Reign of Francis I.—Semblançai—The Chancellor Duprat—The
Chancellor Poyet—Admiral de Chabot—Fall of Poyet—Reign of Henry
II.—Anne du Bourg—Louis du Faur—Reign of Francis II.—Execution
of du Bourg—Francis de Vendôme—Reign of Charles IX.—The Duke of
Lunebourg—Henry of Navarre and the Prince of Condé in danger of
the Bastile—Faction of the Politicians—La Mole—Coconas—Marshal
de Montmorenci—Marshal de Cossé—Reign of Henry III.—Bussi
d’Amboise.
During the reigns of Charles the eighth and Louis the twelfth, a period
of more than thirty years, no prisoners of note appear to have been
incarcerated in the Bastile. In the reign of Francis the first, we
again find it receiving persons of rank within its gloomy walls. The
first who was consigned to it by Francis was James de Beaune, baron
of Semblançai. He was the eldest son of John de Beaune, a citizen of
Tours, who acquired a large fortune by commerce, and who, after having
withdrawn from mercantile pursuits, held the office of steward to Louis
the eleventh and to Charles the eighth. Semblançai entered early into
the royal service, and, in the reign of Charles the eighth, rose to the
high situation of superintendant of the finances, and retained it under
Louis the twelfth and Francis the first. It was to his talents he was
indebted for preferment; and his conduct, in the difficult and dangerous
post which he occupied, justified his elevation, and gained for him the
confidence of the three monarchs. Francis was even accustomed to address
him with the flattering appellation of father. Keeping aloof from all
court intrigues, he displayed, in his official character, an exemplary
regularity, economy, and probity; and he crowned the whole by a virtue
which is still more rare in a finance minister—that of endeavouring
to alleviate the burthens of the people, and prevent them from being
despoiled by unprincipled nobles.
The man who acted thus was not likely to be without enemies; all the
greedy, who were disappointed of thrusting their hands into the public
purse, and all the wasteful and corrupt, to whom his example was a
stinging rebuke, would of course abhor him. But Semblançai might have
set their malice at defiance, had they not found an invincible ally in a
female, whose venomous hatred was rendered fatal to him by her unbounded
influence.
This powerful female was Louisa of Savoy, duchess of Angoulême, the
mother of Francis the First. She was beautiful in person, a doating
mother, and endowed with many intellectual qualities of a superior
class; but she was immeasurably ambitious, vindictive, and rapacious.
Such was her avidity for riches, and such her success in gratifying it,
that, at the time of her death, her coffers contained no less than a
million and a half of golden crowns—an enormous, not to say disgraceful
hoard, especially when we consider what was the value of the sum at
that period. In two instances, her criminal passions were the cause of
shame and misfortune to France. Of the first of these we are about to
speak; the second was her persecution of the Constable de Bourbon—a base
and disastrous measure, which was prompted either by resentment for
his rejection of her love, or by her eagerness to seize upon his ample
domains, or, perhaps, by a combination of both these unworthy motives.
The regard which was manifested for Semblançai by Francis was, at one
period, equally felt by the duchess of Angoulême. There exists, under her
hand, the strongest testimony to the rectitude of the superintendant, and
of the generous sacrifices which he made, to provide for the wants of the
state. It was not till the necessity of vindicating his own character
compelled him to criminate her, that she became his enemy.
Jealous of the influence possessed by the countess of Chateaubriant, the
mistress of Francis, whose brother, Lautrec, was then governor of the
Milanese and commander of the French army in that province, the duchess
appears to have formed the plan of aiming a deadly blow at the sister
through the side of the brother. If, by disabling him from defending the
Milanese, she could bring Lautrec into disgrace, it was not improbable
that the disgusted and indignant monarch, who set a high value on his
Italian conquest, would extend his anger to the countess. The means which
she adopted for bringing her scheme to bear, had also an additional and
not trivial merit in her eyes; that of contributing to swell the mass of
treasure which she had already accumulated.
In the first part of her project, she completely succeeded. Deprived of
the pecuniary resources which he had expected from France, and which were
the more needful, as the harshness of his government had rendered him
unpopular in Italy, Lautrec was defeated at the battle of the Bicocco,
was deserted by his Swiss auxiliaries, and at length was driven from the
duchy of Milan.
The disgrace thus cast upon the French arms, and that, too, in a
country which he in person had won, could not fail to exasperate a
young and warlike sovereign. When Lautrec returned to his native land,
the king refused to admit him to his presence; but at last, through
the intercession of his sister, and of the Constable de Bourbon, the
vanquished general obtained an audience. He was received with a frowning
countenance; and he boldly complained of his reception. “Is it possible
for me,” said Francis, sternly, “to look favourably on a man who is
guilty of having lost my duchy of Milan?”
Nowise daunted by this rebuff, Lautrec firmly replied, “I will dare to
assert, that your majesty is the sole cause of that loss. For eighteen
months your gendarmes had not a single farthing of pay. The Swiss, with
whose disposition as to money you are well acquainted, were also left
unpaid. It was solely by my management that they were retained for
several months with my army. There would have been no reason for wonder
had they quitted it without drawing their swords; their respect for me
induced them, however, not to desert me till after a sanguinary combat.
They compelled me to give battle, though I foresaw clearly that there was
no hope of victory; but, in my circumstances, prudence dictated to risk
every thing, however little chance there might appear that our efforts
would be successful. The whole of my crime amounts to this.”
The astonishment of Francis was excited by this speech of Lautrec.
“What!” exclaimed he, “did you not receive the four hundred thousand
crowns, which I ordered to be sent to you soon after your arrival at
Milan?” “No, Sire,” answered Lautrec; “your majesty’s letters came to
hand, but no money was forwarded to me; nor did it ever pass the Alps.”
