seemed enthusiastic in his favor. But the shrewd soldier had no idea of
shutting himself up in a walled town, to be besieged there by Mayenne.
So, after carefully inspecting its fortifications, he left five hundred
men within the town, assisted by a garrison of burgesses, and
established his camp on a neighboring hill, crowned by the old castle of
Arques, where he put all his men and all the peasants that could be
found busily to work digging like beavers, working night and day to
fortify the camp. He set the example himself in the use of the spade.
"It is a wonder I am alive with such work as I have," he wrote at the
time. "God have pity upon me and show me mercy, blessing my labors, as
He does in spite of many folks. I am well, and my affairs are going
well. I have taken Eu. The enemy, who are double me just now, thought to
catch me there; but I drew off towards Dieppe, and I await them in a
camp that I am fortifying. To-morrow will be the day when I shall see
them, and I hope, with God's help, that if they attack me they will
find they have made a bad bargain."
The enemy came, as Henry had said, saw his preparations, and by a
skilful manoeuvre sought to render them useless. Mayenne had no fancy
for attacking those strong works in front. He managed, by an
unlooked-for movement, to push himself between the camp and the town,
"hoping to cut off the king's communications with the sea, divide his
forces, deprive him of his reinforcements from England, and, finally,
surround him and capture him, as he had promised the Leaguers of Paris,
who were already talking of the iron cage in which the Bearnese would be
sent to them."
But Henry IV. was not the man to be caught easily in a trap. Much as had
been his labor at digging, he at once changed his plans, and decided
that it would not pay him to await the foe in his intrenchments. If they
would not come to him, he must go to them, preserving his communications
at any cost. Chance, rather than design, brought the two armies into
contact. A body of light-horse approached the king's intrenchments. A
sharp skirmish followed.
"My son," said Marshal de Biron to the young Count of Auvergne, "charge;
now is the time."
The young soldier--a prince by birth--obeyed, and so effectively that he
put the Leaguers to rout, killed three hundred of them, and returned to
camp unobstructed. On the succeeding two days similar encounters took
place, with like good fortune for Henry's army. Mayenne was annoyed.
His prestige was in danger of being lost. He determined to recover it by
attacking the intrenchments of the king with his whole army.
The night of the 20th of September came. It was a very dark one. Henry,
having reason to expect an attack, kept awake the whole night. In
company with a group of his officers, he gazed over the dark valley
within which lay Mayenne's army. The silence was profound. Afar off
could be seen a long line of lights, so flickering and inconstant that
the observers were puzzled to decide if they were men or glow-worms.
At five in the morning, Henry gave orders that every man should be at
his post. He had his breakfast brought to him on the field, and ate it
with a hearty appetite, seated in a fosse with his officers around him.
While there a prisoner was brought in who had been taken during a
reconnoissance.
"Good-morning, Belin," said the king, who knew him. "Embrace me for your
welcome appearance."
Belin did so, taking the situation philosophically.
"To give you appetite for dinner," he said, "you are about to have work
to do with thirty thousand foot and ten thousand horse. Where are your
forces?" he continued, looking around curiously.
"You don't see them all, M. de Belin," answered Henry. "You don't reckon
the good God and the good right, but they are ever with me."
Belin had told the truth. About ten o'clock Mayenne made his attack. It
was a day ill-suited for battle, for there lay upon the field so thick
a fog that the advancing lines could not see each other at ten paces
apart. Despite this, the battle proceeded briskly, and for nearly three
hours the two armies struggled, now one, now the other, in the
ascendant.
Henry fought as vigorously as any of his men, all being so confusedly
mingled in the fog that there was little distinction between officers
and soldiers. At one time he found himself so entangled in a medley of
disorganized troopers that he loudly shouted,--
"Courage, gentlemen; pray, courage! Are there not among you fifty
gentlemen willing to die with their king?"
The confusion was somewhat alleviated by the arrival, at this juncture,
of five hundred men from Dieppe, whose opportune coming the king gladly
greeted. Springing from his horse, he placed himself beside Chatillon,
their leader, to fight in the trenches. The battle, which had been hot
at this point, now grew furious, and for some fifteen minutes there was
a hand-to-hand struggle in the fog, like that of two armies fighting in
the dead of night.
