CHAPTER XVI

Caesar was in prison for two years, always hoping that Louis XII would

reclaim him as peer of the kingdom of France; but Louis, much disturbed

by the loss of the battle of Garigliano, which robbed him of the kingdom

of Naples, had enough to do with his own affairs without busying himself

with his cousin’s. So the prisoner was beginning to despair, when one

day as he broke his bread at breakfast he found a file and a little

bottle containing a narcotic, with a letter from Michelotto, saying that

he was out of prison and had left Italy for Spain, and now lay in hiding

with the Count of Benevento in the neighbouring village: he added that

from the next day forward he and the count would wait every night on the

road between the fortress and the village with three excellent horses;

it was now Caesar’s part to do the best he could with his bottle and

file. When the whole world had abandoned the Duke of Romagna he had been

remembered by a sbirro.

The prison where he had been shut up for two years was so hateful to

Caesar that he lost not a single moment: the same day he attacked one of

the bars of a window that looked out upon an inner court, and soon

contrived so to manipulate it that it would need only a final push to

come out. But not only was the window nearly seventy feet from the

ground, but one could only get out of the court by using an exit

reserved for the governor, of which he alone had the key; also this key

never left him; by day it hung at his waist, by night it was under his

pillow: this then was the chief difficulty.

But prisoner though he was, Caesar had always been treated with the

respect due to his name and rank: every day at the dinner-hour he was

conducted from the room that served as his prison to the governor, who

did the honours of the table in a grand and courteous fashion. The fact

was that Don Manuel had served with honour under King Ferdinand, and

therefore, while he guarded Caesar rigorously, according to orders, he

had a great respect for so brave a general, and took pleasure in

listening to the accounts of his battles. So he had often insisted that

Caesar should not only dine but also breakfast with him; happily the

prisoner, yielding perhaps to some presentiment, had till now refused

this favour. This was of great advantage to him, since, thanks to his

solitude, he had been able to receive the instruments of escape sent by

Michelotto. The same day he received them, Caesar, on going back to his

room, made a false step and sprained his foot; at the dinner-hour he

tried to go down, but he pretended to be suffering so cruelly that he

gave it up. The governor came to see him in his room, and found him

stretched upon the bed.

The day after, he was no better; the governor had his dinner sent in,

and came to see him, as on the night before; he found his prisoner so

dejected and gloomy in his solitude that he offered to come and sup with

him: Caesar gratefully accepted.

This time it was the prisoner who did the honours: Caesar was charmingly

courteous; the governor thought he would profit by this lack of

restraint to put to him certain questions as to the manner of his

arrest, and asked him as an Old Castilian, for whom honour is still of

some account, what the truth really was as to Gonzalvo’s and Ferdinand’s

breach of faith, with him. Caesar appeared extremely inclined to give

him his entire confidence, but showed by a sign that the attendants were

in the way. This precaution appeared quite natural, and the governor

took no offense, but hastened to send them all away, so as to be sooner

alone with his companion. When the door was shut, Caesar filled his

glass and the governor’s, proposing the king’s health: the governor

honoured the toast: Caesar at once began his tale; but he had scarcely

uttered a third part of it when, interesting as it was, the eyes of his

host shut as though by magic, and he slid under the table in a profound

sleep.

After half a hour had passed, the servants, hearing no noise, entered

and found the two, one on the table, the other under it: this event was

not so extraordinary that they paid any great attention to it: all they

did was to carry Don Manuel to his room and lift Caesar on the bed; then

they put away the remnant of the meal for the next day’s supper, shut

the door very carefully, and left their prisoner alone.

Caesar stayed for a minute motionless and apparently plunged in the

deepest sleep; but when he had heard the steps retreating, he quietly

raised his head, opened his eyes, slipped off the bed, walked to the

door, slowly indeed, but not to all appearance feeling the accident of

the night before, and applied his ear for some minutes to the keyhole;

then lifting his head with an expression of indescribable pride, he

wiped his brow with his hand, and for the first time since his guards

went out, breathed freely with full-drawn breaths.

There was no time to lose: his first care was to shut the door as

securely on the inside as it was already shut on the outside, to blow

out the lamp, to open the window, and to finish sawing through the bar.

When this was done, he undid the bandages on his leg, took down the

window and bed curtains, tore them into strips, joined the sheets, table

napkins and cloth, and with all these things tied together end to end,

formed a rope fifty or sixty feet long, with knots every here and there.

This rope he fixed securely to the bar next to the one he had just cut

through; then he climbed up to the window and began what was really the

hardest part of his perilous enterprise, clinging with hands and feet to

this fragile support. Luckily he was both strong and skilful, and he

went down the whole length of the rope without accident; but when he

reached the end and was hanging on the last knot, he sought in vain to

touch the ground with his feet; his rope was too short.

The situation was a terrible one: the darkness of the night prevented

the fugitive from seeing how far off he was from the ground, and his

fatigue prevented him from even attempting to climb up again. Caesar put

up a brief prayer, whether to God or Satan he alone could say; then

letting go the rope, he dropped from a height of twelve or fifteen feet.

The danger was too great for the fugitive to trouble about a few

trifling contusions: he at once rose, and guiding himself by the

direction of his window, he went straight to the little door of exit; he

then put his hand into the pocket of his doublet, and a cold sweat

damped his brow; either he had forgotten and left it in his room or had

lost it in his fall; anyhow, he had not the key.

But summoning his recollections, he quite gave up the first idea for the

second, which was the only likely one: again he crossed the court,

looking for the place where the key might have fallen, by the aid of the

wall round a tank on which he had laid his hand when he got up; but the

object of search was so small and the night so dark that there was

little chance of getting any result; still Caesar sought for it, for in

this key was his last hope: suddenly a door was opened, and a night

watch appeared, preceded by two torches. Caesar for the moment thought

he was lost, but remembering the tank behind him, he dropped into it,

and with nothing but his head above water anxiously watched the

movements of the soldiers, as they advanced beside him, passed only a

few feet away, crossed the court, and then disappeared by an opposite

door. But short as their luminous apparition had been, it had lighted up

the ground, and Caesar by the glare of the torches had caught the

glitter of the long-sought key, and as soon as the door was shut behind

the men, was again master of his liberty.

Half-way between the castle and the village two cavaliers and a led

horse were waiting for him: the two men were Michelotto and the Count of

Benevento. Caesar sprang upon the riderless horse, pressed with fervour

the hand of the count and the sbirro; then all three galloped to the

frontier of Navarre, where they arrived three days later, and were

honourably received by the king, Jean d’Albret, the brother of Caesar’s

wife.

From Navarre he thought to pass into France, and from France to make an

attempt upon Italy, with the aid of Louis XII; but during Caesar’s

detention in the castle of Medina del Campo, Louis had made peace with

the King of Spain; and when he heard of Caesar’s flight; instead of

helping him, as there was some reason to expect he would, since he was a

relative by marriage, he took away the duchy of Valentinois and also his

pension. Still, Caesar had nearly 200,000 ducats in the charge of

bankers at Genoa; he wrote asking for this sum, with which he hoped to

levy troops in Spain and in Navarre, and make an attempt upon Pisa: 500

men, 200,000 ducats, his name and his word were more than enough to save

him from despair.

The bankers denied the deposit.

Caesar was at the mercy of his brother-in-law.

One of the vassals of the King of Navarre, named Prince Alarino, had

just then revolted: Caesar then took command of the army which Jean

d’Albret was sending out against him, followed by Michelotto, who was as

faithful in adversity as ever before. Thanks to Caesar’s courage and

skilful tactics, Prince Alarino was beaten in a first encounter; but the

day after his defeat he rallied his army, and offered battle about three

o’clock in the afternoon. Caesar accepted it.

For nearly four hours they fought obstinately on both sides; but at

length, as the day was going down, Caesar proposed to decide the issue

by making a charge himself, at the head of a hundred men-at-arms, upon a

body of cavalry which made his adversary’s chief force. To his great

astonishment, this cavalry at the first shock gave way and took flight

in the direction of a little wood, where they seemed to be seeking

refuge. Caesar followed close on their heels up to the edge of the

forest; then suddenly the pursued turned right about face, three or four

hundred archers came out of the wood to help them, and Caesar’s men,

seeing that they had fallen into an ambush, took to their heels like

cowards, and abandoned their leader.

Left alone, Caesar would not budge one step; possibly he had had enough

of life, and his heroism was rather the result of satiety than courage:

however that may be, he defended himself like a lion; but, riddled with

arrows and bolts, his horse at last fell, with Caesar’s leg under him.

His adversaries rushed upon him, and one of them thrusting a sharp and

slender iron pike through a weak place in his armour, pierced his

breast; Caesar cursed God and died.

But the rest of the enemy’s army was defeated, thanks to the courage of

Michelotto, who fought like a valiant condottiere, but learned, on

returning to the camp in the evening, from those who had fled; that they

had abandoned Caesar and that he had never reappeared. Then only too

certain, from his master’s well-known courage, that disaster had

occurred, he desired to give one last proof of his devotion by not

leaving his body to the wolves and birds of prey. Torches were lighted,

for it was dark, and with ten or twelve of those who had gone with

Caesar as far as the little wood, he went to seek his master. On

reaching the spot they pointed out, he beheld five men stretched side by

side; four of them were dressed, but the fifth had been stripped of his

clothing and lay completely naked. Michelotto dismounted, lifted the

head upon his knees, and by the light of the torches recognised Caesar.

Thus fell, on the 10th of March, 1507, on an unknown field, near an

obscure village called Viane, in a wretched skirmish with the vassal of

a petty king, the man whom Macchiavelli presents to all princes as the

model of ability, diplomacy, and courage.

As to Lucrezia, the fair Duchess of Ferrara, she died full of years, and

honours, adored as a queen by her subjects, and sung as a goddess by

Ariosto and by Bembo.

EPILOGUE

There was once in Paris, says Boccaccio, a brave and good merchant named

Jean de Civigny, who did a great trade in drapery, and was connected in

business with a neighbour and fellow-merchant, a very rich man called

Abraham, who, though a Jew, enjoyed a good reputation. Jean de Civigny,

appreciating the qualities of the worthy Israelite; feared lest, good

man as he was, his false religion would bring his soul straight to

eternal perdition; so he began to urge him gently as a friend to

renounce his errors and open his eyes to the Christian faith, which he

could see for himself was prospering and spreading day by day, being the

only true and good religion; whereas his own creed, it was very plain,

was so quickly diminishing that it would soon disappear from the face of

the earth. The Jew replied that except in his own religion there was no

salvation, that he was born in it, proposed to live and die in it, and

that he knew nothing in the world that could change his opinion. Still,

in his proselytising fervour Jean would not think himself beaten, and

never a day passed but he demonstrated with those fair words the

merchant uses to seduce a customer, the superiority of the Christian

religion above the Jewish; and although Abraham was a great master of

Mosaic law, he began to enjoy his friend’s preaching, either because of

the friendship he felt for him or because the Holy Ghost descended upon

the tongue of the new apostle; still obstinate in his own belief, he

would not change. The more he persisted in his error, the more excited

was Jean about converting him, so that at last, by God’s help, being

somewhat shaken by his friend’s urgency, Abraham one day said—

"Listen, Jean: since you have it so much at heart that I should be

converted, behold me disposed to satisfy you; but before I go to Rome to

see him whom you call God’s vicar on earth, I must study his manner of

life and his morals, as also those of his brethren the cardinals; and

if, as I doubt not, they are in harmony with what you preach, I will

admit that, as you have taken such pains to show me, your faith is

better than mine, and I will do as you desire; but if it should prove

otherwise, I shall remain a Jew, as I was before; for it is not worth

while, at my age, to change my belief for a worse one."

Jean was very sad when he heard these words; and he said mournfully to

himself, "Now I have lost my time and pains, which I thought I had spent

so well when I was hoping to convert this unhappy Abraham; for if he

unfortunately goes, as he says he will, to the court of Rome, and there

sees the shameful life led by the servants of the Church, instead of

becoming a Christian the Jew will be more of a Jew than ever." Then

turning to Abraham, he said, "Ah, friend, why do you wish to incur such

fatigue and expense by going to Rome, besides the fact that travelling

by sea or by land must be very dangerous for so rich a man as you are?

Do you suppose there is no one here to baptize you? If you have any

doubts concerning the faith I have expounded, where better than here

will you find theologians capable of contending with them and allaying

them? So, you see, this voyage seems to me quite unnecessary: just

imagine that the priests there are such as you see here, and all the

better in that they are nearer to the supreme pastor. If you are guided

by my advice, you will postpone this toil till you have committed some

grave sin and need absolution; then you and I will go together."