Semblançai was immediately summoned into his presence by Francis, to
account for such an extraordinary violation of his duty. In his defence,
the superintendant stated, that the duchess, vested with authority as
regent, had demanded from him the four hundred thousand crowns, and that
he held her receipt for the sum.
Irritated by this unexpected discovery, Francis hastened to his mother’s
apartment, and reproached her for conduct which had cost him a part of
his dominions. The duchess is said to have begun her reply by a denial
of the fact. She was, however, ultimately compelled to own that she had
indeed obtained four hundred thousand crowns from Semblançai; but she
artfully pretended, that she had previously confided the money to his
care, and that it was the produce of savings from her income. Semblançai,
on the contrary, strenuously protested that she had never entrusted any
thing to his keeping, and that, when she drew from him the funds in
question, he had told her that they were set apart by the king for the
service of the forces in Italy.
Francis was no doubt convinced of her guilt, but he could not bear
the idea of openly stigmatizing a mother whom he loved. There was
consequently nothing to be done but to bury, as far as was possible, the
whole transaction in oblivion. Abruptly putting an end to the altercation
between the duchess and the superintendant, he said, “Let us think no
more on the subject! we did not deserve to conquer; it was in vain that
fortune declared on our side; we threw insuperable obstacles in the way
of her favour. Let us cease to be traitors to each other, and let us
henceforth endeavour to act for the public good, with more wisdom and
union than we have hitherto displayed.”
That Semblançai continued to hold his place is a sufficient proof that
his assertion was credited by the king. That the revengeful duchess was
eager to ruin him, we might easily have believed, even had the result
not afforded evidence of the fact. For a considerable time, however, she
silently nursed her wrath. It was not till 1524, when a new expedition
was in preparation against the Milanese, that she found an opportunity of
striking her blow. Money was wanted; and Semblançai, who had come forward
on former occasions, was desired to make an advance from his private
fortune. But this he declined to do; pleading, as a reason for his
refusal, that a debt of three hundred thousand crowns was already owing
to him. He was punished by dismissal from his office—if that can be
called a punishment for which he appears to have sought—and, after having
given in his accounts, and shown that they were correct, he retired to
his estate of Balan, in the neighbourhood of Tours.
On the departure of Francis for Italy, he again appointed his mother to
act as regent. She had now unlimited power; and, as far as concerned
Semblançai, she exercised it cruelly and basely. She began by instituting
against him a suit, to recover a balance which she alleged to be due
to her, as part of the pretended deposit. To bolster up her cause, she
is accused of having stooped to the most degrading means. Gentil, the
confidential clerk of Semblançai, was enamoured of one of her attendants;
and this female the regent employed to steal, or obtain by blandishments,
the receipt which had been given to the superintendant.
This suit was probably meant to answer the double purpose of narrowing
his resources and injuring his character. But this mode of proceeding
was “too poor, too weak, for her revenge,” and she soon adopted another,
which struck directly at his life. His secretary, John Prévost, who seems
himself to have had reason for dreading an inquiry into his official
conduct, was tampered with, to cause the ruin of his master. Impunity
for his own misdoings was to be the price of his new crime. A charge of
peculation was brought against Semblançai, and, towards the close of
1526, he was committed to the Bastile. To render his fate certain, the
office of sitting in judgment upon him was entrusted to the Chancellor
Duprat, who had been his rival, was still his deadliest foe, and was,
besides, a devoted tool of the queen mother. As his colleagues, or rather
accomplices, Duprat selected, from the various parliaments, men on whose
subserviency he could rely. From a tribunal thus infamously constituted,
not even a semblance of justice could be expected. On the 9th of August,
1527, Semblançai, who was then in his sixty-second year, was condemned to
be hanged; and this sentence was, shortly after, executed on him, at the
gibbet of Montfaucon.
The popular feeling, with respect to Semblançai, may be considered as at
least a strong presumptive proof of his innocence. It is not often that
the fall of a finance minister is a subject of sorrow to the multitude.
In his case we find one of the few exceptions; for the people beheld
his melancholy fate with grief, surprise, and indignation, and they
long looked with an evil eye on the malignant princess by whom he was
judicially murdered.
There is an apparent but not a real discrepancy in the accounts of the
behaviour of Semblançai, when his doom was sealed. From the language of
Du Bouchet, who represents him as weeping bitterly, and cherishing hopes
of pardon till the last moment, a hasty conclusion might be drawn, that
the courage of the victim deserted him. But wounded honour and a keen
sense of the ingratitude with which a life of services was repaid, might
well wring tears from his eyes, though his mind remained unmoved by the
fear of death. That his firmness was, in fact, not to be shaken, we have
the unexceptionable testimony of Marot, who probably witnessed the calm
deportment of Semblançai when going to the scaffold. In his lines, which
bear the title of “Du Lieutenant Criminel et de Semblançai,” the poet
thus forcibly expresses himself—
“When Maillard, hellish judge, led Semblançai
On gallows tree to pass from life away,
Say which of them most undisturbed was seen?”
“I’ll tell you, friend: so blank was Maillard’s mien,
He looked as though he saw the direful dart
Of death hang o’er him; but so brave a heart
Semblançai showed, you would have sworn that he
Was leading Maillard to the gallows tree.”
We have seen, that the chancellor, Duprat, was the instrument which
Louisa of Savoy employed to accomplish the destruction of Semblançai. At
an earlier period, he had served her as effectually in a similar case.
