him for a good subject and excellent captain,
without his peer in the whole realm. “If I had any other opinion
of you,” he exclaimed, “I should never have done what I have.” He
made no reference to the Flemish war, but promised that the Edict of
Pacification should be kept faithfully and strictly; for which purpose
he had sent commissioners into all parts of the kingdom, appealing to
the queen-mother for confirmation. “My lord, there is nothing truer,”
she said; “commissioners have been sent into all parts.”--“Yes, madam,
I know it,” returned Coligny, “and of that sort of men who valued my
head at 50,000 crowns.” Charles now interposed: “My lord admiral, we
will send others; you are getting too excited. It is better that you
should be quiet. You bear the wound, but I the smart.[568] I swear by
God’s life that I will take such terrible revenge, that it shall never
be forgotten.” He added that two persons were already in custody,
and inquired whether the admiral desired to have any of his friends
in the commission of investigation. “I refer it to your majesty’s
discretion and justice, but as you ask my opinion, I could desire to
see Cavaignes, Masparault, and another appointed. Surely there needs no
great search be made for the culprit.” Upon this the king and Catherine
drew nearer the admiral’s pillow, and talked with him so low that none
in the room could hear what passed. At the end the queen-mother said:
“Although I am only a woman, yet I am of opinion that it is to be
looked to betimes.”
The Duke of Anjou gives a somewhat different account of this portion
of the interview: “As the admiral desired to speak privately with
the king, his majesty made a sign to my mother and to myself to
retire.[569] We accordingly quitted the bedside, and stood in the
middle of the chamber, full of suspicion and uneasiness. We saw
ourselves surrounded by more than 200 Huguenot captains, who filled
the adjoining chamber and also the hall below. Their countenances
were melancholy, and they showed by their gestures how disaffected
they were, omitting to pay us due reverence, as if they suspected
us of having caused the admiral’s wound. We began to feel great
apprehension, so much so that the queen determined to put a stop to
the conversation between the king and the admiral under some plausible
pretext. Approaching the king, she said: ‘Your majesty is wrong in
permitting the admiral to excite himself by talking; pray put off the
rest until another day.’” The king with great reluctance broke off the
conversation. As he was leaving, he proposed that the admiral should
be removed to the Louvre, lest there should be any commotion in the
city. The surgeons protested against the step, and with regard to the
possible tumult, some one, probably Teligny, answered: “The Parisians
are no more to be feared than women, so long as the king continues his
faithful good-will toward the admiral.” The speaker knew little of the
temper of the inhabitants of that turbulent city.
Before he quitted the room, Charles asked to see the ball, and praised
the admiral for the firmness with which he had endured the pain of the
operation. The queen-mother then took the bullet, and poising it in
her hand, said slowly and significantly: “I am very glad that it is
not still in the wound, for I remember that when the Duke of Guise
was killed before Orleans, the surgeons told me that if the ball had
been extracted, even though poisoned, his life would not have been
in danger.” Why did Catherine revert to the duke’s murder? Was it
to remind Coligny that he had been suspected of a guilty knowledge
of Poltrot’s designs, and that the son was but the minister of the
father’s vengeance?
On their way back to the palace, the queen-mother asked Charles to tell
her what the admiral had said to him in private.[570] At last, annoyed
by her importunity, he answered, “short and angrily,” with his usual
oath: “S’death, madam, the admiral only told me the truth. He said that
kings are respected in France only so long as they have the power to
reward and punish their subjects, and that the power and administration
of the whole realm had slipped into your hands, and that such a state
of affairs might one day be prejudicial to me and my kingdom. Of this
he wished to warn me, as a faithful servant and subject, before he
died. And now you know what the admiral said to me.” Anjou and the
queen-mother were greatly vexed; but, hiding their feelings, they tried
to excuse and justify themselves all the way to the Louvre. Leaving the
king in his closet, Anjou went to his mother, whom he found in great
agitation, fearing that Coligny’s advice would lead to some change in
her position, and in the administration of public affairs. Catherine,
usually so fertile in resources, was quite confounded: she could
think of nothing, devise nothing that could extricate them from their
embarrassed position; and the two conspirators separated for the night,
hoping that the morrow would bring them the means of deliverance.