But the Jew replied—

"I believe, dear Jean, that everything is as you tell me; but you know

how obstinate I am. I will go to Rome, or I will never be a Christian."

Then Jean, seeing his great wish, resolved that it was no use trying to

thwart him, and wished him good luck; but in his heart he gave up all

hope; for it was certain that his friend would come back from his

pilgrimage more of a Jew than ever, if the court of Rome was still as he

had seen it.

But Abraham mounted his horse, and at his best speed took the road to

Rome, where on his arrival he was wonderfully well received by his

coreligionists; and after staying there a good long time, he began to

study the behaviour of the pope, the cardinals and other prelates, and

of the whole court. But much to his surprise he found out, partly by

what passed under his eyes and partly by what he was told, that all from

the pope downward to the lowest sacristan of St. Peter’s were committing

the sins of luxurious living in a most disgraceful and unbridled manner,

with no remorse and no shame, so that pretty women and handsome youths

could obtain any favours they pleased. In addition to this sensuality

which they exhibited in public, he saw that they were gluttons and

drunkards, so much so that they were more the slaves of the belly than

are the greediest of animals. When he looked a little further, he found

them so avaricious and fond of money that they sold for hard cash both

human bodies and divine offices, and with less conscience than a man in

Paris would sell cloth or any other merchandise. Seeing this and much

more that it would not be proper to set down here, it seemed to Abraham,

himself a chaste, sober, and upright man, that he had seen enough. So he

resolved to return to Paris, and carried out the resolution with his

usual promptitude. Jean de Civigny held a great fete in honour of his

return, although he had lost hope of his coming back converted. But he

left time for him to settle down before he spoke of anything, thinking

there would be plenty of time to hear the bad news he expected. But,

after a few days of rest, Abraham himself came to see his friend, and

Jean ventured to ask what he thought of the Holy Father, the cardinals,

and the other persons at the pontifical court. At these words the Jew

exclaimed, "God damn them all! I never once succeeded in finding among

them any holiness, any devotion, any good works; but, on the contrary,

luxurious living, avarice, greed, fraud, envy, pride, and even worse, if

there is worse; all the machine seemed to be set in motion by an impulse

less divine than diabolical. After what I saw, it is my firm conviction

that your pope, and of course the others as well, are using all their

talents, art, endeavours, to banish the Christian religion from the face

of the earth, though they ought to be its foundation and support; and

since, in spite of all the care and trouble they expend to arrive at

this end, I see that your religion is spreading every day and becoming

more brilliant and more pure, it is borne in upon me that the Holy

Spirit Himself protects it as the only true and the most holy religion;

this is why, deaf as you found me to your counsel and rebellious to your

wish, I am now, ever since I returned from this Sodom, firmly resolved

on becoming a Christian. So let us go at once to the church, for I am

quite ready to be baptized."

There is no need to say if Jean de Civigny, who expected a refusal, was

pleased at this consent. Without delay he went with his godson to Notre

Dame de Paris, where he prayed the first priest he met to administer

baptism to his friend, and this was speedily done; and the new convert

changed his Jewish name of Abraham into the Christian name of Jean; and

as the neophyte, thanks to his journey to Rome, had gained a profound

belief, his natural good qualities increased so greatly in the practice

of our holy religion, that after leading an exemplary life he died in

the full odour of sanctity.

This tale of Boccaccio’s gives so admirable an answer to the charge of

irreligion which some might make against us if they mistook our

intentions, that as we shall not offer any other reply, we have not

hesitated to present it entire as it stands to the eyes of our readers.

And let us never forget that if the papacy has had an Innocent VIII and

an Alexander VI who are its shame, it has also had a Pius VII and a

Gregory XVI who are its honour and glory.

*THE CENCI—1598*

Should you ever go to Rome and visit the villa Pamphili, no doubt, after

having sought under its tall pines and along its canals the shade and

freshness so rare in the capital of the Christian world, you will

descend towards the Janiculum Hill by a charming road, in the middle of

which you will find the Pauline fountain. Having passed this monument,

and having lingered a moment on the terrace of the church of St. Peter

Montorio, which commands the whole of Rome, you will visit the cloister

of Bramante, in the middle of which, sunk a few feet below the level, is

built, on the identical place where St. Peter was crucified, a little

temple, half Greek, half Christian; you will thence ascend by a side

door into the church itself. There, the attentive cicerone will show

you, in the first chapel to the right, the Christ Scourged, by Sebastian

del Piombo, and in the third chapel to the left, an Entombment by

Fiammingo; having examined these two masterpieces at leisure, he will

take you to each end of the transverse cross, and will show you—on one

side a picture by Salviati, on slate, and on the other a work by Vasari;

then, pointing out in melancholy tones a copy of Guido’s Martyrdom of

St. Peter on the high altar, he will relate to you how for three

centuries the divine Raffaelle’s Transfiguration was worshipped in that

spot; how it was carried away by the French in 1809, and restored to the

pope by the Allies in 1814. As you have already in all probability

admired this masterpiece in the Vatican, allow him to expatiate, and

search at the foot of the altar for a mortuary slab, which you will

identify by a cross and the single word; Orate; under this gravestone is

buried Beatrice Cenci, whose tragical story cannot but impress you

profoundly.

She was the daughter of Francesco Cenci. Whether or not it be true that

men are born in harmony with their epoch, and that some embody its good

qualities and others its bad ones, it may nevertheless interest our

readers to cast a rapid glance over the period which had just passed

when the events which we are about to relate took place. Francesco Cenci

will then appear to them as the diabolical incarnation of his time.

On the 11th of August, 1492, after the lingering death-agony of Innocent

VIII, during which two hundred and twenty murders were committed in the

streets of Rome, Alexander VI ascended the pontifical throne. Son of a

sister of Pope Calixtus III, Roderigo Lenzuoli Borgia, before being

created cardinal, had five children by Rosa Vanozza, whom he afterwards

caused to be married to a rich Roman. These children were:

Francis, Duke of Gandia;

Caesar, bishop and cardinal, afterwards Duke of Valentinois;

Lucrezia, who was married four times: her first husband was Giovanni

Sforza, lord of Pesaro, whom she left owing to his impotence; the

second, Alfonso, Duke of Bisiglia, whom her brother Caesar caused to be

assassinated; the third, Alfonso d’Este, Duke of Ferrara, from whom a

second divorce separated her; finally, the fourth, Alfonso of Aragon,

who was stabbed to death on the steps of the basilica of St. Peter, and

afterwards, three weeks later, strangled, because he did not die soon

enough from his wounds, which nevertheless were mortal;

Giofre, Count of Squillace, of whom little is known;

And, finally, a youngest son, of whom nothing at all is known.

The most famous of these three brothers was Caesar Borgia. He had made

every arrangement a plotter could make to be King of Italy at the death

of his father the pope, and his measures were so carefully taken as to

leave no doubt in his own mind as to the success of this vast project.

Every chance was provided against, except one; but Satan himself could

hardly have foreseen this particular one. The reader will judge for

himself.

The pope had invited Cardinal Adrien to supper in his vineyard on the

Belvidere; Cardinal Adrien was very rich, and the pope wished to inherit

his wealth, as he already had acquired that of the Cardinals of Sant’

Angelo, Capua, and Modena. To effect this, Caesar Borgia sent two

bottles of poisoned wine to his father’s cup-bearer, without taking him

into his confidence; he only instructed him not to serve this wine till

he himself gave orders to do so; unfortunately, during supper the

cup-bearer left his post for a moment, and in this interval a careless

butler served the poisoned wine to the pope, to Caesar Borgia, and to

Cardinal Corneto.

Alexander VI died some hours afterwards; Caesar Borgia was confined to

bed, and sloughed off his skin; while Cardinal Corneto lost his sight

and his senses, and was brought to death’s door.

Pius III succeeded Alexander VI, and reigned twenty-five days; on the

twenty-sixth he was poisoned also.

Caesar Borgia had under his control eighteen Spanish cardinals who owed

to him their places in the Sacred College; these cardinals were entirely

his creatures, and he could command them absolutely. As he was in a

moribund condition and could make no use of them for himself, he sold

them to Giuliano della Rovere, and Giuliano della Rovere was elected

pope, under the name of Julius II. To the Rome of Nero succeeded the

Athens of Pericles.

Leo X succeeded Julius II, and under his pontificate Christianity

assumed a pagan character, which, passing from art into manners, gives

to this epoch a strange complexion. Crimes for the moment disappeared,

to give place to vices; but to charming vices, vices in good taste, such

as those indulged in by Alcibiades and sung by Catullus. Leo X died

after having assembled under his reign, which lasted eight years, eight

months, and nineteen days, Michael Angelo, Raffaelle, Leonardo da Vinci,

Correggio, Titian, Andrea del Sarto, Fra Bartolommeo, Giulio Romano,

Ariosto, Guicciardini, and Macchiavelli.

Giulio di Medici and Pompeo Colonna had equal claims to succeed him. As

both were skilful politicians, experienced courtiers, and moreover of

real and almost equal merit, neither of them could obtain a majority,

and the Conclave was prolonged almost indefinitely, to the great fatigue

of the cardinals. So it happened one day that a cardinal, more tired

than the rest, proposed to elect, instead of either Medici or Colonna,

the son, some say of a weaver, others of a brewer of Utrecht, of whom no

one had ever thought till then, and who was for the moment acting head

of affairs in Spain, in the absence of Charles the Fifth. The jest

prospered in the ears of those who heard it; all the cardinals approved

their colleague’s proposal, and Adrien became pope by a mere accident.

He was a perfect specimen of the Flemish type a regular Dutchman, and

could not speak a word of Italian. When he arrived in Rome, and saw the

Greek masterpieces of sculpture collected at vast cost by Leo X, he

wished to break them to pieces, exclaiming, "Suet idola anticorum." His

first act was to despatch a papal nuncio, Francesco Cherigato, to the

Diet of Nuremberg, convened to discuss the reforms of Luther, with

instructions which give a vivid notion of the manners of the time.

"Candidly confess," said he, "that God has permitted this schism and

this persecution on account of the sins of man, and especially those of

priests and prelates of the Church; for we know that many abominable

things have taken place in the Holy See."

Adrien wished to bring the Romans back to the simple and austere manners

of the early Church, and with this object pushed reform to the minutest

details. For instance, of the hundred grooms maintained by Leo X, he

retained only a dozen, in order, he said, to have two more than the

cardinals.

A pope like this could not reign long: he died after a year’s

pontificate. The morning after his death his physician’s door was found

decorated with garlands of flowers, bearing this inscription: "To the

liberator of his country."

Giulio di Medici and Pompeo Colonna were again rival candidates.

Intrigues recommenced, and the Conclave was once more so divided that at

one time the cardinals thought they could only escape the difficulty in

which they were placed by doing what they had done before, and electing

a third competitor; they were even talking about Cardinal Orsini, when

Giulio di Medici, one of the rival candidates, hit upon a very ingenious

expedient. He wanted only five votes; five of his partisans each offered

to bet five of Colonna’s a hundred thousand ducats to ten thousand

against the election of Giulio di Medici. At the very first ballot after

the wager, Giulio di Medici got the five votes he wanted; no objection

could be made, the cardinals had not been bribed; they had made a bet,

that was all.

Thus it happened, on the 18th of November, 1523, Giulio di Medici was

proclaimed pope under the name of Clement VII. The same day, he

generously paid the five hundred thousand ducats which his five

partisans had lost.

It was under this pontificate, and during the seven months in which

Rome, conquered by the Lutheran soldiers of the Constable of Bourbon,

saw holy things subjected to the most frightful profanations, that

Francesco Cenci was born.

He was the son of Monsignor Nicolo Cenci, afterwards apostolic treasurer

during the pontificate of Pius V. Under this venerable prelate, who

occupied himself much more with the spiritual than the temporal

administration of his kingdom, Nicolo Cenci took advantage of his

spiritual head’s abstraction of worldly matters to amass a net revenue

of a hundred and sixty thousand piastres, about f32,000 of our money.

Francesco Cenci, who was his only son, inherited this fortune.

His youth was spent under popes so occupied with the schism of Luther

that they had no time to think of anything else. The result was, that

Francesco Cenci, inheriting vicious instincts and master of an immense

fortune which enabled him to purchase immunity, abandoned himself to all

the evil passions of his fiery and passionate temperament. Five times

during his profligate career imprisoned for abominable crimes, he only

succeeded in procuring his liberation by the payment of two hundred

thousand piastres, or about one million francs. It should be explained

that popes at this time were in great need of money.