Her suit against the constable de Bourbon, to strip him of his vast
estates, is said to have been suggested by Duprat, and was certainly
brought to a favourable issue by the exercise of his influence over the
judges. His hatred of the constable was caused, or sharpened, by Bourbon
having refused to comply with a request relative to the grant of an
estate in Auvergne. Detested by all France, for the fiscal oppressions of
which he was the author, and for his having betrayed the liberties of the
Gallican church, the chancellor nevertheless retained his power to the
last, and died loaded with titles and riches.
Another tool of the duchess of Angoulême, who closely imitated the
conduct of Duprat, was not equally fortunate. William Poyet, a native
of Angers, born about 1474, had acquired a high reputation at the bar
before he was chosen the queen-mother’s advocate against the constable
de Bourbon. The manner in which he performed his new task ensured his
promotion. He became successively advocate-general, and president à
mortier, and was employed in various negotiations; and, at length, in
1538, his ambition was gratified by his appointment to the high office of
chancellor. If servility to the monarch, and an utter disregard of the
rights and happiness of the people, are qualifications for that office,
his fitness cannot be denied. He was undoubtedly worthy of succeeding to
Duprat.
The profligate readiness with which Poyet encouraged Francis the first
to load his subjects with heavy taxes, drew upon him a severe reproof
from Duchatel, the virtuous and benevolent bishop of Orleans. Hearing
the chancellor tell the king that his majesty was the master of all that
his subjects possessed, the bishop indignantly exclaimed, “Carry such
tyrannical maxims to the Caligulas and Neros, and, if you have no respect
for yourself, at least respect a monarch who is the friend of humanity,
and who knows that to hold its rights sacred is the first of his duties.”
This speech did honour to the prelate, but there is no ground for
believing that it produced any good effect upon either the sovereign or
the minister.
It was by female influence that Poyet was raised to his lofty station; it
was by the same influence that he was precipitated from it. Two parties
existed at court, those of the dauphin and the duke of Alençon, the heads
of which were the constable de Montmorenci and the admiral de Chabot.
Besides the hatred which he felt against Chabot as a political rival, the
haughty Montmorenci found, in the unceremonious tone of equality with
which he was addressed by the admiral, another reason for hating him.
To ruin an enemy by underhand measures was the natural proceeding of a
courtier. He insinuated to the king that Chabot had acquired his riches
by iniquitous practices; and, by holding out the lure of a cardinal’s
hat, he induced Poyet to assist in Chabot’s destruction. The chancellor
exerted himself so strenuously, in raking up matter of accusation against
the intended victim, that he at length produced five-and-twenty charges,
each of which, he declared, would subject the delinquent to capital
punishment. The alleged criminality of Chabot was soon made known to the
king.
It is probable, nevertheless, that remembering the services of Chabot,
and the friendship which had existed ever since their youthful days,
Francis would have overlooked the supposed crimes, had he not been
provoked by a speech which sounded like defiance. Some trifling dispute
occurring between them, he threatened to bring him to trial; to which
Chabot boldly replied, that a trial had no terrors for him, his conduct
having always been so irreproachable, that neither his life nor his
honour could be put in danger. Francis was weak enough to take offence at
this implied challenge; he committed the offender to the castle of Melun,
and directed the chancellor to prosecute him.
Poyet rushed upon his prey with the ferocity of a hungry tiger. He began
by selecting the commissioners who were to sit in judgment on Chabot;
and, to ensure their obedience, he himself, contrary to established
custom, presided over them. Yet, with such instruments, and in spite of
all his unprincipled efforts to spur them on, he was not able fully to
accomplish his purpose. So groundless were the articles of impeachment,
there being only two of them which at all, and those but slightly,
affected the prisoner, that, instead of voting for death, the judges were
disposed either to acquit him, or, at most, to pass a lenient sentence.
By dint, however, of threats, the chancellor compelled them to go far
beyond their intention; they consequently condemned Chabot to a fine of
fifteen thousand livres, confiscation of property, and perpetual exile.
One of them is said to have added to his signature the Latin word _vi_,
in almost imperceptible characters; thus signifying that force had been
used to extort his consent. Not content with the daring contempt of
justice which he had already displayed, Poyet, in drawing up the judgment
of the court, did not hesitate to falsify it, by inserting additional
crimes, and aggravating the penalty.
Though Francis was irritated by the honourable boldness of Chabot, he had
never intended to carry matters to extremity against him. He could not
now avoid being astonished that the charges had dwindled into such utter
insignificance, and that, nevertheless, a sentence of such undue severity
was pronounced; and he appears to have been also warmly solicited in
his behalf by a prevailing advocate, the duchess of Etampes, the royal
mistress, who was a relation of Chabot. Yet though the king designed to
receive the admiral again into favour, he could not deny himself the
mean gratification of taunting him. “Well,” said he to him, “will you
again boast of your innocence?” “Sire,” replied Chabot, “I have but too
well learned, that before God and his sovereign no man must call himself
innocent; but I have one consolation, that all the malice of my enemies
has failed to convict me of having ever been unfaithful to your majesty.”
Chabot was pardoned, and reinstated in his offices. This tardy justice
came too late; though his enemies had been unable to drag him to the
scaffold, they had succeeded in shortening his days. In little more than
twelve months, his existence was terminated by a disease, seemingly of
the heart, which was brought on by the grief and anxiety that he had
suffered.