Then came a welcome change. For what followed we may quote Sully. "When
things were in this desperate state," he says, "the fog, which had been
very thick all the morning, dropped down suddenly, and the cannon of the
castle of Arques, getting sight of the enemy's army, a volley of four
pieces was fired, which made four beautiful lanes in their squadrons and
battalions. That pulled them up quite short; and three or four volleys
in succession, which produced marvellous effects, made them waver, and,
little by little, retire all of them behind the turn of the valley, out
of cannon-shot, and finally to their quarters."
Mayenne was defeated. The king held the field. He pursued the enemy for
some distance, and then returned to Arques to return thanks to God for
the victory. Immediately afterwards, Mayenne struck camp and marched
away, leaving Henry master of the situation. The king of Navarre had
scored a master-point in the contest for the throne of France.
During the ensuing year the cause of the king rapidly advanced. More and
more of France acknowledged him as the legitimate heir to the throne. A
year after the affair at Dieppe he marched suddenly and rapidly on
Paris, and would have taken it had not Mayenne succeeded in throwing his
army into the city when it was half captured. In March, 1590, the two
armies met again on the plain of Ivry, a village half-way between Mantes
and Dreux, and here was fought one of the famous battles of history, a
conflict whose final result was to make Henry IV. king of all France.
On this notable field the king was greatly outnumbered. Mayenne had
under his command about four thousand horse and twenty thousand foot,
while Henry's force consisted of three thousand horse and eight thousand
foot. But the king's men were much better disciplined, and much more
largely moved by patriotism, Mayenne's army being in considerable part
made up of German and Swiss auxiliaries. The king's men, Catholics and
Protestants alike, were stirred by a strong religious enthusiasm. In a
grave and earnest speech to his men, Henry placed the issue of the day
in the hands of the Almighty. The Catholics of his army crowded to the
neighboring churches to hear mass. The Huguenots, much fewer in number,
"also made their prayers after their sort."
The day of battle dawned,--March 14, 1590. Henry's army was drawn up
with the infantry to right and left,--partly made up of German and Swiss
auxiliaries,--the cavalry, under his own command, in the centre. In this
arm, in those days of transition between ancient and modern war, the
strength of armies lay, and those five lines of horsemen were that day
to decide the fate of the field.
In the early morning Henry displayed a winning instance of that generous
good feeling for which he was noted. Count Schomberg, colonel of the
German auxiliaries, had, some days before, asked for the pay of his
troops, saying that they would not fight if not paid. Henry, indignant
at this implied threat, had harshly replied,--
"People do not ask for money on the eve of a battle."
He now, just as the battle was about to begin, approached Schomberg with
a look of contrition on his face.
"Colonel," he said, "I have hurt your feelings. This may be the last day
of my life. I cannot bear to take away the honor of a brave and honest
gentleman like you. Pray forgive me and embrace me."
"Sir," answered Schomberg, with deep feeling, "the other day your
Majesty wounded me; to-day you kill me."
He gave up the command of the German reiters that he might fight in the
king's own squadron, and was killed in the battle.
As the two armies stood face to face, waiting for the signal of onset,
Henry rode along the front of his squadron, and halted opposite their
centre.
"Fellow-soldiers," he said, "you are Frenchmen; behold the enemy! If
to-day you run my risks, I also run yours. I will conquer or die with
you. Keep your ranks well, I pray you. If the heat of battle disperse
you for a while, rally as soon as you can under those pear-trees you see
up yonder to my right; and if you lose sight of your standards, do not
lose sight of my white plume. Make that your rallying point, for you
will always find it in the path of honor, and, I hope, of victory also."
And Henry pointed significantly to the snow-white plume that ornamented
his helmet, while a shout of enthusiastic applause broke from all those
who had heard his stirring appeal. Those words have become famous. The
white plume of Henry of Navarre is still one of the rallying points of
history. It has also a notable place in poetry, in Macaulay's stirring
ode of "Ivry," from which we quote:
"'And if my standard-bearer fall,
As fall full well he may;
For never saw I promise yet
Of such a bloody fray;
Press where ye see my white plume shine
Amidst the ranks of war,
And be your oriflamme to-day
The helmet of Navarre.'"