The lawless profligacy of Francesco Cenci first began seriously to

attract public attention under the pontificate of Gregory XIII. This

reign offered marvellous facilities for the development of a reputation

such as that which this reckless Italian Don Juan seemed bent on

acquiring. Under the Bolognese Buoncampagno, a free hand was given to

those able to pay both assassins and judges. Rape and murder were so

common that public justice scarcely troubled itself with these trifling

things, if nobody appeared to prosecute the guilty parties. The good

Gregory had his reward for his easygoing indulgence; he was spared to

rejoice over the Massacre of St. Bartholomew.

Francesco Cenci was at the time of which we are speaking a man of

forty-four or forty-five years of age, about five feet four inches in

height, symmetrically proportioned, and very strong, although rather

thin; his hair was streaked with grey, his eyes were large and

expressive, although the upper eyelids drooped somewhat; his nose was

long, his lips were thin, and wore habitually a pleasant smile, except

when his eye perceived an enemy; at this moment his features assumed a

terrible expression; on such occasions, and whenever moved or even

slightly irritated, he was seized with a fit of nervous trembling, which

lasted long after the cause which provoked it had passed. An adept in

all manly exercises and especially in horsemanship, he sometimes used to

ride without stopping from Rome to Naples, a distance of forty-one

leagues, passing through the forest of San Germano and the Pontine

marshes heedless of brigands, although he might be alone and unarmed

save for his sword and dagger. When his horse fell from fatigue, he

bought another; were the owner unwilling to sell he took it by force; if

resistance were made, he struck, and always with the point, never the

hilt. In most cases, being well known throughout the Papal States as a

free-handed person, nobody tried to thwart him; some yielding through

fear, others from motives of interest. Impious, sacrilegious, and

atheistical, he never entered a church except to profane its sanctity.

It was said of him that he had a morbid appetite for novelties in crime,

and that there was no outrage he would not commit if he hoped by so

doing to enjoy a new sensation.

At the age of about forty-five he had married a very rich woman, whose

name is not mentioned by any chronicler. She died, leaving him seven

children—five boys and two girls. He then married Lucrezia Petroni, a

perfect beauty of the Roman type, except for the ivory pallor of her

complexion. By this second marriage he had no children.

As if Francesco Cenci were void of all natural affection, he hated his

children, and was at no pains to conceal his feelings towards them: on

one occasion, when he was building, in the courtyard of his magnificent

palace, near the Tiber, a chapel dedicated to St. Thomas, he remarked to

the architect, when instructing him to design a family vault, "That is

where I hope to bury them all." The architect often subsequently

admitted that he was so terrified by the fiendish laugh which

accompanied these words, that had not Francesco Cenci’s work been

extremely profitable, he would have refused to go on with it.

As soon as his three eldest boys, Giacomo, Cristoforo, and Rocco, were

out of their tutors’ hands, in order to get rid of them he sent them to

the University of Salamanca, where, out of sight, they were out of mind,

for he thought no more about them, and did not even send them the means

of subsistence. In these straits, after struggling for some months

against their wretched plight, the lads were obliged to leave Salamanca,

and beg their way home, tramping barefoot through France and Italy, till

they made their way back to Rome, where they found their father harsher

and more unkind than ever.

This happened in the early part of the reign of Clement VIII, famed for

his justice. The three youths resolved to apply to him, to grant them an

allowance out of their father’s immense income. They consequently

repaired to Frascati, where the pope was building the beautiful

Aldobrandini Villa, and stated their case. The pope admitted the justice

of their claims, and ordered Francesco, to allow each of them two

thousand crowns a year. He endeavoured by every possible means to evade

this decree, but the pope’s orders were too stringent to be disobeyed.

About this period he was for the third time imprisoned for infamous

crimes. His three sons then again petitioned the pope, alleging that

their father dishonoured the family name, and praying that the extreme

rigour of the law, a capital sentence, should be enforced in his case.

The pope pronounced this conduct unnatural and odious, and drove them

with ignominy from his presence. As for Francesco, he escaped, as on the

two previous occasions, by the payment of a large sum of money.

It will be readily understood that his sons’ conduct on this occasion

did not improve their father’s disposition towards them, but as their

independent pensions enabled them to keep out of his way, his rage fell

with all the greater intensity on his two unhappy daughters. Their

situation soon became so intolerable, that the elder, contriving to

elude the close supervision under which she was kept, forwarded to the

pope a petition, relating the cruel treatment to which she was

subjected, and praying His Holiness either to give her in marriage or

place her in a convent. Clement VIII took pity on her; compelled

Francesco Cenci to give her a dowry of sixty thousand crowns, and

married her to Carlo Gabrielli, of a noble family of Gubbio. Francesco

driven nearly frantic with rage when he saw this victim released from

his clutches.

About the same time death relieved him from two other encumbrances: his

sons Rocco and Cristoforo were killed within a year of each other; the

latter by a bungling medical practitioner whose name is unknown; the

former by Paolo Corso di Massa, in the streets of Rome. This came as a

relief to Francesco, whose avarice pursued his sons even after their

death, for he intimated to the priest that he would not spend a farthing

on funeral services. They were accordingly borne to the paupers’ graves

which he had caused to be prepared for them, and when he saw them both

interred, he cried out that he was well rid of such good-for-nothing

children, but that he should be perfectly happy only when the remaining

five were buried with the first two, and that when he had got rid of the

last he himself would burn down his palace as a bonfire to celebrate the

event.

But Francesco took every precaution against his second daughter,

Beatrice Cenci, following the example of her elder sister. She was then

a child of twelve or thirteen years of age, beautiful and innocent as an

angel. Her long fair hair, a beauty seen so rarely in Italy, that

Raffaelle, believing it divine, has appropriated it to all his Madonnas,

curtained a lovely forehead, and fell in flowing locks over her

shoulders. Her azure eyes bore a heavenly expression; she was of middle

height, exquisitely proportioned; and during the rare moments when a

gleam of happiness allowed her natural character to display itself, she

was lively, joyous, and sympathetic, but at the same time evinced a firm

and decided disposition.

To make sure of her custody, Francesco kept her shut up in a remote

apartment of his palace, the key of which he kept in his own possession.

There, her unnatural and inflexible gaoler daily brought her some food.

Up to the age of thirteen, which she had now reached, he had behaved to

her with the most extreme harshness and severity; but now, to poor

Beatrice’s great astonishment, he all at once became gentle and even

tender. Beatrice was a child no longer; her beauty expanded like a

flower; and Francesco, a stranger to no crime, however heinous, had

marked her for his own.

Brought up as she had been, uneducated, deprived of all society, even

that of her stepmother, Beatrice knew not good from evil: her ruin was

comparatively easy to compass; yet Francesco, to accomplish his

diabolical purpose, employed all the means at his command. Every night

she was awakened by a concert of music which seemed to come from

Paradise. When she mentioned this to her father, he left her in this

belief, adding that if she proved gentle and obedient she would be

rewarded by heavenly sights, as well as heavenly sounds.

One night it came to pass that as the young girl was reposing, her head

supported on her elbow, and listening to a delightful harmony, the

chamber door suddenly opened, and from the darkness of her own room she

beheld a suite of apartments brilliantly illuminated, and sensuous with

perfumes; beautiful youths and girls, half clad, such as she had seen in

the pictures of Guido and Raffaelle, moved to and fro in these

apartments, seeming full of joy and happiness: these were the ministers

to the pleasures of Francesco, who, rich as a king, every night revelled

in the orgies of Alexander, the wedding revels of Lucrezia, and the

excesses of Tiberius at Capri. After an hour, the door closed, and the

seductive vision vanished, leaving Beatrice full of trouble and

amazement.

The night following, the same apparition again presented itself, only,

on this occasion, Francesco Cenci, undressed, entered his daughter’s

room and invited her to join the fete. Hardly knowing what she did,

Beatrice yet perceived the impropriety of yielding to her father’s

wishes: she replied that, not seeing her stepmother, Lucrezia Petroni,

among all these women, she dared not leave her bed to mix with persons

who were unknown to her. Francesco threatened and prayed, but threats

and prayers were of no avail. Beatrice wrapped herself up in the

bedclothes, and obstinately refused to obey.

The next night she threw herself on her bed without undressing. At the

accustomed hour the door opened, and the nocturnal spectacle reappeared.

This time, Lucrezia Petroni was among the women who passed before

Beatrice’s door; violence had compelled her to undergo this humiliation.

Beatrice was too far off to see her blushes and her tears. Francesco

pointed out her stepmother, whom she had looked for in vain the previous

evening; and as she could no longer make any opposition, he led her,

covered with blushes and confusion, into the middle of this orgy.

Beatrice there saw incredible and infamous things....

Nevertheless, she resisted a long time: an inward voice told her that

this was horrible; but Francesco had the slow persistence of a demon. To

these sights, calculated to stimulate her passions, he added heresies

designed to warp her mind; he told her that the greatest saints

venerated by the Church were the issue of fathers and daughters, and in

the end Beatrice committed a crime without even knowing it to be a sin.

His brutality then knew no bounds. He forced Lucrezia and Beatrice to

share the same bed, threatening his wife to kill her if she disclosed to

his daughter by a single word that there was anything odious in such an

intercourse. So matters went on for about three years.

At this time Francesco was obliged to make a journey, and leave the

women alone and free. The first thing Lucrezia did was to enlighten

Beatrice on the infamy of the life they were leading; they then together

prepared a memorial to the pope, in which they laid before him a

statement of all the blows and outrages they had suffered. But, before

leaving, Francesco Cenci had taken precautions; every person about the

pope was in his pay, or hoped to be. The petition never reached His

Holiness, and the two poor women, remembering that Clement VIII had on a

farmer occasion driven Giacomo, Cristaforo, and Rocco from his presence,

thought they were included in the same proscription, and looked upon

themselves as abandoned to their fate.

When matters were in this state, Giacomo, taking advantage of his

father’s absence, came to pay them a visit with a friend of his, an abbe

named Guerra: he was a young man of twenty-five or twenty-six, belonging

to one of the most noble families in Rome, of a bold, resolute, and

courageous character, and idolised by all the Roman ladies for his

beauty. To classical features he added blue eyes swimming in poetic

sentiment; his hair was long and fair, with chestnut beard and eyebrows;

add to these attractions a highly educated mind, natural eloquence

expressed by a musical and penetrating voice, and the reader may form

some idea of Monsignor the Abbe Guerra.

No sooner had he seen Beatrice than he fell in love with her. On her

side, she was not slow to return the sympathy of the young priest. The

Council of Trent had not been held at that time, consequently

ecclesiastics were not precluded from marriage. It was therefore decided

that on the return of Francesco the Abbe Guerra should demand the hand

of Beatrice from her father, and the women, happy in the absence of

their master, continued to live on, hoping for better things to come.

After three or four months, during which no one knew where he was,

Francesco returned. The very first night, he wished to resume his

intercourse with Beatrice; but she was no longer the same person, the

timid and submissive child had become a girl of decided will; strong in

her love for the abbe, she resisted alike prayers, threats, and blows.

The wrath of Francesco fell upon his wife, whom he accused of betraying

him; he gave her a violent thrashing. Lucrezia Petroni was a veritable

Roman she-wolf, passionate alike in love and vengeance; she endured all,

but pardoned nothing.

Some days after this, the Abbe Guerra arrived at the Cenci palace to

carry out what had been arranged. Rich, young, noble, and handsome,

everything would seem to promise him success; yet he was rudely

dismissed by Francesco. The first refusal did not daunt him; he returned

to the charge a second time and yet a third, insisting upon the

suitableness of such a union. At length Francesco, losing patience, told

this obstinate lover that a reason existed why Beatrice could be neither

his wife nor any other man’s. Guerra demanded what this reason was.

Francesco replied:

"Because she is my mistress."

Monsignor Guerra turned pale at this answer, although at first he did

not believe a word of it; but when he saw the smile with which Francesco

Cenci accompanied his words, he was compelled to believe that, terrible

though it was, the truth had been spoken.

For three days he sought an interview with Beatrice in vain; at length

he succeeded in finding her. His last hope was her denial of this

horrible story: Beatrice confessed all. Henceforth there was no human

hope for the two lovers; an impassable gulf separated them. They parted

bathed in tears, promising to love one another always.

Up to that time the two women had not formed any criminal resolution,

and possibly the tragical incident might never have happened, had not

Frances one night returned into his daughter’s room and violently forced

her into the commission of fresh crime.

Henceforth the doom of Francesco was irrevocably pronounced.

As we have said, the mind of Beatrice was susceptible to the best and

the worst influences: it could attain excellence, and descend to guilt.