Not long after the royal visitors had left Coligny’s room, Ferrers,
vidame of Chartres, entered and congratulated the admiral that his
enemies dared not assail him openly: “Blessed and happy are you that
the memory of your prowess has extended so far.” “Nay,” replied the
wounded man, “I think myself blessed because God has vouchsafed to
pour out his mercy upon me; for they are rightly happy whose sins God
forgiveth.” The vidame presently withdrew to a lower room, where the
King of Navarre, Condé, and other Huguenot lords had met to consult on
the course to be adopted. “Let us arm ourselves and garrison the house;
for this is only the beginning of the tragedy,” said some. “To horse,
and away from Paris,” said others; “and we will take the admiral with
us.” This the physicians[571] declared to be impossible, unless they
wished to kill him outright. The more reasonable gentlemen argued that
it would be unwise to do more than demand justice at the king’s hands
upon the murderers--an opinion which Teligny warmly supported. “I know
the king’s mind thoroughly,” he said; “you will only offend him if you
doubt his desire to do justice.” For a long while the more violent
party would not give way, and at last the meeting broke up without
coming to any decision farther than that they should consult his
majesty, whether the admiral should be removed or the Huguenots collect
round him. As they marched off in military array through the streets,
threatening the Guises, Anjou, the queen-mother, and even the king
himself, or thundering out one of the Huguenot psalms, such as they had
often sung as a war-song on the eve of battle, the prospect of an armed
collision must have struck many thoughtful observers. The position was
very dangerous: an explosion might take place at any moment. Indeed,
the only doubt among the fiercest spirits of both parties was when to
begin. That very evening a body of Huguenot gentlemen, headed by those
“stupid clumsy fools”[572] De Pilles and the Baron of Pardaillan,
paraded tumultuously through the streets to the Louvre. As they passed
before the Hotel de Guise, in the Marais,[573] they shouted loud
defiance, flourishing their swords, and some are reported to have
discharged their pistols at the windows. When admitted to the presence,
while the king was at supper, they fiercely demanded vengeance, and by
their looks did not spare Anjou, who was at his brother’s side. “If the
king refuses us justice,” they cried, “we will take the matter into our
own hands.”
The night of the 22d was the turning-point of Catherine’s policy. The
threats of the Huguenots had so alarmed her, that her nerves were
quite unstrung; visions of danger started up before her wherever she
turned. Treacherous herself, she may have believed the tales (if they
were not of her own invention) of Huguenot conspiracies, which she
afterward employed so effectually to exasperate the impetuous king.
Her policy of “trimming” no longer seemed possible. Early the next
morning Anjou had another interview with his mother. The night had not
brought wisdom, but doubt. Catherine still wavered between contending
schemes. On one point alone she had made up her mind--that the admiral
must be got rid of at any sacrifice, now that Maurevel had so unluckily
failed.[574] Had the assassin’s bullet struck a vital part, Catherine’s
trouble would have been at an end.[575] She had nothing to fear from
the Huguenots without a leader: Condé and Navarre were young; they
were in her power, and could do nothing. There might be a street riot
between the partisans of Guise and of the admiral; perhaps the duke
himself might be killed in the fray. But now, if Maurevel were caught,
his employers would be known to a certainty. Had not the rack forced
Poltrot to confess? Then what would become of her beloved Henry,
against whom Charles was already so violently angered? It was not
probable that the Duke of Guise would endure the odium, or silently
put up with the king’s displeasure. He was too powerful to be made
the scape-goat of another’s crimes, and was such a favorite with the
Parisians that to give him up might be perilous to herself and her
sons. As she had not strength to control and restrain both parties,
she must side with one of them. Yet there was danger either way--even
had her hands been pure from Coligny’s blood. The victory of the
Huguenots might lead to the establishment of a republic; the victory
of the Guises (as she afterward learned to her sorrow) might lead to
the deposition of her son. There was no escape: Catherine was caught
in the meshes of her own crime. Maurevel’s work must be completed. But
how? “Ruse and finesse,” says Anjou, “were now out of the question.”
The murder must be done openly. There were serious difficulties in the
way. Coligny was under the king’s protection, and how could Charles be
prevailed upon to sacrifice his “friend and father?”