Chabot, however, lived long enough to witness the downfall of his
adversaries. To Montmorenci the king intimated, that he had no longer
occasion for his services; and the dismissed courtier in consequence
retired to Chantilly, whence he did not emerge during the remainder of
Francis’s reign. A heavier misfortune awaited Poyet, and it speedily fell
upon him. Two females, the duchess of Etampes and the queen of Navarre,
were the foes who overthrew him. The duchess, who was already offended
by his persecution of her relative, he exasperated beyond measure, by
refusing to perform an illegal act in favour of one of her friends; the
queen of Navarre he alienated in a similar manner; and he rendered both
of them more inveterate, by some bitter remarks on the influence which
females possessed over the mind of the sovereign. They combined together
for his ruin, and they effected it. In August, 1542, he was dragged from
his bed, and carried to the Bastile. Thus, after having been allowed
to be unjust with impunity, he was punished for recollecting at last
that he had duties to perform. In this emergency, he had the mingled
audacity and meanness to write to Chabot, imploring his forgiveness and
protection. After having been three years in prison, he was declared
incapable of ever holding office, and was sentenced to five years’
imprisonment, and to pay a fine of a hundred thousand livres. The king
himself, with a strange want of decorum, came forward as a witness
against him on the trial. Poyet died in 1548, an object of general
contempt.
The captives, to whom our attention is now to be directed, were of a
very different character from the chancellor Poyet; they were sufferers
for conscience’ sake; men who, when the question related to religious
interests, deemed it a duty not to submit in silence to arbitrary
power. Their names were Anne du Bourg, and Louis du Faur, and they
were counsellors of the parliament at Paris. The uncle of du Bourg was
chancellor in the reign of Francis I. Du Faur was of a family which had
produced many eminent characters, among whom is to be numbered Guy du
Faur, lord of Pibrac, author of the well-known Quatrains.
Pressed, it is said, by the Guises, and by the duchess of Valentinois,
his mistress, the latter of whom was looking forward to the benefit she
might expect from confiscations, Henry the second unwisely resolved to
carry to the full extent the persecution of the protestants. Hitherto,
only the humbler classes had been marked out for punishment; but, as
nothing more than the mere pleasure of tormenting could be derived
from pursuing them, it was now determined that men of higher rank
should suffer in their turn. This was at least impartial injustice. It
was believed that the reformed doctrines had many partisans among the
magistracy; and the members of the parliament of Paris were therefore
selected, as the subjects upon whom the new experiment of rigour should
be first tried. This step was taken at the suggestion of le Maître, the
chief president, who had the baseness to deliver privately to the king a
list of his protestant colleagues, and also a tempting statement of the
property which they possessed.
It was a custom of the heads of the parliament to meet at stated periods,
for the purpose, among other things, of inquiring into any alleged
neglect or violation of duty on the part of the members. These meetings,
which were established by an edict of Charles VIII., were called the
Mercuriales, from the circumstance of their taking place on a Wednesday.
To one of these assemblies, while it was in the midst of a debate, on the
measures which ought to be adopted with respect to heretics, the king
suddenly came, without any previous notice, accompanied by the Guises,
and other rigidly catholic nobles, and guarded by a formidable escort.
Previously to his arrival, the balance of opinion had inclined to the
side of a lenient administration of the law, until the discipline of the
church had been reformed by a new œcumenical council. Though the monarch
affected to be calm, it was easy to perceive that he was under the
influence of passion. He made a vehement harangue, in which he dwelt on
the disturbances caused by sectaries, and on the necessity of defending
the church, and then ordered the members to resume the debate, and
promised them freedom of speech.
The promise was meant only as a snare. The manner in which the king had
come to the sitting, in open contempt of usage and even of decorum,
plainly showed that his intention was to intimidate. But, by pretending
to guarantee the privilege of freely speaking, he hoped to do away the
impression which his abrupt coming had made, and delude the speakers into
a disclosure of their real sentiments. There were some, perhaps, who
confided in his word; there were others who, doubtless, were aware that
no reliance was to be placed on it, but who, nevertheless, thought they
were called upon to maintain, at all hazards, what they deemed to be the
cause of religion and truth. Of the latter class were Anne du Bourg and
Louis du Faur.
Du Faur admitted that troubles arose in the state from the difference of
religions, but he contended that it ought to be inquired who was really
the author of those troubles; and, with a manifest allusion to the king,
he added, that if this were done, the same reply might perhaps be made as
was given, on a similar occasion, by the prophet Elijah to Ahab, “I have
not troubled Israel, but thou and thy father’s house, in that ye have,
forsaken, the commandments of the Lord, and thou hast followed Baalim.”
The speech of du Bourg, though it seemed to be less directly personal to
the monarch, was as well calculated as that of du Faur to excite angry
feelings in Henry and in many of the hearers, on whose vices it made a
rude attack. There were men, he said, whose blasphemies, adulteries,
horrible debaucheries, and repeated perjuries, crimes worthy of the worst
death, were not merely overlooked, but shamefully encouraged, while
every day new punishments were invented for men who were irreproachable.
“For of what crime can they be accused?” exclaimed he. “Can they be
charged with high treason, they who never mention the sovereign but in
the prayers which they offer up for him? Who can say that they violate
the laws of the state, endeavour to shake the fidelity of the towns, or
incite the provinces to revolt? With all the pains that have been taken,
not even with witnesses picked out for the purpose, has it been possible
to convict them of having so much as thought of these things. No! All
their fault and misfortune is that, by means of the light of the Holy
Scriptures, they have discovered and revealed the shameless turpitude of
the Papal power, and have demanded a salutary reformation. This is their
sedition.”
When all the members had delivered their opinions, some of which were
favourable to mild measures, the king called for the register, in which
were inscribed the opinions of those who had spoken before his arrival,
and also on a previous day. He then addressed to the assembly another
speech of censure and menace, and ended by ordering the arrest of du
Bourg and du Faur, who were present, and likewise of six absent members.
The two former were conveyed to the Bastile, where du Bourg, and probably
du Faur also, was shut up in a cage. Three of the others escaped; the
rest were sent to other places of confinement.