She went and told her mother of the fresh outrage she had undergone;

this roused in the heart of the other woman the sting of her own wrongs;

and, stimulating each other’s desire for revenge, they, decided upon the

murder of Francesco.

Guerra was called in to this council of death. His heart was a prey to

hatred and revenge. He undertook to communicate with Giacomo Cenci,

without whose concurrence the women would not act, as he was the head of

the family, when his father was left out of account.

Giacomo entered readily into the conspiracy. It will be remembered what

he had formerly suffered from his father; since that time he had

married, and the close-fisted old man had left him, with his wife and

children, to languish in poverty. Guerra’s house was selected to meet in

and concert matters.

Giacomo hired a sbirro named Marzio, and Guerra a second named Olympio.

Both these men had private reasons for committing the crime—one being

actuated by love, the other by hatred. Marzio, who was in the service of

Giacomo, had often seen Beatrice, and loved her, but with that silent

and hopeless love which devours the soul. When he conceived that the

proposed crime would draw him nearer to Beatrice, he accepted his part

in it without any demur.

As for Olympio, he hated Francesco, because the latter had caused him to

lose the post of castellan of Rocco Petrella, a fortified stronghold in

the kingdom of Naples, belonging to Prince Colonna. Almost every year

Francesco Cenci spent some months at Rocco Petrella with his family; for

Prince Colonna, a noble and magnificent but needy prince, had much

esteem for Francesco, whose purse he found extremely useful. It had so

happened that Francesco, being dissatisfied with Olympio, complained

about him to Prince Colonna, and he was dismissed.

After several consultations between the Cenci family, the abbe and the

sbirri, the following plan of action was decided upon.

The period when Francesco Cenci was accustomed to go to Rocco Petrella

was approaching: it was arranged that Olympio, conversant with the

district and its inhabitants, should collect a party of a dozen

Neapolitan bandits, and conceal them in a forest through which the

travellers would have to pass. Upon a given signal, the whole family

were to be seized and carried off. A heavy ransom was to be demanded,

and the sons were to be sent back to Rome to raise the sum; but, under

pretext of inability to do so, they were to allow the time fixed by the

bandits to lapse, when Francesco was to be put to death. Thus all

suspicions of a plot would be avoided, and the real assassins would

escape justice.

This well-devised scheme was nevertheless unsuccessful. When Francesco

left Rome, the scout sent in advance by the conspirators could not find

the bandits; the latter, not being warned beforehand, failed to come

down before the passage of the travellers, who arrived safe and sound at

Rocco Petrella. The bandits, after having patrolled the road in vain,

came to the conclusion that their prey had escaped, and, unwilling to

stay any longer in a place where they had already spent a week, went off

in quest of better luck elsewhere.

Francesco had in the meantime settled down in the fortress, and, to be

more free to tyrannise over Lucrezia and Beatrice, sent back to Rome

Giacomo and his two other sons. He then recommenced his infamous

attempts upon Beatrice, and with such persistence, that she resolved

herself to accomplish the deed which at first she desired to entrust to

other hands.

Olympio and Marzio, who had nothing to fear from justice, remained

lurking about the castle; one day Beatrice saw them from a window, and

made signs that she had something to communicate to them. The same night

Olympio, who having been castellan knew all the approaches to the

fortress, made his way there with his companion. Beatrice awaited them

at a window which looked on to a secluded courtyard; she gave them

letters which she had written to her brother and to Monsignor Guerra.

The former was to approve, as he had done before, the murder of their

father; for she would do nothing without his sanction. As for Monsignor

Guerra, he was to pay Olympio a thousand piastres, half the stipulated

sum; Marzio acting out of pure love for Beatrice, whom he worshipped as

a Madonna; which observing, the girl gave him a handsome scarlet mantle,

trimmed with gold lace, telling him to wear it for love of her. As for

the remaining money, it was to be paid when the death of the old man

had placed his wife and daughter in possession of his fortune.

The two sbirri departed, and the imprisoned conspirators anxiously

awaited their return. On the day fixed, they were seen again. Monsignor

Guerra had paid the thousand piastres, and Giacomo had given his

consent. Nothing now stood in the way of the execution of this terrible

deed, which was fixed for the 8th of September, the day of the Nativity

of the Virgin; but Signora Lucrezia, a very devout person, having

noticed this circumstance, would not be a party to the committal of a

double sin; the matter was therefore deferred till the next day, the

9th.

That evening, the 9th of September, 1598, the two women, supping with

the old man, mixed some narcotic with his wine so adroitly that,

suspicious though he was, he never detected it, and having swallowed the

potion, soon fell into a deep sleep.

The evening previous, Marzio and Olympio had been admitted into the

castle, where they had lain concealed all night and all day; for, as

will be remembered, the assassination would have been effected the day

before had it not been for the religious scruples of Signora Lucrezia

Petroni. Towards midnight, Beatrice fetched them out of their

hiding-place, and took them to her father’s chamber, the door of which

she herself opened. The assassins entered, and the two women awaited the

issue in the room adjoining.

After a moment, seeing the sbirri reappear pale and nerveless, shaking

their heads without speaking, they at once inferred that nothing had

been done.

"What is the matter?" cried Beatrice; "and what hinders you?"

"It is a cowardly act," replied the assassins, "to kill a poor old man

in his sleep. At the thought of his age, we were struck with pity."

Then Beatrice disdainfully raised her head, and in a deep firm voice

thus reproached them.

"Is it possible that you, who pretend to be brave and strong, have not

courage enough to kill a sleeping old man? How would it be if he were

awake? And thus you steal our money! Very well: since your cowardice

compels me to do so, I will kill my father myself; but you will not long

survive him."

Hearing these words, the sbirri felt ashamed of their irresolution, and,

indicating by signs that they would fulfil their compact, they entered

the room, accompanied by the two women. As they had said, a ray of

moonlight shone through the open window, and brought into prominence the

tranquil face of the old man, the sight of whose white hair had so

affected them.

This time they showed no mercy. One of them carried two great nails,

such as those portrayed in pictures of the Crucifixion; the other bore a

mallet: the first placed a nail upright over one of the old man’s eyes;

the other struck it with the hammer, and drove it into his head. The

throat was pierced in the same way with the second nail; and thus the

guilty soul, stained throughout its career with crimes of violence, was

in its turn violently torn from the body, which lay writhing on the

floor where it had rolled.

The young girl then, faithful to her word, handed the sbirri a large

purse containing the rest of the sum agreed upon, and they left. When

they found themselves alone, the women drew the nails out of the wounds,

wrapped the corpse in a sheet, and dragged it through the rooms towards

a small rampart, intending to throw it down into a garden which had been

allowed to run to waste. They hoped that the old man’s death would be

attributed to his having accidentally fallen off the terrace on his way

in the dark to a closet at the end of the gallery. But their strength

failed them when they reached the door of the last room, and, while

resting there, Lucrezia perceived the two sbirri, sharing the money

before making their escape. At her call they came to her, carried the

corpse to the rampart, and, from a spot pointed out by the women, where

the terrace was unfenced by any parapet, they threw it into an elder

tree below, whose branches retained’ it suspended.

When the body was found the following morning hanging in the branches of

the elder tree, everybody supposed, as Beatrice and her stepmother had

foreseen, that Francesco, stepping over the edge of the terrace in

the dark, had thus met his end. The body was so scratched and disfigured

that no one noticed the wounds made by the two nails. The ladies, as

soon as the news was imparted to them, came out from their rooms,

weeping and lamenting in so natural a manner as to disarm any

suspicions. The only person who formed any was the laundress to whom

Beatrice entrusted the sheet in which her father’s body had been

wrapped, accounting for its bloody condition by a lame explanation,

which the laundress accepted without question, or pretended to do so;

and immediately after the funeral, the mourners returned to Rome, hoping

at length to enjoy quietude and peace. For some time, indeed, they did

enjoy tranquillity, perhaps poisoned by remorse, but ere long

retribution pursued them. The court of Naples, hearing of the sudden and

unexpected death of Francesco Cenci, and conceiving some suspicions of

violence, despatched a royal commissioner to Petrella to exhume the body

and make minute inquiries, if there appeared to be adequate grounds for

doing so. On his arrival all the domestics in the castle were placed

under arrest and sent in chains to Naples. No incriminating proofs,

however, were found, except in the evidence of the laundress, who

deposed that Beatrice had given her a bloodstained sheet to wash. This,

clue led to terrible consequences; for, further questioned she declared

that she could not believe the explanation given to account for its

condition. The evidence was sent to the Roman court; but at that period

it did not appear strong enough to warrant the arrest of the Cenci

family, who remained undisturbed for many months, during which time the

youngest boy died. Of the five brothers there only remained Giacomo, the

eldest, and Bernardo, the youngest but one. Nothing prevented them from

escaping to Venice or Florence; but they remained quietly in Rome.

Meantime Monsignor Guerra received private information that, shortly

before the death of Francesco, Marzio and Olympio had been seen prowling

round the castle, and that the Neapolitan police had received orders to

arrest them.

The monsignor was a most wary man, and very difficult to catch napping

when warned in time. He immediately hired two other sbirri to

assassinate Marzio and Olympio. The one commissioned to put Olympio out

of the way came across him at Terni, and conscientiously did his work

with a poniard, but Marzio’s man unfortunately arrived at Naples too

late, and found his bird already in the hands of the police.

He was put to the torture, and confessed everything. His deposition was

sent to Rome, whither he shortly afterwards followed it, to be

confronted with the accused. Warrants were immediately issued for the

arrest of Giacomo, Bernardo, Lucrezia, and Beatrice; they were at first

confined in the Cenci palace under a strong guard, but the proofs

against them becoming stronger and stronger, they were removed to the

castle of Corte Savella, where they were confronted with Marzio; but

they obstinately denied both any complicity in the crime and any

knowledge of the assassin. Beatrice, above all, displayed the greatest

assurance, demanding to be the first to be confronted with Marzio; whose

mendacity she affirmed with such calm dignity, that he, more than ever

smitten by her beauty, determined, since he could not live for her, to

save her by his death. Consequently, he declared all his statements to

be false, and asked forgiveness from God and from Beatrice; neither

threats nor tortures could make him recant, and he died firm in his

denial, under frightful tortures. The Cenci then thought themselves

safe.

God’s justice, however, still pursued them. The sbirro who had killed

Olympio happened to be arrested for another crime, and, making a clean

breast, confessed that he had been employed by Monsignor Guerra—to put

out of the way a fellow-assassin named Olympio, who knew too many of the

monsignor’s secrets.

Luckily for himself, Monsignor Guerra heard of this opportunely. A man

of infinite resource, he lost not a moment in timid or irresolute plans,

but as it happened that at the very moment when he was warned, the

charcoal dealer who supplied his house with fuel was at hand, he sent

for him, purchased his silence with a handsome bribe, and then, buying

for almost their weight in gold the dirty old clothes which he wore, he

assumed these, cut off all his beautiful cherished fair hair, stained

his beard, smudged his face, bought two asses, laden with charcoal, and

limped up and down the streets of Rome, crying, "Charcoal! charcoal!"

Then, whilst all the detectives were hunting high and low for him, he

got out of the city, met a company of merchants under escort, joined

them, and reached Naples, where he embarked. What ultimately became of

him was never known; it has been asserted, but without confirmation,

that he succeeded—in reaching France, and enlisted in a Swiss regiment

in the pay of Henry IV.

The confession of the sbirro and the disappearance of Monsignor Guerra

left no moral doubt of the guilt of the Cenci. They were consequently

sent from the castle to the prison; the two brothers, when put to the

torture, broke down and confessed their guilt. Lucrezia Petroni’s full

habit of body rendered her unable to bear the torture of the rope, and,

on being suspended in the air, begged to be lowered, when she confessed

all she knew.

As for Beatrice, she continued unmoved; neither promises, threats, nor

torture had any effect upon her; she bore everything unflinchingly, and

the judge Ulysses Moscati himself, famous though he was in such matters,

failed to draw from her a single incriminating word. Unwilling to take

any further responsibility, he referred the case to Clement VIII; and

the pope, conjecturing that the judge had been too lenient in applying

the torture to, a young and beautiful Roman lady, took it out of his

hands and entrusted it to another judge, whose severity and

insensibility to emotion were undisputed.

This latter reopened the whole interrogatory, and as Beatrice up to that

time had only been subjected to the ordinary torture, he gave

instructions to apply both the ordinary and extraordinary. This was the

rope and pulley, one of the most terrible inventions ever devised by the

most ingenious of tormentors.