There are three different narratives of the proceedings at the Louvre
on Saturday, 23d August. The Calvinist account, given in the “Mémoires
de l’Etat de France,” may be dismissed without a word; Margaret’s
statements are almost as unreliable; so that none remains but that
which bears the name of the Duke of Anjou. Even with his help it is
very difficult to trace the real order of events, or to make his
narrative coincide with the entries in the register of the City of
Paris. One thing alone is clear, that Anjou (or his reporter Miron) is
not telling the whole truth.
In order to escape observation, the queen-mother summoned her intimate
advisers to meet her at the Tuileries.[576] The Louvre was too crowded,
too open to Huguenot observation; but in the private gardens of her
country house beyond the city walls, they could talk without danger.
Anjou, Tavannes, Birague, De Retz, and Nevers were present, but of
their deliberations no record exists, and they can only be imagined
from the result. They agreed that there was not a moment to be lost.
The admiral was out of danger: to-morrow he might be removed beyond
their reach. He must be got rid of that very night. If he and five or
six other Huguenot chiefs were dispatched, all would be well.[577]
There is a worthless story of a sort of proscription list having been
drawn up, at the head of which stood the names of Henry of Navarre and
the Prince of Condé. The younger Tavannes claimed for his father the
credit of saving their lives; but they really owed their safety to the
queen-mother, who feared that their deaths would make the Guise party
too strong. But nothing could be done without the king’s consent, and
to obtain that would be no easy matter, for “he was very fond (says
Margaret) of the admiral, La Rochefoucault, Teligny, La Noue, and other
Huguenot leaders, whom he hoped to make use of in Flanders.”
All that Saturday Paris continued in a very restless state. People
feared some great catastrophe; and yet their fears took no definite
shape. Suspicion was in the air, and the wildest stories were
circulated. There was “much huffling and shuffling in the city;” guards
had been posted at unusual places, and there was “much carrying to and
fro of arms and armor,” so that the Huguenots felt it expedient “to
consult of the matter betimes, for no good was to be looked for of such
turmoiling.” There was a great assemblage at the hotel of the Duchess
of Guise, and to the Huguenots nothing seemed more likely than that the
duke would make a sudden attack upon Coligny, and finish what had been
so inauspiciously begun. The admiral’s friends accordingly dispatched
Cornaton to the king, with a request that his majesty would be
pleased to order a guard to be posted at the admiral’s house. Charles
would scarcely believe the messenger, and desired the presence of the
queen-mother. Catherine had hardly entered the room when the king,
“being in a great chafe,” burst out: “What means all this? This man
tells me that my people are in commotion and arming themselves.” “They
are doing no such thing,” she calmly replied; “you know you gave orders
that every man should keep in his own ward, as a security against
tumult.” “That is true,” said Charles, who manifestly did not believe
his mother’s denial; “yet I gave charge that no man should take up
arms.” The Parisians had been disarmed some time before the court had
returned to the Louvre; but the weapons which had been taken away were
now being removed from the stores in the arsenal to the Hôtel-de-Ville,
that they might be ready when needed. If, as the Huguenot narrative
implies, this removal of the arms took place in the early part of the
day, it may have been an innocent measure of precaution, but its wisdom
is doubtful under any circumstances; if in the latter part of the day,
it was probably in connection with the projected massacre.
Coligny’s messenger having repeated the request for a guard, Anjou, who
had come in with his mother, said: “Very well, take Cosseins and fifty
arquebusiers.” “Nay, my lord, it will be enough for us if we have but
six of the king’s guard with us; for they will have as much influence
over the people as a greater number of soldiers.” The king rejoined:
“Take Cosseins with you; you can not have a fitter man.” Cosseins
was the admiral’s mortal enemy; but he was also at variance with the
Guises, and it might have been supposed that in case of any outbreak
of the latter, the marshal would not spare them. As Cornaton left the
presence, Thoré, the brother of Marshal Montmorency, whispered in his
ear: “You could not have had a more dangerous keeper.” “What could I
do?” was the rejoinder; “you saw how absolutely the king commanded it.