This arbitrary act was the last which Henry had the power of committing.
On that day fortnight, at a tournament, he was mortally wounded by a
splinter from the lance of the count de Montgomery. The scene of the
tournament was near the Bastile; and it is said that as the wounded
monarch was carried past the prison, his conscience smote him, and he
more than once expressed his fears that he had behaved unjustly to men
who were innocent. The cardinal of Lorraine, who was with him, is also
said to have assured him, that such an idea could have been inspired only
by the arch fiend, and admonished him to reject it, and adhere firmly
to his faith. This story, however, has no other foundation than popular
report.
The reign of Francis II. opened under no favourable auspices for the
protestants. The minor king was wholly under the influence of the
Guises, and of his mother Catherine of Medicis, all of whom had vowed a
deadly hostility to them. The persecution was accordingly resumed with
an increase of vigour. The trial of the members of the parliament was
pushed on; but it was against du Bourg that the hatred of the court was
peculiarly directed—the sweeping crimination, which was contained in his
speech before the deceased Henry, had wounded many great personages too
deeply to be forgiven.
Before the death of Henry, a commission had been appointed, which had
interrogated du Bourg on the subject of his religious tenets. He having
candidly avowed them, they were pronounced heretical by the bishop of
Paris, and he was delivered over to the secular authority. Du Bourg
appealed to the archbishop of Sens, and to the parliament, but without
effect. The trial was proceeded with, and, while it was pending, an event
occurred, which contributed to render his enemies still more inveterate.
One of his judges was a counsellor named Minard, a man of profligate
life, who had given violent advice to the late king. Du Bourg, therefore,
repeatedly challenged him as incompetent to sit upon the trial, and, on
Minard refusing to withdraw, the prisoner is said to have exclaimed, “God
will know how to compel thee!” It unfortunately happened that, returning
one evening to his home from the trial, Minard was assassinated, by
a pistol being fired at him. Du Bourg was suspected, and not without
an appearance of reason, of being implicated in the murder, and this
hastened his fate. There is no ground whatever to believe that he was
concerned in the foul deed; but it must be owned, that such prophecies
as he ventured upon are dangerous, because they have a tendency to bring
about their own fulfilment. It is not improbable, that the act was
suggested to the mind of some fanatical protestant by the words of the
prisoner.
It was in vain that the Elector Palatine wrote to the French monarch,
to entreat him to spare the life of du Bourg, and that numerous eminent
persons, even catholics, solicited to the same effect. Neither their
intercession, nor his acknowledged integrity and pure morals, availed to
save him. He was condemned to be hanged and his body burnt, at the Place
de Grêve. He died, at the age of thirty-eight, with a calm heroism, and
Christian spirit of forgiveness, which excited general admiration. His
death, far from being beneficial to the catholic cause, was exceedingly
injurious to it. The protestants regarded him as a martyr, gloried in
him as an honour to their party and faith, and were not slow in taking a
heavy vengeance for his untimely doom.
The blood of du Bourg seems to have deadened the fire of persecution, as
far as related to the other parliamentary prisoners. Some were subjected
to little more than nominal punishments; and even du Faur, the most
obnoxious of them, was only condemned to pay a fine, ask pardon, and be
suspended from his judicial functions for five years. But, comparatively
light as this sentence was, du Faur refused to acquiesce in it; he boldly
protested against it, and after a hard struggle, he was fortunate enough
to obtain its revocation, and to be re-established in his magisterial
capacity. Nor does it appear that this victory was purchased by any
sacrifice of principle.
Among those who, during the new crusade against protestants, had to
lament the loss of liberty, was Francis de Vendôme, Vidame of Chartres,
allied to the princes of the blood and the potent house of Montmorenci.
Vendôme had served in Italy, as a volunteer, under the duke of Aumale,
and, subsequently, held a command there, under the duke of Guise; after
which he was appointed governor of Calais. Closely connected with the
house of Montmorenci, he was irritated beyond measure by the dismissal
of the constable, and cherished a deadly animosity against the Guises,
who were the authors of that measure. It is not wonderful that, under the
influence of these feelings, he should make common cause with the prince
of Condé and the king of Navarre, who were preparing for resistance to
the court. Vendôme took an active part in rousing the protestants to
arms in various parts of the kingdom. But some of his letters, to the
prince of Condé, having been found upon la Sague, an emissary of the
protestant party, he was arrested and sent to the Bastile. There he was
treated with extreme rigour, and was refused permission to see his wife,
though she offered to become a prisoner with him. The letters were in
appearance merely complimentary, but the dread of the torture induced la
Sague to disclose that important secrets were written, with sympathetic
ink, on the cover that contained them. The death of Francis II. and
the pretended reconcilement of the hostile parties on the accession of
Charles IX., would have saved Vendôme from the scaffold, but he did not
live to recover his freedom. Worn out by a life of dissipation, he died,
in his thirty-eighth year, at the Tournelles, to which prison he had been
removed from the Bastile.
The decease of Vendôme took place in 1560, and, for several years, with
the exception of a duke of Lunebourg, who was imprisoned for a quarrel
with the duke of Guise, no prisoner, at least none whose fate history has
thought worthy of recording, appears to have found an abode within the
walls of the Bastile. After the horrible massacre of St. Bartholomew,
there was a moment when the fortress seemed about to receive a princely
captive. The king of Navarre (afterwards Henry IV.) had yielded to the
threats of the royal murderer, and had changed his religion; but the
Prince of Condé was made of sterner stuff. He resisted so firmly all
attempts to induce him to apostatize, that Charles IX. ordered him to
be brought before him, and, in a furious tone, addressed to him three
ominous words; “The mass, death, or the Bastile.” Condé held out a little
longer, but he yielded when he found that du Rosier, a famous protestant
minister, had been converted to the Catholic faith.