To make the nature of this horrid torture plain to our readers, we give

a detailed description of it, adding an extract of the presiding judge’s

report of the case, taken from the Vatican manuscripts.

Of the various forms of torture then used in Rome the most common were

the whistle, the fire, the sleepless, and the rope.

The mildest, the torture of the whistle, was used only in the case of

children and old persons; it consisted in thrusting between the nails

and the flesh reeds cut in the shape of whistles.

The fire, frequently employed before the invention of the sleepless

torture, was simply roasting the soles of the feet before a hot fire.

The sleepless torture, invented by Marsilius, was worked by forcing the

accused into an angular frame of wood about five feet high, the sufferer

being stripped and his arms tied behind his back to the frame; two men,

relieved every five hours, sat beside him, and roused him the moment he

closed his eyes. Marsilius says he has never found a man proof against

this torture; but here he claims more than he is justly entitled to.

Farinacci states that, out of one hundred accused persons subjected to

it, five only refused to confess—a very satisfactory result for the

inventor.

Lastly comes the torture of the rope and pulley, the most in vogue of

all, and known in other Latin countries as the strappado.

It was divided into three degrees of intensity—the slight, the severe,

and the very severe.

The first, or slight torture, which consisted mainly in the

apprehensions it caused, comprised the threat of severe torture,

introduction into the torture chamber, stripping, and the tying of the

rope in readiness for its appliance. To increase the terror these

preliminaries excited, a pang of physical pain was added by tightening a

cord round the wrists. This often sufficed to extract a confession from

women or men of highly strung nerves.

The second degree, or severe torture, consisted in fastening the

sufferer, stripped naked, and his hands tied behind his back, by the

wrists to one end of a rope passed round a pulley bolted into the

vaulted ceiling, the other end being attached to a windlass, by turning

which he could be hoisted, into the air, and dropped again, either

slowly or with a jerk, as ordered by the judge. The suspension generally

lasted during the recital of a Pater Noster, an Ave Maria, or a

Miserere; if the accused persisted in his denial, it was doubled. This

second degree, the last of the ordinary torture, was put in practice

when the crime appeared reasonably probable but was not absolutely

proved.

The third, or very severe, the first of the extraordinary forms of

torture, was so called when the sufferer, having hung suspended by the

wrists, for sometimes a whole hour, was swung about by the executioner,

either like the pendulum of a clock, or by elevating him with the

windlass and dropping him to within a foot or two of the ground. If he

stood this torture, a thing almost unheard of, seeing that it cut the

flesh of the wrist to the bone and dislocated the limbs, weights were

attached to the feet, thus doubling the torture. This last form of

torture was only applied when an atrocious crime had been proved to have

been committed upon a sacred person, such as a priest, a cardinal, a

prince, or an eminent and learned man.

Having seen that Beatrice was sentenced to the torture ordinary and

extraordinary, and having explained the nature of these tortures, we

proceed to quote the official report:—

"And as in reply to every question she would confess nothing, we caused

her to be taken by two officers and led from the prison to the torture

chamber, where the torturer was in attendance; there, after cutting off

her hair, he made her sit on a small stool, undressed her, pulled off

her shoes, tied her hands behind her back, fastened them to a rope

passed over a pulley bolted into the ceiling of the aforesaid chamber,

and wound up at the other end by a four lever windlass, worked by two

men."

"Before hoisting her from the ground we again interrogated her touching

the aforesaid parricide; but notwithstanding the confessions of her

brother and her stepmother, which were again produced, bearing their

signatures, she persisted in denying everything, saying, ’Haul me about

and do what you like with me; I have spoken the truth, and will tell you

nothing else, even if I were torn to pieces.’

"Upon this we had her hoisted in the air by the wrists to the height of

about two feet from the ground, while we recited a Pater Noster; and

then again questioned her as to the facts and circumstances of the

aforesaid parricide; but she would make no further answer, only saying,

’You are killing me! You are killing me!’

"We then raised her to the elevation of four feet, and began an Ave

Maria. But before our prayer was half finished she fainted away; or

pretended to do so.

"We caused a bucketful of water to be thrown over her head; feeling its

coolness, she recovered consciousness, and cried, ’My God! I am dead!

You are killing me! My God!’ But this was all she would say.

"We then raised her higher still, and recited a Miserere, during which,

instead of joining in the prayer, she shook convulsively and cried

several times, ’My God! My God!’

"Again questioned as to the aforesaid parricide, she would confess

nothing, saying only that she was innocent, and then again fainted away.

"We caused more water to be thrown over her; then she recovered her

senses, opened her eyes, and cried, ’O cursed executioners! You are

killing me! You are killing me!’ But nothing more would she say.

"Seeing which, and that she persisted in her denial, we ordered the

torturer to proceed to the torture by jerks.

"He accordingly hoisted her ten feet from the ground, and when there we

enjoined her to tell the truth; but whether she would not or could not

speak, she answered only by a motion of the head indicating that she

could say nothing.

"Seeing which, we made a sign to the executioner, to let go the rope,

and she fell with all her weight from the height of ten feet to that of

two feet; her arms, from the shock, were dislocated from their sockets;

she uttered a loud cry, and swooned away.

"We again caused water to be dashed in her face; she returned to

herself, and again cried out, ’Infamous assassins! You are killing me;

but were you to tear out my arms, I would tell you nothing else.’

"Upon this, we ordered a weight of fifty pounds to be fastened to her

feet. But at this moment the door opened, and many voices cried,

’Enough! Enough! Do not torture her any more!’"

These voices were those of Giacomo, Bernardo, and Lucrezia Petroni. The

judges, perceiving the obstinacy of Beatrice, had ordered that the

accused, who had been separated for five months, should be confronted.

They advanced into the torture chamber, and seeing Beatrice hanging by

the wrists, her arms disjointed, and covered with blood, Giacomo cried

out:—

"The sin is committed; nothing further remains but to save our souls by

repentance, undergo death courageously, and not suffer you to be thus

tortured."

Then said Beatrice, shaking her head as if to cast off grief—

"Do you then wish to die? Since you wish it, be it so."

Then turning to the officers:—

"Untie me," said she, "read the examination to me; and what I have to

confess, I will confess; what I have to deny, I will deny."

Beatrice was then lowered and untied; a barber reduced the dislocation

of her arms in the usual manner; the examination was read over to her,

and, as she had promised, she made a full confession.

After this confession, at the request of the two brothers, they were all

confined in the same prison; but the next day Giacomo and Bernardo were

taken to the cells of Tordinona; as for the women, they remained where

they were.

The pope was so horrified on reading the particulars of the crime

contained in the confessions, that he ordered the culprits to be dragged

by wild horses through the streets of Rome. But so barbarous a sentence

shocked the public mind, so much so that many persons of princely rank

petitioned the Holy Father on their knees, imploring him to reconsider

his decree, or at least allow the accused to be heard in their defence.

"Tell me," replied Clement VIII, "did they give their unhappy father

time to be heard in his own defence, when they slew him in so merciless

and degrading a fashion?"

At length, overcome by so many entreaties, he respited them for three

days.

The most eloquent and skilful advocates in Rome immediately busied

themselves in preparing pleadings for so emotional a case, and on the

day fixed for hearing appeared before His Holiness.

The first pleader was Nicolo degli Angeli, who spoke with such force and

eloquence that the pope, alarmed at the effect he was producing among

the audience, passionately interrupted him.

"Are there then to be found," he indignantly cried, "among the Roman

nobility children capable of killing their parents, and among Roman

lawyers men capable of speaking in their defence? This is a thing we

should never have believed, nor even for a moment supposed it possible!"

All were silent upon this terrible rebuke, except Farinacci, who,

nerving himself with a strong sense of duty, replied respectfully but

firmly—

"Most Holy Father, we are not here to defend criminals, but to save the

innocent; for if we succeeded in proving that any of the accused acted

in self-defence, I hope that they will be exonerated in the eyes of your

Holiness; for just as the law provides for cases in which the father may

legally kill the child, so this holds good in the converse. We will

therefore continue our pleadings on receiving leave from your Holiness

to do so."

Clement VIII then showed himself as patient as he had previously been

hasty, and heard the argument of Farinacci, who pleaded that Francesco

Cenci had lost all the rights of a father from, the day that he violated

his daughter. In support of his contention he wished to put in the

memorial sent by Beatrice to His Holiness, petitioning him, as her

sister had done, to remove her from the paternal roof and place her in a

convent. Unfortunately, this petition had disappeared, and

notwithstanding the minutest search among the papal documents, no trace

of it could be found.

The pope had all the pleadings collected, and dismissed the advocates,

who then retired, excepting d’Altieri, who knelt before him, saying—

"Most Holy Father, I humbly ask pardon for appearing before you in this

case, but I had no choice in the matter, being the advocate of the

poor."

The pope kindly raised him, saying:

"Go; we are not surprised at your conduct, but at that of others, who

protect and defend criminals."

As the pope took a great interest in this case, he sat up all night over

it, studying it with Cardinal di San Marcello, a man of much acumen and

great experience in criminal cases. Then, having summed it up, he sent a

draft of his opinion to the advocates, who read it with great

satisfaction, and entertained hopes that the lives of the convicted

persons would be spared; for the evidence all went to prove that even if

the children had taken their father’s life, all the provocation came

from him, and that Beatrice in particular had been dragged into the part

she had taken in this crime by the tyranny, wickedness, and brutality of

her father. Under the influence of these considerations the pope

mitigated the severity of their prison life, and even allowed the

prisoners to hope that their lives would not be forfeited.

Amidst the general feeling of relief afforded to the public by these

favours, another tragical event changed the papal mind and frustrated

all his humane intentions. This was the atrocious murder of the Marchese

di Santa Croce, a man seventy years of age, by his son Paolo, who

stabbed him with a dagger in fifteen or twenty places, because the

father would not promise to make Paolo his sole heir. The murderer fled

and escaped.

Clement VIII was horror-stricken at the increasing frequency of this

crime of parricide: for the moment, however, he was unable to take

action, having to go to Monte Cavallo to consecrate a cardinal titular

bishop in the church of Santa Maria degli Angeli; but the day following,

on Friday the 10th of September 1599, at eight o’clock in the morning,

he summoned Monsignor Taverna, governor of Rome, and said to him—

"Monsignor, we place in your hands the Cenci case, that you may carry

out the sentence as speedily as possible."

On his return to his palace, after leaving His Holiness, the governor

convened a meeting of all the criminal judges in the city, the result of

the council being that all the Cenci were condemned to death.

The final sentence was immediately known; and as this unhappy family

inspired a constantly increasing interest, many cardinals spent the

whole of the night either on horseback or in their carriages, making

interest that, at least so far as the women were concerned, they should

be put to death privately and in the prison, and that a free pardon

should be granted to Bernardo, a poor lad only fifteen years of age,

who, guiltless of any participation in the crime, yet found himself

involved in its consequences. The one who interested himself most in the

case was Cardinal Sforza, who nevertheless failed to elicit a single

gleam of hope, so obdurate was His Holiness. At length Farinacci,

working on the papal conscience, succeeded, after long and urgent

entreaties, and only at the last moment, that the life of Bernardo

should be spared.

From Friday evening the members of the brotherhood of the Conforteria

had gathered at the two prisons of Corte Savella and Tordinona. The

preparations for the closing scene of the tragedy had occupied workmen

on the bridge of Sant’ Angelo all night; and it was not till five

o’clock in the morning that the registrar entered the cell of Lucrezia

and Beatrice to read their sentences to them.

Both were sleeping, calm in the belief of a reprieve. The registrar woke

them, and told them that, judged by man, they must now prepare to appear

before God.

Beatrice was at first thunderstruck: she seemed paralysed and

speechless; then she rose from bed, and staggering as if intoxicated,

recovered her speech, uttering despairing cries. Lucrezia heard the

tidings with more firmness, and proceeded to dress herself to go to the

chapel, exhorting Beatrice to resignation; but she, raving, wrung her,

hands and struck her head against the wall, shrieking, "To die! to die!

Am I to die unprepared, on a scaffold! on a gibbet! My God! my God!"

This fit led to a terrible paroxysm, after which the exhaustion of her

body enabled her mind to recover its balance, and from that moment she

became an angel of humility and an example of resignation.

Her first request was for a notary to make her will. This was

immediately complied with, and on his arrival she dictated its

provisions with much calmness and precision. Its last clause desired her

interment in the church of San Pietro in Montorio, for which she always

had a strong attachment, as it commanded a view of her father’s palace.

She bequeathed five hundred crowns to the nuns of the order of the

Stigmata, and ordered that her dowry; amounting to fifteen thousand

crowns, should be distributed in marriage portions to fifty poor girls.