We have committed ourselves to his honor, but you are a witness of my
first answer to the king’s appointment.” A few hours later Cosseins
posted his fifty soldiers in two houses close to the admiral’s;[578]
and orders came from the king--other authorities say from the Duke of
Anjou--commanding the inhabitants to remove out of the street in order
to accommodate the friends of Coligny. It is not known how far this
order was carried out: probably not at all; but it has usually been
regarded as a very Machiavellian contrivance to get all the Huguenots
together, that they might be killed the more easily. On the other hand,
by collecting a little Huguenot garrison around him, the admiral would
be safer than if he had remained alone in the street. Had there been
the slightest resistance at first, the plot would have miscarried,
and neither Anjou nor his mother would have been so weak as to put
obstructions in the way of their own success.
Meanwhile the government was busily occupied in sending dispatches all
over the country and abroad, describing the events of the previous
day. It was most important to prevent a rising of the Huguenots,
whose suspicions had been so cruelly confirmed by the attempt on
the admiral’s life. In order to calm them, the provincial governors
and magistrates were directed to assure them that justice should be
executed on the perpetrators and abettors of the crime. The letter
to D’Esquilly, governor of Chartres, may be taken as a sample of the
whole. In it the king ascribes the attempt to the Guise faction, adding
that it arose out of a private quarrel between the two houses of
Chatillon and Guise, which he had tried all in his power to arrange.
He orders the edict to be observed “as strictly as ever,” for fear the
recent outrage should provoke his subjects to rise against each other,
and great massacres be perpetrated in the cities, for which he would
feel “a marvelous regret.”[579] Coligny also wrote to the Protestant
churches, desiring them to be calm, for his wounds were not mortal, and
the assassins were being pursued.
During the forenoon of Saturday the Duke of Guise, having heard of
the king’s angry speeches against him, went to the Louvre with his
uncle Aumale, and pretending to fear the violence of the Huguenots,
begged his majesty’s permission to leave the court for awhile. Charles,
scarcely condescending to look at them, bade them begone: “If you are
guilty, I shall know where to find you.” Collecting his suite together,
the duke rode ostentatiously out of one of the gates, and stealthily
re-entered by another, keeping himself ready for any emergency.
The commotions in the city were but a faint copy of the tumults by
which the bosom of the queen-mother was agitated. She had staked
every thing upon the hazard of a throw. Nothing farther could be done
without the king’s consent, and that must be obtained _per fas et
nefas_. According to Anjou’s evidence, Charles retired into his
cabinet after dinner, and, as the dinner-hour was eleven, the time
must have been about midday. He was followed by his brother, the
queen-mother, Nevers, Tavannes, Retz, and Birague. It was an ordinary
council meeting, and they assembled to consult as to what should be
done to preserve tranquillity. Catherine immediately began a long story
about the Huguenots arming against the king on account of the admiral’s
wound. “From letters that have been intercepted, I learn that they
have sent into Germany for 10,000 reiters and to Switzerland for 6000
foot. Many Huguenot officers have already started for the provinces to
raise soldiers, and the mustering-places have been all arranged. Such
a force as the Huguenots will soon have under arms, your majesty’s
troops are not strong enough to resist. Before long the whole kingdom
will be in revolt under the pretext of the public good, and, as your
majesty has neither men nor money, I see no place of security for you
in France.... Your majesty should also know that a still greater danger
threatens your person. They have conspired to place Henry of Navarre
on the throne.” The latter statement, although supported by Alva’s
bulletin,[580] is unworthy of a moment’s credit. Margaret’s silence
is conclusive evidence against it. The former statement is equally
opposed to the truth. Walsingham writes that Montgomery paid him a
visit between nine and ten on Friday night, and told him, “that as he
and those of the Reform had just occasion to be right sorry for the
admiral’s hurt, so had they _no less cause to rejoice to see the king
so careful_ [anxious], as well for the curing of the admiral, as
also for the searching out of the party that hurt him.”[581]
The queen-mother continued: “There is another matter of great
importance that ought not to be kept from you. The Catholics are
thoroughly tired of the long wars, and of being crushed by all sorts of
calamities, and they will endure it no longer. They will make an end of
this state of things, once for all.”
“What would they have?” interrupted Charles. “I am as weary of war as
any of them, and as determined that my peace shall be kept. What better
hope of success have they now than at Moncontour or Jarnac? I will hang
the first man that draws a sword.”