The words we have quoted spoken, Henry galloped along the whole line of
his army; then halted again, threw his bridle over his arm, and said,
with clasped hands and deep feeling,--
"O God, Thou knowest my thoughts, and dost see to the very bottom of my
heart; if it be for my people's good that I keep the crown, favor Thou
my cause and uphold my arms. But if Thy holy will have otherwise
ordained, at least let me die, O God, in the midst of these brave
soldiers who give their lives for me!"
The infantry began the battle. Egmont, in command of Mayenne's right
wing, attacked sharply, but after a brief success was killed and his men
repulsed. On the king's right, Aumont, Biron, and Montpensier drove
their opponents before them. At this stage of the affray Mayenne, in
command of the powerful body of cavalry in the centre, fell upon the
king's horse with a furious charge, which for the time threatened to
carry all before it. The lines wavered and broke; knights and nobles
fell back; confusion began and was increasing; the odds appeared too
great; for a brief and perilous period the battle seemed lost. At this
critical moment Henry came to the rescue. Victory or death had been his
word to his men. His promise was now to be kept in deeds. Pointing with
his sword to the enemy, and calling in a loud voice upon all who heard
him to follow, he spurred fiercely forward, and in a moment his white
plume was seen waving in the thickest ranks of the foe.
His cry had touched the right place in the hearts of his followers.
Forgetting every thought but that of victory and the rescue of their
beloved leader, they pushed after him in a gallant and irresistible
charge, which resembled in its impetuosity that of the Black Prince at
Poitiers. Mayenne's thronging horsemen wavered and broke before this
impetuous rush. Into the heart of the opposing army rode Henry and his
ardent followers, cutting, slashing, shouting in victorious enthusiasm.
In a few minutes the forward movement of Mayenne's cavalry was checked.
His troops halted, wavered, broke, and fled, hotly pursued by their
foes. The battle was won. That rush of the white plume had carried all
before it, and swept the serried ranks of the Leaguers to the winds. Let
us quote the poetic rendition of this scene from Macaulay's ode.
"Hurrah! the foes are moving!
Hark to the mingled din
Of fife, and steed, and trump, and drum
And roaring culverin!
The fiery duke is pricking fast
Across St André's plain,
With all the hireling cavalry
Of Gueldres and Almayne.
'Now by the lips of those ye love,
Fair gentlemen of France,
Charge for the golden lilies,
Upon them with the lance!'
A thousand spurs are striking deep,
A thousand spears in rest,
A thousand knights are pressing close
Behind a snow-white crest,
And in they burst, and on they rushed,
While, like a gliding star,
Amidst the thickest carnage blazed
The helmet of Navarre."
The enemy's cavalry being in flight and hotly pursued, Henry with a
handful of horsemen (he had but thirty at his back when he came out of
the mêlée) charged upon the Walloons and Swiss, who instantly broke and
fled, with such impetuous haste that they left their standards behind
them.
"Slay the strangers, but spare the French," was the king's order, as a
hot pursuit of the flying infantry began, in which the German
auxiliaries in particular were cut down mercilessly.
"And then we thought on vengeance,
And all along our van,
'Remember St. Bartholomew!'
Was passed from man to man.
But out spake gentle Henry,
'No Frenchman is my foe;
Down, down with every foreigner,
But let your brethren go.'"
The Swiss, however, ancient friends and allies of France, begged the
king's compassion and were admitted to mercy, being drafted into his
service. The flying Germans and French were severely punished, great
numbers of them falling, many more being taken, the list of prisoners
including a large number of lords and leaders of the foe. The battle had
been remarkably short. It was won by the cavalry, the infantry having
scarcely come into action. As to its effect, we may quote again from the
poem.
"Now glory to the Lord of Hosts,
From whom all glories are,
And glory to our sovereign liege,
King Henry of Navarre.
Now let there be the merry sound
Of music and of dance,
Through thy corn-fields green and sunny vines,
Oh, pleasant land of France.
Hurrah! Hurrah! a single field
Hath turned the chance of war!
Hurrah! Hurrah! for Ivry,
And Henry of Navarre!"
It "turned the chance of war" in truth, in a great measure. Paris was in
consternation. Everywhere was a great change in public opinion. Men
ceased to look on Henry as an adventurous soldier, and came to regard
him as a great prince, fighting for his own. Beyond this, however, the
effect was not immediate. Paris remained in the hands of the League. A
Spanish League was formed. The difficulties seemed to grow deeper. The
only easy solution to them was an abjuration of the Protestant faith,
and to this view Henry in the end came. He professed conversion to
Catholicism, and all opposition ceased. Henry IV. became the fully
acknowledged king of France, and for the time being all persecution of
the Huguenots was at an end.