She selected the foot of the high altar as the place where she wished to

be buried, over which hung the beautiful picture of the Transfiguration,

so often admired by her during her life.

Following her example, Lucrezia in her turn, disposed of her property:

she desired to be buried in the church of San Giorgio di Velobre, and

left thirty-two thousand crowns to charities, with other pious legacies.

Having settled their earthly affairs, they joined in prayer, reciting

psalms, litanies, and prayers for the dying.

At eight o’clock they confessed, heard mass, and received the

sacraments; after which Beatrice, observing to her stepmother that the

rich dresses they wore were out of place on a scaffold, ordered two to

be made in nun’s fashion—that is to say, gathered at the neck, with long

wide sleeves. That for Lucrezia was made of black cotton stuff,

Beatrice’s of taffetas. In addition she had a small black turban made to

place on her head. These dresses, with cords for girdles, were brought

them; they were placed on a chair, while the women continued to pray.

The time appointed being near at hand, they were informed that their

last moment was approaching. Then Beatrice, who was still on her knees,

rose with a tranquil and almost joyful countenance. "Mother," said she,

"the moment of our suffering is impending; I think we had better dress

in these clothes, and help one another at our toilet for the last time."

They then put on the dresses provided, girt themselves with the cords;

Beatrice placed her turban on her head, and they awaited the last

summons.

In the meantime, Giacomo and Bernardo, whose sentences had been read to

them, awaited also the moment of their death. About ten o’clock the

members of the Confraternity of Mercy, a Florentine order, arrived at

the prison of Tordinona, and halted on the threshold with the crucifix,

awaiting the appearance of the unhappy youths. Here a serious accident

had nearly happened. As many persons were at the prison windows to see

the prisoners come out, someone accidentally threw down a large

flower-pot full of earth, which fell into the street and narrowly missed

one of the Confraternity who was amongst the torch-bearers just before

the crucifix. It passed so close to the torch as to extinguish the flame

in its descent.

At this moment the gates opened, and Giacomo appeared first on the

threshold. He fell on his knees, adoring the holy crucifix with great

devotion. He was completely covered with a large mourning cloak, under

which his bare breast was prepared to be torn by the red-hot pincers of

the executioner, which were lying ready in a chafing-dish fixed to the

cart. Having ascended the vehicle, in which the executioner placed him

so as more readily to perform this office, Bernardo came out, and was

thus addressed on his appearance by the fiscal of Rome—

"Signor Bernardo Cenci, in the name of our blessed Redeemer, our Holy

Father the Pope spares your life; with the sole condition that you

accompany your relatives to the scaffold and to their death, and never

forget to pray for those with whom you were condemned to die."

At this unexpected intelligence, a loud murmur of joy spread among the

crowd, and the members of the Confraternity immediately untied the small

mask which covered the youth’s eyes; for, owing to his tender age, it

had been thought proper to conceal the scaffold from his sight.

Then the executioner; having disposed of Giacomo, came down from the

cart to take Bernardo; whose pardon being formally communicated to him,

he took off his handcuffs, and placed him alongside his brother,

covering him up with a magnificent cloak embroidered with gold, for the

neck and shoulders of the poor lad had been already bared, as a

preliminary to his decapitation. People were surprised to see such a

rich cloak in the possession of the executioner, but were told that it

was the one given by Beatrice to Marzio to pledge him to the murder of

her father, which fell to the executioner as a perquisite after the

execution of the assassin. The sight of the great assemblage of people

produced such an effect upon the boy that he fainted.

The procession then proceeded to the prison of Corte Savella, marching

to the sound of funeral chants. At its gates the sacred crucifix halted

for the women to join: they soon appeared, fell on their knees, and

worshipped the holy symbol as the others had done. The march to the

scaffold was then resumed.

The two female prisoners followed the last row of penitents in single

file, veiled to the waist, with the distinction that Lucrezia, as a

widow, wore a black veil and high-heeled slippers of the same hue, with

bows of ribbon, as was the fashion; whilst Beatrice, as a young

unmarried girl, wore a silk flat cap to match her corsage, with a plush

hood, which fell over her shoulders and covered her violet frock; white

slippers with high heels, ornamented with gold rosettes and

cherry-coloured fringe. The arms of both were untrammelled, except for a

thin slack cord which left their hands free to carry a crucifix and a

handkerchief.

During the night a lofty scaffold had been erected on the bridge of

Sant’ Angelo, and the plank and block were placed thereon. Above the

block was hung, from a large cross beam, a ponderous axe, which, guided

by two grooves, fell with its whole weight at the touch of a spring.

In this formation the procession wended its way towards the bridge of

Sant’ Angela. Lucrezia, the more broken down of the two, wept bitterly;

but Beatrice was firm and unmoved. On arriving at the open space before

the bridge, the women were led into a chapel, where they were shortly

joined by Giacomo and Bernardo; they remained together for a few

moments, when the brothers were led away to the scaffold, although one

was to be executed last, and the other was pardoned. But when they had

mounted the platform, Bernardo fainted a second time; and as the

executioner was approaching to his assistance, some of the crowd,

supposing that his object was to decapitate him, cried loudly, "He is

pardoned!" The executioner reassured them by seating Bernardo near the

block, Giacomo kneeling on the other side.

Then the executioner descended, entered the chapel, and reappeared

leading Lucrezia, who was the first to suffer. At the foot of the

scaffold he tied her hands behind her back, tore open the top of her

corsage so as to uncover her shoulders, gave her the crucifix to kiss,

and led her to the step ladder, which she ascended with great

difficulty, on account of her extreme stoutness; then, on her reaching

the platform, he removed the veil which covered her head. On this

exposure of her features to the immense crowd, Lucrezia shuddered from

head to foot; then, her eyes full of tears, she cried with a loud voice—

"O my God, have mercy upon me; and do you, brethren, pray for my soul!"

Having uttered these words, not knowing what was required of her, she

turned to Alessandro, the chief executioner, and asked what she was to

do; he told her to bestride the plank and lie prone upon it; which she

did with great trouble and timidity; but as she was unable, on account

of the fullness of her bust, to lay her neck upon the block, this had to

be raised by placing a billet of wood underneath it; all this time the

poor woman, suffering even more from shame than from fear, was kept in

suspense; at length, when she was properly adjusted, the executioner

touched the spring, the knife fell, and the decapitated head, falling on

the platform of the scaffold, bounded two or three times in the air, to

the general horror; the executioner then seized it, showed it to the

multitude, and wrapping it in black taffetas, placed it with the body on

a bier at the foot of the scaffold.

Whilst arrangements were being made for the decapitation of Beatrice,

several stands, full of spectators, broke down; some people were killed

by this accident, and still more lamed and injured.

The machine being now rearranged and washed, the executioner returned to

the chapel to take charge of Beatrice, who, on seeing the sacred

crucifix, said some prayers for her soul, and on her hands being tied,

cried out, "God grant that you be binding this body unto corruption, and

loosing this soul unto life eternal!" She then arose, proceeded to the

platform, where she devoutly kissed the stigmata; then leaving her

slippers at the foot of the scaffold, she nimbly ascended the ladder,

and instructed beforehand, promptly lay down on the plank, without

exposing her naked shoulders. But her precautions to shorten the

bitterness of death were of no avail, for the pope, knowing her

impetuous disposition, and fearing lest she might be led into the

commission of some sin between absolution and death, had given orders

that the moment Beatrice was extended on the scaffold a signal gun

should be fired from the castle of Sant’ Angelo; which was done, to the

great astonishment of everybody, including Beatrice herself, who, not

expecting this explosion, raised herself almost upright; the pope

meanwhile, who was praying at Monte Cavallo, gave her absolution ’in

articulo mortis’. About five minutes thus passed, during which the

sufferer waited with her head replaced on the block; at length, when the

executioner judged that the absolution had been given, he released the

spring, and the axe fell.

A gruesome sight was then afforded: whilst the head bounced away on one

side of the block, on the other the body rose erect, as if about to step

backwards; the executioner exhibited the head, and disposed of it and

the body as before. He wished to place Beatrice’s body with that of her

stepmother, but the brotherhood of Mercy took it out of his hands, and

as one of them was attempting to lay it on the bier, it slipped from him

and fell from the scaffold to the ground below; the dress being

partially torn from the body, which was so besmeared with dust and blood

that much time was occupied in washing it. Poor Bernardo was so overcome

by this horrible scene that he swooned away for the third time, and it

was necessary to revive him with stimulants to witness the fate of his

elder brother.

The turn of Giacomo at length arrived: he had witnessed the death of his

stepmother and his sister, and his clothes were covered with their

blood; the executioner approached him and tore off his cloak, exposing

his bare breast covered with the wounds caused by the grip of red-hot

pincers; in this state, and half-naked, he rose to his feet, and turning

to his brother, said—

"Bernardo, if in my examination I have compromised and accused you, I

have done so falsely, and although I have already disavowed this

declaration, I repeat, at the moment of appearing before God, that you

are innocent, and that it is a cruel abuse of justice to compel you to

witness this frightful spectacle."

The executioner then made him kneel down, bound his legs to one of the

beams erected on the scaffold, and having bandaged his eyes, shattered

his head with a blow of his mallet; then, in the sight of all, he hacked

his body into four quarters. The official party then left, taking with

them Bernardo, who, being in a state of high fever, was bled and put to

bed.

The corpses of the two ladies were laid out each on its bier under the

statue of St. Paul, at the foot of the bridge, with four torches of

white wax, which burned till four o’clock in the afternoon; then, along

with the remains of Giacomo, they were taken to the church of San

Giovanni Decollato; finally, about nine in the evening, the body of

Beatrice, covered with flowers, and attired in the dress worn at her

execution, was carried to the church of San Pietro in Montorio, with

fifty lighted torches, and followed by the brethren of the order of the

Stigmata and all the Franciscan monks in Rome; there, agreeably to her

wish, it was buried at the foot of the high altar.

The same evening Signora Lucrezia was interred, as she had desired to

be, in the church of San Giorgio di Velobre.

All Rome may be said to have been present at this tragedy, carriages,

horses, foot people, and cars crowding as it were upon one another. The

day was unfortunately so hot, and the sun so scorching, that many

persons fainted, others returned home stricken with fever, and some even

died during the night, owing to sunstroke from exposure during the three

hours occupied by the execution.

The Tuesday following, the 14th of September; being the Feast of the

Holy Cross, the brotherhood of San Marcello, by special licence of the

pope, set at liberty the unhappy Bernardo Cenci, with the condition of

paying within the year two thousand five hundred Roman crowns to the

brotherhood of the most Holy Trinity of Pope Sixtus, as may be found

to-day recorded in their archives.

Having now seen the tomb, if you desire to form a more vivid impression

of the principal actors in this tragedy than can be derived from a

narrative, pay a visit to the Barberini Gallery, where you will see,

with five other masterpieces by Guido, the portrait of Beatrice, taken,

some say the night before her execution, others during her progress to

the scaffold; it is the head of a lovely girl, wearing a headdress

composed of a turban with a lappet. The hair is of a rich fair chestnut

hue; the dark eyes are moistened with recent tears; a perfectly framed

nose surmounts an infantile mouth; unfortunately, the loss of tone in

the picture since it was painted has destroyed the original fair

complexion. The age of the subject may be twenty, or perhaps twenty-two

years.

Near this portrait is that of Lucrezia Petrani the small head indicates

a person below the middle height; the attributes are those of a Roman

matron in her pride; her high complexion, graceful contour, straight

nose, black eyebrows, and expression at the same time imperious and

voluptuous indicate this character to the life; a smile still seems to

linger an the charming dimpled cheeks and perfect mouth mentioned by the

chronicler, and her face is exquisitely framed by luxuriant curls

falling from her forehead in graceful profusion.

As for Giacomo and Bernardo, as no portraits of them are in existence,

we are obliged to gather an idea of their appearance from the manuscript

which has enabled us to compile this sanguinary history; they are thus

described by the eye-witness of the closing scene—Giacomo was short,

well-made and strong, with black hair and beard; he appeared to be about

twenty-six years of age.

Poor Bernardo was the image of his sister, so nearly resembling her,

that when he mounted the scaffold his long hair and girlish face led

people to suppose him to be Beatrice herself: he might be fourteen or

fifteen years of age.

The peace of God be with them!