CATHERINE.--But your majesty has not the power; things are
gone too far. They have resolved to elect a captain-general and make
a league offensive and defensive against the Huguenots. Your majesty
will thus stand alone, without power and authority. France will be
divided into two great camps, over which you will have no control.
There will be danger to all of us, and certain death and destruction to
many thousands, all of which may be prevented by a single stroke of the
sword.
KING.--I do not understand you, _ma mère_; you speak in riddles.
CATHERINE.--To speak plainly, then, we must cut off the head
and author of the civil wars. M. de Chatillon must be disposed of.
At these words the king burst into one of his fits of passion, which so
alarmed the council that none of them ventured to interpose a word. The
queen-mother allowed Charles to exhaust himself, and then resumed in
her most insinuating manner: “The remedy, I confess, is desperate, but
there is no other. The Huguenot plans, now ripe for execution, will die
with their leader. The Catholics, satisfied by the sacrifice of two or
three men, will remain obedient, and all will be well.”
Other arguments were used, to which the king listened moodily, turning
from one to another of his councilors, as if to ask whether his mother
was speaking the truth. But their trained looks confirmed the cunning
tale. Still he was not convinced, and once more giving way to a burst
of passion, he swore he would not have M. de Chatillon touched: “Woe to
any one who injures a hair of his head! He is the only true friend I
have; all the rest are knaves, they are all sold to the Spaniard--all,
except my brother of Navarre.”
Still the queen-mother did not flinch; she had too much at stake. “Do
what you will,” she appears to have said, “the attack on the admiral
will be laid at our door, unless M. de Guise is punished, and he is too
strong for us--at least in Paris. France will again be torn by civil
war, and I see but one way of escape. If we must fight, let us strike
the blow at once, while the enemy is still in Paris and unorganized.”
And probably thinking of Alva’s advice nine years before, she added:
“If we cut off the chiefs, the others are powerless. We must either
have the Guises with us or against us. Our only safety is to call Duke
Henry to our side, make him our tool, and ... (here she paused, as if
to watch the effect of her words) ... and afterward ruin him forever by
throwing all the blame upon him.” As Charles was still unmoved by such
reasoning, and divided between love for Coligny and respect for his
mother, he asked the advice of his council. They gave their opinions
separately, and all agreed with Catherine, except De Retz, who, to
their great astonishment, said: “No man can hate the admiral and his
party more than I do; but I will not, at the expense of the king my
master, avenge myself on my private enemies by a counsel so dangerous
to him and to his kingdom, and so dishonorable to all. We shall be
taxed with perfidy and disloyalty, and by one act shake all confidence
in the faith and word of a king, and consequently of treating afterward
for the pacification of the kingdom in the case of future wars. We
shall be deceived if we think to escape foreign armies by such a
treacherous act, and we shall never see the end of the calamity and
ruin it would bring upon us.”[582] This answer quite staggered the
queen-mother and her advisers; but as no one supported De Retz, his
opinion had no weight, and that may be why he gave utterance to it.
Still the king was not convinced: he sat moody and silent, biting his
nails as was his wont. He would come to no decision. He asked for
proofs, and none were forthcoming, except some idle gossip of the
streets and the foolish threats of a few hot-headed Huguenots. Charles
had learned to love the admiral: could he believe that the gentle
Teligny and that Rochefoucault, the companion of his rough sports,
were guilty of the meditated plot? He desired to be King of France--of
Huguenots and Catholics alike--not king of a party. Catherine, in
her despair, employed her last argument. She whispered in his ear:
“Perhaps, Sire, you are afraid.” As if struck by an arrow, he started
from his chair. Raving like a madman, he bade them hold their tongues,
and with fearful oaths exclaimed, “Kill the admiral if you like,
but kill all the Huguenots with him--all--all--all--so that not one
be left to reproach me hereafter. See to it at once--at once; do you
hear?”[583] And he dashed furiously out of the closet, leaving the
conspirators aghast at his violence.