_THE MURDER OF A KING._
History is full of stories of presentiments, of "visions of sudden
death," made notable by their realization, of strange disasters
predicted in advance. Doubtless there have been very many presentiments
that failed to come true, enough, possibly, to make those that have been
realized mere coincidences. However that be, these agreements of
prediction and event are, to say the least, curious. The case of Cæsar
is well known. We have now to relate that of Henry IV.
Sully has told the story. Henry had married, as a second wife, Mary de'
Medici, daughter of the Grand Duke of Tuscany, and a woman whose
headstrong temper and cantankerous disposition were by no means
calculated to make his life with her an agreeable one. In the end she
strongly insisted on being crowned queen, a desire on her part which was
very unpleasant to her royal husband, who seemed to feel that some
disaster impended over the event.
"Hey! my friend," he said to Sully, his intimate, "I know not what is
the meaning of it, but my heart tells me that some misfortune will
happen to me."
He was seated on a low chair, his face disturbed by uneasy thought, his
fingers drumming on his spectacle-case. Of a sudden he sprang up, and
struck his hand sharply on his thigh.
"By God!" he said; "I shall die in this city, and shall never go out of
it. They will kill me. I see quite well that they have no other remedy
in their dangers but my death. Ah! accursed coronation; thou wilt be the
cause of my death!"
"What fancy is this of yours?" asked Sully. "If it continue, I am of
opinion that you should break off this anointment and coronation. If you
please to give me orders, it shall be done."
"Yes, break off the coronation," said the king. "Let me hear no more
about it. I shall have my mind at rest from divers fancies which certain
warnings have put into it. To hide nothing from you, I have been told
that I was to be killed at the first grand ceremony I should undertake,
and that I should die in a carriage."
"You never told me that, sir," answered Sully. "I have often been
astounded to hear you cry out when in a carriage, as if you had dreaded
this petty peril, after having so many times seen you amidst
cannon-balls, musketry, lance-thrusts, pike-thrusts, and sword-thrusts,
without being a bit afraid. Since your mind is so exercised thereby, if
I were you, I would go away to-morrow, let the coronation take place
without you, or put it off to another time, and not enter Paris for a
long time, or in a carriage. If you please, I will send word to Notre
Dame and St. Denys to stop everything and to withdraw the workmen."
"I am very much inclined," said the king; "but what will my wife say?
She has gotten this coronation marvellously into her head."
"She may say what she likes," rejoined Sully. "But I cannot think that,
when she knows your opinion about it, she will persist any longer."
He did not know Mary de' Medici. She did persist strongly and
offensively. For three days the matter was disputed, with high words on
both sides. In the end, Henry, weary of the contention, and finding it
impossible to convince or silence his obstinate wife, gave way, and the
laborers were again set to work to prepare for the coronation.
Despite his presentiments Henry remained in Paris, and gave orders for
the immediate performance of the ceremony, as if he were anxious to have
done with it, and to pass the crisis in his life which he feared. The
coronation was proclaimed on the 12th of May, 1610. It took place on the
13th, at St. Denys. The tragical event which he had dreaded did not take
place. He breathed easier.
On the next day, the 14th, he took it in mind to go to the arsenal to
see Sully, who was ill. Yet the same indecision and fear seemed to
possess him. He stirred about in an unquiet and irresolute mood, saying
several times to the queen, "My dear, shall I go or not?"
He went so far as to leave the room two or three times, but each time
returned, in the same doubt.
"My dear, shall I really go?" he said to the queen; and then, making up
his mind, he kissed her several times and bade her adieu.
"I shall only go there and back," he said; "I shall be here again almost
directly."
On reaching his carriage, M. de Praslin, the captain of his guard,
proposed to attend him, but he would not permit it, saying,--
"Get you gone; I want nobody; go about your business."
Yet that morning, in a conversation with Guise and Bassompierre, he had
spoken as if he dreaded quickly coming death.