*MASSACRES OF THE SOUTH—1551-1815*

CHAPTER I

It is possible that our reader, whose recollections may perhaps go back

as far as the Restoration, will be surprised at the size of the frame

required for the picture we are about to bring before him, embracing as

it does two centuries and a half; but as everything, has its precedent,

every river its source, every volcano its central fire, so it is that

the spot of earth on which we are going to fix our eyes has been the

scene of action and reaction, revenge and retaliation, till the

religious annals of the South resemble an account-book kept by double

entry, in which fanaticism enters the profits of death, one side being

written with the blood of Catholics, the other with that of Protestants.

In the great political and religious convulsions of the South, the

earthquake-like throes of which were felt even in the capital, Nimes has

always taken the central place; Nimes will therefore be the pivot round

which our story will revolve, and though we may sometimes leave it for a

moment, we shall always return thither without fail.

Nimes was reunited to France by Louis VIII, the government being taken

from its vicomte, Bernard Athon VI, and given to consuls in the year

1207. During the episcopate of Michel Briconnet the relics of St.

Bauzile were discovered, and hardly were the rejoicings over this event

at an end when the new doctrines began to spread over France. It was in

the South that the persecutions began, and in 1551 several persons were

publicly burnt as heretics by order of the Seneschal’s Court at Nimes,

amongst whom was Maurice Secenat, a missionary from the Cevennes, who

was taken in the very act of preaching. Thenceforth Nimes rejoiced in

two martyrs and two patron saints, one revered by the Catholics, and one

by the Protestants; St. Bauzile, after reigning as sole protector for

twenty-four years, being forced to share the honours of his guardianship

with his new rival.

Maurice Secenat was followed as preacher by Pierre de Lavau; these two

names being still remembered among the crowd of obscure and forgotten

martyrs. He also was put to death on the Place de la Salamandre, all the

difference being that the former was burnt and the latter hanged.

Pierre de Lavau was attended in his last moments by Dominique Deyron,

Doctor of Theology; but instead of, as is usual, the dying man being

converted by the priest, it was the priest who was converted by de

Lavau, and the teaching which it was desired should be suppressed burst

forth again. Decrees were issued against Dominique Deyron; he was

pursued and tracked down, and only escaped the gibbet by fleeing to the

mountains.

The mountains are the refuge of all rising or decaying sects; God has

given to the powerful on earth city, plain, and sea, but the mountains

are the heritage of the oppressed.

Persecution and proselytism kept pace with each other, but the blood

that was shed produced the usual effect: it rendered the soil on which

it fell fruitful, and after two or three years of struggle, during which

two or three hundred Huguenots had been burnt or hanged, Nimes awoke one

morning with a Protestant majority. In 1556 the consuls received a sharp

reprimand on account of the leaning of the city towards the doctrines of

the Reformation; but in 1557, one short year after this admonition,

Henri II was forced to confer the office of president of the Presidial

Court on William de Calviere, a Protestant. At last a decision of the

senior judge having declared that it was the duty of the consuls to

sanction the execution of heretics by their presence, the magistrates of

the city protested against this decision, and the power of the Crown was

insufficient to carry it out.

Henri II dying, Catherine de Medicis and the Guises took possession of

the throne in the name of Francois II. There is a moment when nations

can always draw a long breath, it is while their kings are awaiting

burial; and Nimes took advantage of this moment on the death of Henri

II, and on September 29th, 1559, Guillaume Moget founded the first

Protestant community.

Guillaume Moget came from Geneva. He was the spiritual son of Calvin,

and came to Nimes with the firm purpose of converting all the remaining

Catholics or of being hanged. As he was eloquent, spirited, and wily,

too wise to be violent, ever ready to give and take in the matter of

concessions, luck was on his side, and Guillaume Moget escaped hanging.

The moment a rising sect ceases to be downtrodden it becomes a queen,

and heresy, already mistress of three-fourths of the city, began to hold

up its head with boldness in the streets. A householder called Guillaume

Raymond opened his house to the Calvinist missionary, and allowed him to

preach in it regularly to all who came, and the wavering were thus

confirmed in the new faith. Soon the house became too narrow to contain

the crowds which flocked thither to imbibe the poison of the

revolutionary doctrine, and impatient glances fell on the churches.

Meanwhile the Vicomte de Joyeuse, who had just been appointed governor

of Languedoc in the place of M. de Villars, grew uneasy at the rapid

progress made by the Protestants, who so far from trying to conceal it

boasted of it; so he summoned the consuls before him, admonished them

sharply in the king’s name, and threatened to quarter a garrison in the

town which would soon put an end to these disorders. The consuls

promised to stop the evil without the aid of outside help, and to carry

out their promise doubled the patrol and appointed a captain of the town

whose sole duty was to keep order in the streets. Now this captain whose

office had been created solely for the repression of heresy, happened to

be Captain Bouillargues, the most inveterate Huguenot who ever existed.

The result of this discriminating choice was that Guillaume Moget began

to preach, and once when a great crowd had gathered in a garden to hear

him hold forth, heavy rain came on, and it became necessary for the

people either to disperse or to seek shelter under a roof. As the

preacher had just reached the most interesting part of his sermon, the

congregation did not hesitate an instant to take the latter alternative.

The Church of St. Etienne du Capitole was quite near: someone present

suggested that this building, if not the most suitable, as at least the

most spacious for such a gathering.

The idea was received with acclamation: the rain grew heavier, the crowd

invaded the church, drove out the priests, trampled the Holy Sacrament

under foot, and broke the sacred images. This being accomplished,

Guillaume Moget entered the pulpit, and resumed his sermon with such

eloquence that his hearers’ excitement redoubled, and not satisfied with

what had already been done, rushed off to seize on the Franciscan

monastery, where they forthwith installed Moget and the two women, who,

according to Menard the historian of Languedoc, never left him day or

night; all which proceedings were regarded by Captain Bouillargues with

magnificent calm.

The consuls being once more summoned before M. de Villars, who had again

become governor, would gladly have denied the existence of disorder; but

finding this impossible, they threw themselves on his mercy. He being

unable to repose confidence in them any longer, sent a garrison to the

citadel of Nimes, which the municipality was obliged to support,

appointed a governor of the city with four district captains under him,

and formed a body of military police which quite superseded the

municipal constabulary. Moget was expelled from Nimes, and Captain

Bouillargues deprived of office.

Francis II dying in his turn, the usual effect was produced,—that is,

the persecution became less fierce,—and Moget therefore returned to

Nimes. This was a victory, and every victory being a step forward, the

triumphant preacher organised a Consistory, and the deputies of Nimes

demanded from the States-General of Orleans possession of the churches.

No notice was taken of this demand; but the Protestants were at no loss

how to proceed. On the 21st December 1561 the churches of Ste. Eugenie,

St. Augustin, and the Cordeliers were taken by assault, and cleared of

their images in a hand’s turn; and this time Captain Bouillargues was

not satisfied with looking on, but directed the operations.

The cathedral was still safe, and in it were entrenched the remnant of

the Catholic clergy; but it was apparent that at the earliest

opportunity it too would be turned into a meeting-house; and this

opportunity was not long in coming.

One Sunday, when Bishop Bernard d’Elbene had celebrated mass, just as

the regular preacher was about to begin his sermon, some children who

were playing in the close began to hoot the ’beguinier’ [a name of

contempt for friars]. Some of the faithful being disturbed in their

meditations, came out of the church and chastised the little Huguenots,

whose parents considered themselves in consequence to have been insulted

in the persons of their children. A great commotion ensued, crowds began

to form, and cries of "To the church! to the church!" were heard.

Captain Bouillargues happened to be in the neighbourhood, and being very

methodical set about organising the insurrection; then putting himself

at its head, he charged the cathedral, carrying everything before him,

in spite of the barricades which had been hastily erected by the

Papists. The assault was over in a few moments; the priests and their

flock fled by one door, while the Reformers entered by another. The

building was in the twinkling of an eye adapted to the new form of

worship: the great crucifix from above the altar was dragged about the

streets at the end of a rope and scourged at every cross-roads. In the

evening a large fire was lighted in the place before the cathedral, and

the archives of the ecclesiastical and religious houses, the sacred

images, the relics of the saints, the decorations of the altar, the

sacerdotal vestments, even the Host itself, were thrown on it without

any remonstrance from the consuls; the very wind which blew upon Nimes

breathed heresy.

For the moment Nimes was in full revolt, and the spirit of organisation

spread: Moget assumed the titles of pastor and minister of the Christian

Church. Captain Bouillargues melted down the sacred vessels of the

Catholic churches, and paid in this manner the volunteers of Nimes and

the German mercenaries; the stones of the demolished religious houses

were used in the construction of fortifications, and before anyone

thought of attacking it the city was ready for a siege. It was at this

moment that Guillaume Calviere, who was at the head of the Presidial

Court, Moget being president of the Consistory, and Captain Bouillargues

commander-in-chief of the armed forces, suddenly resolved to create a

new authority, which, while sharing the powers hitherto vested solely in

the consuls, should be, even more than they, devoted to Calvin: thus the

office of les Messieurs came into being. This was neither more nor less

than a committee of public safety, and having been formed in the stress

of revolution it acted in a revolutionary spirit, absorbing the powers

of the consuls, and restricting the authority of the Consistory to

things spiritual. In the meantime the Edict of Amboise, was promulgated,

and it was announced that the king, Charles IX, accompanied by Catherine

de Medicis, was going to visit his loyal provinces in the South.

Determined as was Captain Bouillargues, for once he had to give way, so

strong was the party against him; therefore, despite the murmurs of the

fanatics, the city of Nimes resolved, not only to open its gates to its

sovereign, but to give him such a reception as would efface the bad

impression which Charles might have received from the history of recent

events. The royal procession was met at the Pont du Gare, where young

girls attired as nymphs emerged from a grotto bearing a collation, which

they presented to their Majesties, who graciously and heartily partook

of it. The repast at an end, the illustrious travellers resumed their

progress; but the imagination of the Nimes authorities was not to be

restrained within such narrow bounds: at the entrance to the city the

king found the Porte de la Couronne transformed into a mountain-side,

covered with vines and olive trees, under which a shepherd was tending

his flock. As the king approached the mountain parted as if yielding to

the magic of his power, the most beautiful maidens and the most noble

came out to meet their sovereign, presenting him the keys of the city

wreathed with flowers, and singing to the accompaniment of the

shepherd’s pipe. Passing through the mountain, Charles saw chained to a

palm tree in the depths of a grotto a monster crocodile from whose jaws

issued flames: this was a representation of the old coat of arms granted

to the city by Octavius Caesar Augustus after the battle of Actium, and

which Francis I had restored to it in exchange for a model in silver of

the amphitheatre presented to him by the city. Lastly, the king found in

the Place de la Salamandre numerous bonfires, so that without waiting to

ask if these fires were made from the remains of the faggots used at the

martyrdom of Maurice Secenat, he went to bed very much pleased with the

reception accorded him by his good city of Nimes, and sure that all the

unfavourable reports he had heard were calumnies.

Nevertheless, in order that such rumours, however slight their

foundation, should not again be heard, the king appointed Damville

governor of Languedoc, installing him himself in the chief city of his

government; he then removed every consul from his post without

exception, and appointed in their place Guy-Rochette, doctor and lawyer;

Jean Beaudan, burgess; Francois Aubert, mason; and Cristol Ligier, farm

labourer—all Catholics. He then left for Paris, where a short time after

he concluded a treaty with the Calvinists, which the people with its

gift of prophecy called "The halting peace of unsure seat," and which in

the end led to the massacre of St. Bartholomew.

Gracious as had been the measures taken by the king to secure the peace

of his good city of Nimes, they had nevertheless been reactionary;

consequently the Catholics, feeling the authorities were now on their

side, returned in crowds: the householders reclaimed their houses, the

priests their churches; while, rendered ravenous by the bitter bread of

exile, both the clergy and the laity pillaged the treasury. Their return

was not, however; stained by bloodshed, although the Calvinists were

reviled in the open street. A few stabs from a dagger or shots from an

arquebus might, however, have been better; such wounds heal while

mocking words rankle in the memory.

On the morrow of Michaelmas Day—that is, on the 31st September 1567—a

number of conspirators might have been seen issuing from a house and

spreading themselves through the streets, crying "To arms! Down with the

Papists!" Captain Bouillargues was taking his revenge.

As the Catholics were attacked unawares, they did not make even a show

of resistance: a number of Protestants—those who possessed the best

arms—rushed to the house of Guy-Rochette, the first consul, and seized

the keys of the city. Guy Rochette, startled by the cries of the crowds,

had looked out of the window, and seeing a furious mob approaching his

house, and feeling that their rage was directed against himself, had

taken refuge with his brother Gregoire. There, recovering his courage

and presence of mind, he recalled the important responsibilities

attached to his office, and resolving to fulfil them whatever might

happen, hastened to consult with the other magistrates, but as they all

gave him very excellent reasons for not meddling, he soon felt there was

no dependence to be placed on such cowards and traitors. He next

repaired to the episcopal palace, where he found the bishop surrounded

by the principal Catholics of the town, all on their knees offering up

earnest prayers to Heaven, and awaiting martyrdom. Guy-Rochette joined

them, and the prayers were continued.