But there was no time to be lost: the king might change his mind; the
Huguenots might get wind of the plot. The murderous scheme must be
carried out that very night, and accordingly the Duke of Guise was
summoned to the Louvre. And now the different parts of the tragedy
were arranged, Guise undertaking, on the strength of his popularity
with the Parisian mob, to lead them to the work of blood. We may
also imagine him begging as a favor the privilege of dispatching the
admiral in retaliation for his father’s murder. The city was parted
out into districts, each of which was assigned to some trusty officer,
Marshal Tavannes having the general superintendence of the military
arrangements. The conspirators now separated, intending to meet again
at ten o’clock. Guise went into the city, where he communicated his
plans to such of the mob-leaders as could be trusted. He told them
of a bloody conspiracy among the Huguenot chiefs to destroy the king
and royal family and extirpate Catholicism; that a renewal of war was
inevitable, but it was better that war should come in the streets
of Paris than in the open field, for the leaders would thus be far
more effectually punished and their followers crushed. He affirmed
that letters had been intercepted in which the admiral had sought the
aid of German reiters and Swiss pikemen, and that Montmorency was
approaching with 25,000 men to burn the city, as the Huguenots had
often threatened. And, as if to give color to this idle story, a small
body of cavalry had been seen from the walls in the early part of the
day.
Such arguments and such falsehoods were admirably adapted to his
hearers, who swore to carry out the duke’s orders with secrecy and
dispatch. “It is the will of our lord the king,” continued Henry of
Guise, “that every good citizen should take up arms to purge the city
of that rebel Coligny and his heretical followers. The signal will be
given by the great bell of the Palace of Justice. Then let every true
Catholic tie a white band on his arm and put a white cross on his cap,
and begin the vengeance of God.” Finding upon inquiry that Le Charron,
the provost of the merchants, was too weak and tender-hearted for
the work before him, the duke suggested that the municipality should
temporarily confer his power on the ex-provost Marcel, a man of a very
different stamp.
About four in the afternoon Anjou rode through the crowded streets
in company with his bastard brother Angoulême. He watched the aspect
of the populace, and let fall a few insidious expressions in no
degree calculated to quiet the turbulent passions of the citizens.
One account says he distributed money, which is not probable, his
afternoon ride being merely a sort of reconnaissance. The journals of
the Hotel-de-Ville still attest the anxiety of the court--of Catherine
and her fellow-conspirators--that the massacre should be sweeping
and complete. “Very late in the evening”--it must have been after
dark, for the king went to lie down at eight, and did not rise until
ten--the provost was sent for.[584] At the Louvre he found Charles, the
queen-mother, and the Duke of Anjou, with other princes and nobles,
among whom we may safely include Guise, Retz, and Tavannes. The king
now repeated to him the story of a Huguenot plot, which had already
been whispered abroad by Guise and Anjou, and bade him shut the gates
of the city, so that no one could pass in or out, and take possession
of the keys. He was also to draw up all the boats on the river-bank
and chain them together, to remove the ferry, to muster under arms the
able-bodied men of each ward under their proper officers, and hold them
in readiness at the usual mustering-places to receive the orders of
his majesty. The city artillery, which does not appear to have been so
formidable as the word would imply, was to be stationed at the Grève to
protect the Hotel-de-Ville, or for any other duty required of it. With
these instructions the provost returned to the Hotel-de-Ville, where
he spent great part of the night in preparing the necessary orders,
which were issued “very early the next morning.”[585] There is reason
for believing that these measures were simply precautions in case the
Huguenots should resist, and a bloody struggle should have to be fought
in the streets of the capital. The municipality certainly took no part
in the earlier massacres, whatever they may have done later. Tavannes
complains of the “want of zeal” in some of the citizens, and Brantome
admits that “it was necessary to threaten to hang some of the laggards.”
That evening the king had supped in public, and the hours being
much earlier than with us, the time was probably between six and
seven. The courtiers admitted to witness the meal appear to have
been as numerous as ever, Huguenots as well as Catholics, victims
and executioners. Charles, who retired before eight o’clock, kept
Francis, Count of La Rochefoucault, with him for some time, as if
unwilling to part with him. “Do not go,” he said; “it is late. We will
sit and talk all night.” “Excuse me, Sire, I am tired and sleepy.”