It was not till towards the close of the reign of Charles IX. that the
Bastile was again tenanted. That monarch was then sinking rapidly into
the grave, under the pressure of bodily disease, and the perpetual stings
of his conscience. Haunted by appalling dreams, and by direful spectres
and dismal sounds, which his fancy incessantly conjured up, he had fallen
into a state which scarcely the remembrance of his crimes can prevent
us from pitying. It was at this period that the party was formed which
adopted the appellations of Politicians and Malecontents. The first of
these names was chosen to show that the persons assuming it were not
actuated, like the protestants, by religious motives. The oppressive
weight of the taxes, the insolent licentiousness of the soldiery, and the
cruelty and flagrant incapacity of those who managed the public affairs,
were their grounds of complaint. At the head of this party, which soon
became considerable, were William de Montmorenci and his nephew, the
Viscount de Turenne. Though this party consisted of catholics, yet, as
among the objects which it sought to obtain there were many which the
protestants no less eagerly desired, it was not long before a coalition
was formed between them.
To give greater weight and consistence to the party, it was thought
advisable to provide for it a chief of a more elevated rank than
Montmorenci and Turenne. The duke of Alençon, one of the king’s brothers,
who is known in English history as the duke of Anjou, was the chosen
individual. With many defects, and a scanty share of virtues, he had
some qualifications for being head of the party. To the protestants
he was recommended by his being far less hostile than the rest of his
family, and by his having been an unalterable friend of the murdered
admiral Coligni. Alençon was irritated by the restraint, little short of
imprisonment, under which he was kept at court, and by the refusal to
confer on him the lieutenant generalship of the kingdom, which had been
held by his brother Henry; and was consequently not averse from joining
those who could contribute to gratify his ambition. It has, indeed, been
supposed, and the supposition is by no means improbable, that the party,
or at least the protestant branch of it, would have been willing to raise
him to the throne, to the exclusion of Henry, his elder brother.
Two of the principal agents in forwarding the design of the malecontents
were la Mole, and the count de Coconas, the favourites of the duke of
Alençon. La Mole was an officer, a native of Provence. Among the ladies
of the court he was much admired for his liveliness and companionable
qualities. His time was divided, not quite equally, between sinning
and hearing mass; the latter of which he attended three or four times
a day. It was said of him by the king, that whoever wished to keep a
register of la Mole’s debaucheries, need only reckon up his masses. He
was notoriously one of the gallants of Margaret of Valois, as Coconas was
of the duchess of Nevers, the eldest of three sisters, who were called
the Graces. Coconas was one of the many Italians who were attracted into
France by the hope of receiving patronage from Catherine of Medicis. One
anecdote will suffice to demonstrate the fiendishness of his nature.
During the massacre of St. Bartholomew, he bought from the populace
thirty hugonot prisoners, that he might gratify himself, by subjecting
them to torture both of body and mind. After having, by a promise of
saving their lives, induced them to renounce their faith, he put them
slowly to death by numerous superficial dagger wounds. Of this act he was
accustomed to boast. The fate of such a man can excite no pity.
All was arranged for the flight of the duke of Alençon, the king of
Navarre, and the prince of Condé, from the court, in order to join the
malecontents, and hoist the standard of opposition. Bands of troops were
hovering round the palace of St. Germain, to protect their retreat.
But the plot was disconcerted by the vigilance of Catherine of Medicis,
the imprudence of some of the plotters, and the hesitation of the
feeble-minded duke. At two in the morning, Catherine hurried the dying
Charles from St. Germain to Paris in a litter, and placed guards over the
duke and the king of Navarre; Condé, more prudent than his associates,
had embraced the first opportunity to escape. There were some ludicrous
circumstances connected with the hasty retreat to Paris. “The cardinals
of Bourbon, Lorraine, and Guise,” says d’Aubigné, “the chancellor
Birague, and Morvilliers and Bellièvre, were all mounted on Italian
coursers, grasping with both hands their saddle bows, and as thoroughly
frightened at their horses as at the enemy.” Contrasting strongly with
this was the pitiable state of the monarch, with his frame debilitated,
and all the weight of the St. Bartholomew on his soul, groaning, and
mournfully exclaiming, “At least they might have waited till I was dead!”
Indignant at what he called a foul conspiracy, the king ordered that a
rigid enquiry should instantly be commenced. La Mole denied every thing;
Coconas, on the contrary, disclosed all that he knew, and perhaps more.
But the fate of the conspirators was sealed by the duke of Alençon, who
made an ample confession, without even having attempted to stipulate for
the lives of his confederates. Coconas and la Mole, who had been sent to
the Bastile, were now brought to trial; and, by dint of legal sophistry,
the project of bringing about the flight of the princes was construed
into a design against the person of the king.
Coconas and la Mole were condemned to be put to the torture, and then
beheaded. “Poor la Mole!” exclaimed the latter, while he was suffering
the first part of his sentence, “is there no way to obtain a pardon? The
duke, my master, to whom I owe innumerable obligations, commanded me
on my life to say nothing of what he was about to do. I answered, yes,
sir, if you do nothing against the king.” The unfortunate man, like vast
numbers at that period, had faith in magic arts. A waxen image, of which
the heart was pierced through with a needle, had been found among his
effects. On being questioned whether this was not meant to represent the
king, and to be an instrument of tormenting his majesty, he replied that
its only purpose was to inspire love in a lady, of whom he was deeply
enamoured.