A few instants later fresh noises were heard in the street, and the

gates of the palace court groaned under blows of axe and crowbar.

Hearing these alarming sounds, the bishop, forgetting that it was his

duty to set a brave example, fled through a breach in the wall of the

next house; but Guy-Rochette and his companions valiantly resolved not

to run away, but to await their fate with patience. The gates soon

yielded, and the courtyard and palace were filled with Protestants: at

their head appeared Captain Bouillargues, sword in hand. Guy-Rochette

and those with him were seized and secured in a room under the charge of

four guards, and the palace was looted. Meantime another band of

insurgents had attacked the house of the vicar-general, John Pebereau,

whose body pierced by seven stabs of a dagger was thrown out of a

window, the same fate as was meted out to Admiral Coligny eight years

later at the hands of the Catholics. In the house a sum of 800 crowns

was found and taken. The two bands then uniting, rushed to the

cathedral, which they sacked for the second time.

Thus the entire day passed in murder and pillage: when night came the

large number of prisoners so imprudently taken began to be felt as an

encumbrance by the insurgent chiefs, who therefore resolved to take

advantage of the darkness to get rid of them without causing too much

excitement in the city. They were therefore gathered together from the

various houses in which they had been confined, and were brought to a

large hall in the Hotel de Ville, capable of containing from four to

five hundred persons, and which was soon full. An irregular tribunal

arrogating to itself powers of life and death was formed, and a clerk

was appointed to register its decrees. A list of all the prisoners was

given him, a cross placed before a name indicating that its bearer was

condemned to death, and, list in hand, he went from group to group

calling out the names distinguished by the fatal sign. Those thus sorted

out were then conducted to a spot which had been chosen beforehand as

the place of execution.

This was the palace courtyard in the middle of which yawned a well

twenty-four feet in circumference and fifty deep. The fanatics thus

found a grave ready-digged as it were to their hand, and to save time,

made use of it.

The unfortunate Catholics, led thither in groups, were either stabbed

with daggers or mutilated with axes, and the bodies thrown down the

well. Guy-Rochette was one of the first to be dragged up. For himself he

asked neither mercy nor favour, but he begged that the life of his young

brother might be spared, whose only crime was the bond of blood which

united them; but the assassins, paying no heed to his prayers, struck

down both man and boy and flung them into the well. The corpse of the

vicar-general, who had been killed the day before, was in its turn

dragged thither by a rope and added to the others. All night the

massacre went on, the crimsoned water rising in the well as corpse after

corpse was thrown in, till, at break of day, it overflowed, one hundred

and twenty bodies being then hidden in its depths.

Next day, October 1st, the scenes of tumult were renewed: from early

dawn Captain Bouillargues ran from street to street crying, "Courage,

comrades! Montpellier, Pezenas, Aramon, Beaucaire, Saint-Andeol, and

Villeneuve are taken, and are on our side. Cardinal de Lorraine is dead,

and the king is in our power." This aroused the failing energies of the

assassins. They joined the captain, and demanded that the houses round

the palace should be searched, as it was almost certain that the bishop,

who had, as may be remembered, escaped the day before, had taken refuge

in one of them. This being agreed to, a house-to-house visitation was

begun: when the house of M. de Sauvignargues was reached, he confessed

that the bishop was in his cellar, and proposed to treat with Captain

Bouillargues for a ransom. This proposition being considered reasonable,

was accepted, and after a short discussion the sum of 120 crowns was

agreed on. The bishop laid down every penny he had about him, his

servants were despoiled, and the sum made up by the Sieur de

Sauvignargues, who having the bishop in his house kept him caged. The

prelate, however, made no objection, although under other circumstances

he would have regarded this restraint as the height of impertinence; but

as it was he felt safer in M. de Sauvignargues’ cellar than in the

palace.

But the secret of the worthy prelate’s hiding place was but badly kept

by those with whom he had treated; for in a few moments a second crowd

appeared, hoping to obtain a second ransom. Unfortunately, the Sieur de

Sauvignargues, the bishop, and the bishop’s servants had stripped

themselves of all their ready money to make up the first, so the master

of the house, fearing for his own safety, having barricaded the doors,

got out into a lane and escaped, leaving the bishop to his fate. The

Huguenots climbed in at the windows, crying, "No quarter! Down with the

Papists!" The bishop’s servants were cut down, the bishop himself

dragged out of the cellar and thrown into the street. There his rings

and crozier were snatched from him; he was stripped of his clothes and

arrayed in a grotesque and ragged garment which chanced to be at hand;

his mitre was replaced by a peasant’s cap; and in this condition he was

dragged back to the palace and placed on the brink of the well to be

thrown in. One of the assassins drew attention to the fact that it was

already full. "Pooh!" replied another, "they won’t mind a little

crowding for a bishop." Meantime the prelate, seeing he need expect no

mercy from man, threw himself on his knees and commended his soul to

God. Suddenly, however, one of those who had shown himself most

ferocious during the massacre, Jean Coussinal by name, was touched as if

by miracle with a feeling of compassion at the sight of so much

resignation, and threw himself between the bishop and those about to

strike, and declaring that whoever touched the prelate must first

overcome himself, took him under his protection, his comrades retreating

in astonishment. Jean Coussinal raising the bishop, carried him in his

arms into a neighbouring house, and drawing his sword, took his stand on

the threshold.

The assassins, however, soon recovered from their surprise, and

reflecting that when all was said and done they were fifty to one,

considered it would be shameful to let themselves be intimidated by a

single opponent, so they advanced again on Coussinal, who with a

back-handed stroke cut off the head of the first-comer. The cries upon

this redoubled, and two or three shots were fired at the obstinate

defender of the poor bishop, but they all missed aim. At that moment

Captain Bouillargues passed by, and seeing one man attacked by fifty,

inquired into the cause. He was told of Coussinal’s odd determination to

save the bishop. "He is quite right," said the captain; "the bishop has

paid ransom, and no one has any right to touch him." Saying this, he

walked up to Coussinal, gave him his hand, and the two entered the

house, returning in a few moments with the bishop between them. In this

order they crossed the town, followed by the murmuring crowd, who were,

however, afraid to do more than murmur; at the gate the bishop was

provided with an escort and let go, his defenders remaining there till

he was out of sight.

The massacres went on during the whole of the second day, though towards

evening the search for victims relaxed somewhat; but still many isolated

acts of murder took place during the night. On the morrow, being tired

of killing, the people began to destroy, and this phase lasted a long

time, it being less fatiguing to throw stones about than corpses. All

the convents, all the monasteries, all the houses of the priests and

canons were attacked in turn; nothing was spared except the cathedral,

before which axes and crowbars seemed to lose their power, and the

church of Ste. Eugenie, which was turned into a powder-magazine. The day

of the great butchery was called "La Michelade," because it took place

the day after Michaelmas, and as all this happened in the year 1567 the

Massacre of St. Bartholomew must be regarded as a plagiarism.

At last, however, with the help of M. Damville; the Catholics again got

the upper hand, and it was the turn of the Protestants to fly. They took

refuge in the Cevennes. From the beginning of the troubles the Cevennes

had been the asylum of those who suffered for the Protestant faith; and

still the plains are Papist, and the mountains Protestant. When the

Catholic party is in the ascendant at Nimes, the plain seeks the

mountain; when the Protestants come into power, the mountain comes down

into the plain.

However, vanquished and fugitive though they were, the Calvinists did

not lose courage: in exile one day, they felt sure their luck would turn

the next; and while the Catholics were burning or hanging them in effigy

for contumacy, they were before a notary, dividing the property of their

executioners.

But it was not enough for them to buy or sell this property amongst each

other, they wanted to enter into possession; they thought of nothing

else, and in 1569—that is, in the eighteenth month of their exile—they

attained their wish in the following manner:

One day the exiles perceived a carpenter belonging to a little village

called Cauvisson approaching their place of refuge. He desired to speak

to M. Nicolas de Calviere, seigneur de St. Cosme, and brother of the

president, who was known to be a very enterprising man. To him the

carpenter, whose name was Maduron, made the following proposition:

In the moat of Nimes, close to the Gate of the Carmelites, there was a

grating through which the waters from the fountain found vent. Maduron

offered to file through the bars of this grating in such a manner that

some fine night it could be lifted out so as to allow a band of armed

Protestants to gain access to the city. Nicolas de Calviere approving of

this plan, desired that it should be carried out at once; but the

carpenter pointed out that it would be necessary to wait for stormy

weather, when the waters swollen by the rain would by their noise drown

the sound of the file. This precaution was doubly necessary as the box

of the sentry was almost exactly above the grating. M. de Calviere tried

to make Maduron give way; but the latter, who was risking more than

anyone else, was firm. So whether they liked it or not, de Calviere and

the rest had to await his good pleasure.

Some days later rainy weather set in, and as usual the fountain became

fuller; Maduron seeing that the favourable moment had arrived, glided at

night into the moat and applied his file, a friend of his who was hidden

on the ramparts above pulling a cord attached to Maduron’s arm every

time the sentinel, in pacing his narrow round, approached the spot.

Before break of day the work was well begun. Maduron then obliterated

all traces of his file by daubing the bars with mud and wax, and

withdrew. For three consecutive nights he returned to his task, taking

the same precautions, and before the fourth was at an end he found that

by means of a slight effort the grating could be removed. That was all

that was needed, so he gave notice to Messire Nicolas de Calviere that

the moment had arrived.

Everything was favourable to the undertaking: as there was no moon, the

next night was chosen to carry out the plan, and as soon as it was dark

Messire Nicolas de Calviere set out with his men, who, slipping down

into the moat without noise, crossed, the water being up to their belts,

climbed up the other side, and crept along at the foot of the wall till

they reached the grating without being perceived. There Maduron was

waiting, and as soon as he caught sight of them he gave a slight blow to

the loose bars; which fell, and the whole party entered the drain, led

by de Calviere, and soon found themselves at the farther end—that is to

say, in the Place de la Fontaine. They immediately formed into companies

twenty strong, four of which hastened to the principal gates, while the

others patrolled the streets shouting, "The city taken! Down with the

Papists! A new world!" Hearing this, the Protestants in the city

recognised their co-religionists, and the Catholics their opponents: but

whereas the former had been warned and were on the alert, the latter

were taken by surprise; consequently they offered no resistance, which,

however, did not prevent bloodshed. M. de St. Andre, the governor of the

town, who during his short period of office had drawn the bitter hatred

of the Protestants on him, was shot dead in his bed, and his body being

flung out of the window, was torn in pieces by the populace. The work of

murder went on all night, and on the morrow the victors in their turn

began an organised persecution, which fell more heavily on the Catholics

than that to which they had subjected the Protestants; for, as we have

explained above, the former could only find shelter in the plain, while

the latter used the Cevennes as a stronghold.

It was about this time that the peace, which was called, as we have

said, "the insecurely seated," was concluded. Two years later this name

was justified by the Massacre of St. Bartholomew.

When this event took place, the South, strange as it may seem, looked

on: in Nimes both Catholics and Protestants, stained with the other’s

blood, faced each other, hand on hilt, but without drawing weapon. It

was as if they were curious to see how the Parisians would get through.

The massacre had one result, however, the union of the principal cities

of the South and West: Montpellier, Uzes, Montauban, and La Rochelle,

with Nimes at their head, formed a civil and military league to last, as

is declared in the Act of Federation, until God should raise up a

sovereign to be the defender of the Protestant faith. In the year 1775

the Protestants of the South began to turn their eyes towards Henri IV

as the coming defender.

At that date Nimes, setting an example to the other cities of the

League, deepened her moats, blew up her suburbs, and added to the height

of her ramparts. Night and day the work of perfecting the means of

defence went on; the guard at every gate was doubled, and knowing how

often a city had been taken by surprise, not a hole through which a

Papist could creep was left in the fortifications. In dread of what the

future might bring, Nimes even committed sacrilege against the past, and

partly demolished the Temple of Diana and mutilated the amphitheatre—of

which one gigantic stone was sufficient to form a section of the wall.

During one truce the crops were sown, during another they were garnered

in, and so things went on while the reign of the Mignons lasted. At

length the prince raised up by God, whom the Huguenots had waited for so

long, appeared; Henri IV ascended the, throne.