“You must stay; you can sleep with my valets.” But as Charles was
rather too fond of rough practical jokes, the count still declined,
and went away, suspecting no evil, to pay his usual evening visit
to the dowager Princess of Condé. He must have remained some time in
her apartments, for it was past twelve o’clock when he went to bid
Navarre good-night. As he was leaving the palace, a man stopped him at
the foot of the stairs, and whispered in his ear. When the stranger
left, La Rochefoucault bade Mergey, one of his suite, to whom we are
indebted for these particulars, return and tell Henry that Guise and
Nevers were about the city. During Mergey’s brief absence, something
more appears to have been told the count, for he returned up stairs
with Nançay, captain of the guard, who, lifting the tapestry which
closed the entrance to Navarre’s antechamber, looked for some time at
the gentlemen within, some playing at cards or dice, others talking.
At last he said: “Gentlemen, if any of you wish to retire, you must do
so at once, for we are going to shut the gates.” No one moved, as it
would appear, for at Charles’s express desire, it is said--which is
scarcely probable--these Huguenot gentlemen had gathered round the King
of Navarre to protect him against any outrage of the Guises.[586] In
the court-yard Mergey found the guard under arms. “M. Rambouillet, who
loved me (he continues) was sitting by the wicket, and as I passed out,
he took my hand, and with a piteous look said: ‘Adieu, Mergey; adieu,
my friend.’ Not daring to say more, as he told me afterward.”
In the apartments of the queen-mother all was not equally calm.
Margaret had no suspicion of the terrible tragedy that was preparing.
“The Huguenots,” she writes in her _Memoirs_, “suspected me
because I was a Catholic, and the Catholics doubted me, because I had
married the King of Navarre: so that between them both I knew nothing
of the coming enterprise.” She was sitting by her sister Claude, who
appeared pensive and sorrowful, when her mother ordered her to retire
to her own room. She rose, and was about to obey, when the Duchess of
Lorraine caught her by the arm, exclaiming: “Sister, for the love of
God, do not leave us.” Catherine sternly rebuked the duchess, and bade
her be silent; but Claude, with true sisterly affection, would not let
Margaret go. “It is a shame,” she said, “to send her to be sacrificed,
for if any thing is discovered, they [meaning the Catholics] will be
sure to avenge themselves upon her.” Still Catherine insisted: “No harm
will befall the Queen of Navarre, and it is my pleasure that she retire
to her own apartments, lest her absence should create suspicion.”
Claude kissed her sister, and bade her good-night with tears in her
eyes. “I departed, alarmed and amazed,” continues Margaret, “unable
to discover what I had to dread.” She found her husband’s apartments
filled with Huguenot gentlemen. “All night long,” says Margaret, “they
continued talking of the accident that had befallen the admiral,
declaring that they would go to the king as soon as it was light, and
demand justice on the Duke of Guise, and if it were not granted, they
would take it into their own hands.... I could not sleep for fear,” she
continues; but when day-light came, and her husband had gone out with
the Huguenot gentlemen to the tennis-court, to wait for his majesty’s
rising, she fell off into a sound slumber.
Coligny’s hotel had been crowded all day by visitors; the Queen of
Navarre had paid him a visit, and most of the gentlemen in Paris,
Catholic as well as Huguenot, had gone to express their sympathy. For
the Frenchman is a gallant enemy, and respects brave men; and the foul
attempt upon the admiral, whom they had so often encountered on the
battle-field, was felt as a personal injury. A council had been held
that day, at which the propriety of removing in a body from Paris and
carrying the admiral with them, had again been discussed. Navarre and
Condé opposed the proposition, and it was finally resolved to petition
the king “to order all the Guisians out of Paris, because they had too
much sway with the people of the town.” One Bouchavannes, a traitor,
was among them, greedily listening to every word, which he reported
to Anjou, strengthening him in his determination to make a clean sweep
that very night.
As the evening came on, the admiral’s visitors took their leave.
Teligny, his son-in-law, was the last to quit his bedside. To the
question whether the admiral would like any of them to keep watch
in his house during the night, he answered, says the contemporary
biographer, “that it was labor more than needed, and gave them thanks
with very loving words.” It was after midnight when Teligny and Guerchy
departed, leaving Ambrose Paré and Pastor Merlin[587] with the wounded
man. There were besides in the house two of his gentlemen, Cornaton
(afterward his biographer) and La Bonne; his squire Yolet, five
Switzers belonging to the King of Navarre’s guard, and about as many
domestic servants. It was the last night on earth for all except two of
that household.