On the scaffold, before he laid down his head on the block, he
significantly said to the by-standers, “You see, sirs, that the little
ones are caught, and that the great ones, who have been guilty of the
fault, are allowed to escape.” La Mole displayed his ruling passion
strong in death. His last words, after having prayed to God and the
Virgin, were, “commend me to the kind remembrance of the queen of Navarre
and the ladies.” He was not forgotten by his lady-love; neither was his
companion. Queen Margaret and the duchess of Nevers are said by some
to have embalmed the heads of their admirers, that they might always
preserve them for contemplation; while by others they are asserted to
have taken them in a carriage to a chapel, at the foot of Montmartre, and
buried them with their own hands. Two years afterwards, the sentences
against la Mole and Coconas were annulled by Henry III.
The abortive plot in favour of the duke of Alençon proved a source of
trouble to two individuals, more eminent in rank, and far more estimable
in character, than were la Mole and Coconas. The marshals Francis de
Montmorenci, and Arthur de Cossé, the former of whom was the eldest son
of the celebrated constable, were suspected, or pretended to be so, by
the queen mother; Montmorenci was also well known to feel that hatred
of the Guises which was characteristic of his family. At her suggestion,
therefore, they were committed to the Bastile, by Charles IX. This was
nearly the last exercise of his authority. He died about a fortnight
after, leaving his mother to hold the office of regent, till his
successor, the third Henry, could return from Poland.
Montmorenci was the husband of Diana, the natural daughter of Henry II.,
and had been employed on numerous occasions, civil and military, in all
of which he had honourably acquitted himself. Of his martial exploits the
most prominent was the brave though unsuccessful defence of Terouane. He
was liberal, high-minded, learned, firm, and of invariable rectitude.
Cossé was still more illustrious in arms than his fellow prisoner. He
had distinguished himself at various sieges, particularly those of Sens
and Metz, and in the battle of St. Denis, and many other encounters. Nor
was he a mere enterprising soldier. It is said of him, by contemporary
historians, and it is no light praise, “that his head was as good as his
arm.”
The party which had hitherto been known as that of the Politicians now
took the name of the Third Party. It received a large increase, by the
junction of catholics, whose indignation was excited by the constraint
put upon the duke of Alençon and the king of Navarre, at Vincennes, and
the close imprisonment of two such eminent men as de Montmorenci and
de Cossé. Condé, too, was busy in Germany, stirring up the protestant
princes to succour his friends, and keeping up a continual correspondence
with the French calvinists.
On his taking possession of the throne, Henry set at liberty the king
of Navarre and the duke of Alençon. The marshals, however, were still
retained in confinement. Diana, the wife of Montmorenci, had adopted
a singular mode of moving in her husband’s behalf the feelings of the
monarch. Dressed in deep mourning, and followed by all her female
attendants in the same garb, she met Henry as he was passing through the
street, fell at his feet, and entreated him to take compassion on her
husband, whose health was declining in a prison, into which he had been
thrown without being convicted, or so much as accused, of any crime.
She likewise forcibly urged that, even if his majesty supposed him to
be guilty, he ought to grant him a fair trial. The king seemed to be
affected by her appeal, which was backed by some of the nobles who were
present, and he promised to enquire into the business with as little
delay as possible.
The promise of the king, however, if sincere at the moment, was soon
disregarded. Cossé, who, like his fellow captive, was suffering from bad
health, was, indeed, allowed to take up his abode in his own house, under
a guard; but the only deliverance which was destined for Montmorenci was
deliverance from all the troubles of this world. It appears, in fact,
that his life would not have been safe for a moment, but for the salutary
fear that his death would drive into open hostility his brother Damville,
who held the government of Languedoc. A report having been spread that
Damville was dead, the king resolved to have the marshal strangled in
prison, and, as a preliminary step, it was industriously given out that
he was subject to apoplectic attacks. This barbarous and cowardly scheme
would have been carried into effect, had not an obstacle occurred. Giles
de Souvré, who had been mistakenly selected to perform the assassin’s
part, chanced to be a more honest man than his royal master, and he
purposely interposed so many delays, that time was afforded to ascertain
the falsehood of the report which had announced the death of Damville.
It was neither to the clemency nor the justice of his sovereign that
Montmorenci was ultimately indebted for the recovery of his freedom.
Endangered by the betrayal of a plot into which he had entered against
his brother, Alençon mustered up courage enough to run away. His flight
took place on the 16th of September 1575. As soon as he was in safety, at
Dreux, he issued a manifesto, not unartfully contrived, to gain partisans
in various quarters. Reform in every department was the tempting burden
of its song. It worked its intended effect; the protestants were in
raptures, the Third Party was satisfied with it, and he speedily found
himself in a situation to set the court at defiance.
William, one of the brothers of Montmorenci, whom we have seen one of the
original chiefs of the Politicians, was now about to enter the French
territory at the head of a division of troops, designed to herald the way
to the army which the prince of Condé had succeeded in obtaining from
the Elector Palatine. In the first outbreak of her anger, on hearing
this news, the queen mother sent him word, that, if he dared to advance,
she would despatch to him the heads of the two marshals. His reply was,
“Should the queen do as she threatens, there is nothing of hers in France
on which I will not leave the marks of my revenge.”
Menace having failed, the wily Catherine resorted to an opposite mode
of proceeding. Aware that the liberation of the two marshals would be
imperatively demanded by their armed friends, and that the king was too
weak to refuse it, she determined to try whether she could not secure
their gratitude, by appearing to have the merit of voluntarily releasing
them. They were accordingly restored to liberty. By a declaration, under
the royal seal, Montmorenci was pronounced to be “absolutely innocent of
the crime which had been laid to his charge,” When a similar exculpatory
document was offered to Cossé by the king, he chivalrously replied,
“Excuse me, sire, for declining it; a Cossé ought to think that no one
can believe him to be guilty.”