"You will live, please God, long years yet," said Bassompierre. "You are
only in the flower of your age, in perfect bodily health and strength,
full of honor more than any mortal man, in the most flourishing kingdom
in the world, loved and adored by your subjects, with fine houses, fine
women, fine children who are growing up."
Henry sighed, as if still oppressed by his presentiments, and sadly
answered,--
"My friend, all that must be left."
Those were his last words of which any record remains, save the few he
spoke in the carriage. A few hours afterwards all the earthly blessings
of which Bassompierre spoke were naught to him. The king was dead.
To return to our subject; in the carriage with the king were several
gentlemen of the court. Henry occupied the rear seat at the left, with
M. d'Epernon seated at his right, and M. de Montbazon between him and
the door, while several other gentlemen occupied the remaining seats.
When the carriage reached the Croix du Tiroir, the coachman asked
whither he should drive, and was bidden to go towards St. Innocent. On
the way thither, while in the Rue de la Ferronnerie, a cart obstructed
the way, so that the carriage had to turn towards the sidewalk and to
proceed more slowly. Here were some ironmongers' shops, beside one of
which lurked a man, his eyes keenly fixed on the approaching carriage,
his hand nervously clutching some object in his pocket.
As the carriage moved slowly by, this man sprang from his covert and
rushed towards it, a knife in his hand. In an instant he had dealt the
king two blows, in rapid succession, in the left side. The first struck
him below the armpit and went upward, merely grazing the flesh. The
other proved more dangerous. It entered his side between the fifth and
sixth ribs, and, taking a downward direction, cut a large blood-vessel.
The king, by chance, had his left hand on the shoulder of M. de
Montbazon, and was leaning towards M. d'Epernon, to whom he was
speaking. He thus laid himself more fully open to the assassin's knife.
All had passed so quickly that no movement of defence was possible.
Henry gave a low cry and made a few movements.
"What is the matter, sir?" asked M. de Montbazon, who had not seen the
affair.
"It is nothing," answered the king. "It is nothing," he repeated, his
voice now so low that they could barely hear him. Those were the last
words he spoke.
The assassin had been seized. He was a fanatic, named François
Ravaillac, who had been roused to his mad act by rumors that Henry
intended to make war upon the pope, and other baseless fancies of the
king's opponents. With him we are not further concerned, other than to
say that he was made to suffer the most barbarous tortures for his deed.
The carriage was turned and driven back to the Louvre. On reaching the
entrance steps some wine was given to the wounded monarch. An officer of
the guard raised his head, his only sign of intelligence being some
movements of the eyes. In a moment more they were closed, never to be
opened again.
He was carried up-stairs and laid on the couch in his closet, and from
there taken to the bed in his chamber. As he lay there some one gave him
holy water, and M. de Vic, a councillor of state, put to his mouth the
cross of his order, and directed his thoughts to God. All this was lost
on the king. He lay motionless and insensible. All around him were in
tears. The grief of the queen was unconsolable. All Paris was weeping.
The monarch against whom the Parisians had so bitterly fought they now
mourned as they would have done for their dearest friend.
The surgeons wanted to dress the king's wounds. Milon, the chief
physician, who sat weeping at the bedside, waved them aside. A faint
sigh died away on the king's lips. "It is all over," said Milon, sadly.
"He is gone."
What followed may be told in a few words. The old adage, "The king is
dead; long live the king!" was the thought of practical men of affairs.
Sully, whom the news of the assassination had raised in haste from his
sick-bed, put himself quickly at the head of some forty horse and rode
towards the palace. Guise and Bassompierre had come to the door, to see
what was passing outside, as he rode up.
"Gentlemen," he said to them, with tearful eyes, "if the service you
vowed to the king be impressed upon your souls as deeply as it ought to
be with all good Frenchmen, swear this moment to keep towards the king's
son and heir the same allegiance that you showed him, and to spend your
lives and your blood in avenging his death."
"Sir," answered Bassompierre, "it is for us to cause this oath to be
taken by others; we have no need to be exhorted thereto."
Leaving them, Sully rode to the Bastille, which he took possession of,
and sent out soldiers to seize and carry off all the bread that could be
found in the market and at the shops of the bakers. He despatched a
messenger also, in the greatest haste, to his son-in-law, M. de Rohan,
then in command of a force of six thousand Swiss, bidding him to march
with all speed upon Paris.