Though they could not be ignorant of the motive which had induced
Catherine to throw open their prison doors, the marshals acted as if a
favour had really been granted to them. Montmorenci had the largest share
in bringing about the truce, and the subsequent treaty, between the king
and the duke of Alençon; and the loyalty of Cossé was considered to be
so unimpeachable that, in 1578, he received the order of the Holy Ghost.
Montmorenci died in 1579; Cossé in 1582.
The principal favourite of the duke of Alençon, after the death of la
Mole and Coconas, was Louis de Clermont, better known by the appellation
of Bussy d’Amboise. In profligacy he went beyond his predecessors. He
seems to have been a compound of vices, without a single virtue; unless,
indeed, we may give the name of virtue to mere brutal courage. Full
of pride and insolence, eager to involve others in deadly quarrels,
a libertine, a professed duellist, and a cold-blooded assassin, his
being tolerated at the French court, and even admired by many persons,
is an unrefutable evidence of the wretched state of morals among the
nobility of France. Bravery must have been held in a sort of idolatrous
estimation, when respect for it could induce such a man as Crillon to be
the friend of d’Amboise.
The first achievement which Bussy is known to have performed stamps his
name with infamy. He was engaged in a lawsuit against the marquis of
Renel, one of his relations, to recover from him the marquisate, which
Bussy claimed as his right. The marquis had come to Paris, with the king
of Navarre, and was there when the massacre of St. Bartholomew took
place. In the midst of the carnage, Bussy sought him out, and stabbed
him to the heart. The parliament, soon after, passed a decree, admitting
the murderer’s claim; but it is consolatory to find that the decree was
subsequently annulled.
Having attached himself to the duke of Alençon, he was entrusted with the
government of the castle of Angers, and he soon made himself universally
hated, by his extortion and tyranny. When he visited the court with his
master, his arrogance and audacity rose to such a height, that the king’s
favourites, whom he had often insulted, at length formed a scheme to
assassinate him. The attack was made at night, and with superior numbers;
but it was foiled by the skill and resolution of Bussy and his followers.
The monarch himself was not safe from the contemptuous sarcasms of Bussy.
In their dress, Henry and his minions carried to the most extravagant
length the costly and absurd fashions of that period. Bussy one day
attended his patron to court. He himself was simply dressed, but he was
followed by six pages, clad in cloth of gold, and tricked out in the most
approved style of finery. That the point of this silent satire might not
be lost, he insultingly proclaimed aloud, that “the time was come when
ragamuffins would make the most show!” The king was so irritated by this
language, that, for a while, the duke was obliged to forbid Bussy from
appearing in his train.
About the same time, Bussy gave fresh cause of offence to the king.
Ever seeking an opportunity to indulge his passion for duelling, he had
wantonly quarrelled with a gentleman named St. Phal. Looking at some
embroidery, St. Phal remarked that the letter X was worked on it; Bussy,
from sheer contradiction, asserted that the letter was a Y. A duel of six
against six in consequence took place, and Bussy was slightly wounded.
As, however, Bussy sent his antagonist a second challenge, and expressed
a stubborn determination to follow up the quarrel to the last extremity,
the king interposed to put an end to it. Bussy reluctantly consented to
meet St. Phal, in the king’s presence, for the purpose of reconcilement,
and when, with that intent, he went to the Louvre, he was accompanied
into the palace by a band of two hundred determined partisans. The anger
of the king was excited by this irruption of bravos, but for the present
he restrained it.
In one of those fits of suspecting his brother, with which Henry was
occasionally seized, he went by night to put him under arrest, and, at
the same time, he sent Bussy to the Bastile. On the following morning, a
council was held, at which, prompted by the queen mother, the ministers
declared that the step which the king had taken was impolitic, and
advised him to be reconciled with the duke. Henry consented. The only
stipulation which he made was, that Bussy, on being liberated, should be
reconciled to Caylus, the king’s favourite, with whom he was at enmity.
Bussy complied, and, in complying, contrived to throw ridicule on the
weak monarch. “Sire,” said he, “if you wish me to kiss him, I am quite
ready to do it;” then, suiting the action to the word, he embraced Caylus
in such a thoroughly farcical style, that the spectators were unable to
repress their laughter.
It was not long before the libertinism of Bussy supplied Henry with the
means of destroying him. It is probable that, in his amours, the pleasure
of betraying the women who confided in him formed one of the greatest
inducements to pursue them—a base feeling, which is still prevalent. In
a letter to the duke of Anjou, he boasted that he had been spreading his
nets for the Great Huntsman’s beast, and that he held her fast in them.
The Great Huntsman was the count de Montsoreau, who held that office;
the beast, as she was politely called, was the count’s wife, whom the
profligate writer had seduced. This letter Anjou put into the king’s
hands, as a good jest. Henry kept it, and communicated it to the count,
whom he urged to revenge himself on the offender. Montsoreau was not
backward to follow the king’s advice. He hurried home, and compelled his
wife to write to Bussy, to make an assignation with him. Bussy was true
to the appointment. Instead, however, of meeting the countess, he was
attacked by Montsoreau and several men, all of whom wore coats of mail.
In spite of the odds against him, he fought for some time with determined
spirit; but, finding that he must eventually be overpowered, he tried
to escape through the window, and was slain by a stab in the back. “The
whole province,” says de Thou, “was delighted at his fall, and even the
duke of Anjou was not very sorry to be rid of a man who began to be a
burthen to him.”