1568-1572

Emotions of Henry. ­His military sagacity. ­Enthusiasm inspired by Jeanne. ­The failure of Catharine. ­The second defeat. ­The wounded friends. ­The reserve force. ­Misfortunes of Coligni. ­His letter. ­The third army. ­The tide of victory changed. ­The treaty of St. Germaine-en-Laye. ­Perfidy of Catharine. ­The court at Rochelle. ­The two courts. ­Marriage of Elizabeth. ­The Princess Marguerite. ­Effects of the connection. ­A royal match. ­Repugnance of Jeanne d’Albret. ­Objections overcome. ­Perjury of Charles IX. ­Displays of friendship. ­Indifference of Marguerite. ­Preparations for the wedding. ­Death of Jeanne. ­Demonstrations of grief. ­Different reports. ­The King of Navarre. ­Indifference. ­Coligni lured to Paris. ­He is remonstrated with. ­The nuptial day. ­The scene. ­Small favors gratefully received. ­Mass. ­National festivities. ­The tournament. ­Strange representations. ­Regal courtesy. ­Impediments to departure. ­Mission from the Pope. ­The reply.

Young Henry of Navarre was but about fourteen years of age when, from one of the hills in the vicinity, he looked upon the terrible battle of Jarnac.  It is reported that, young as he was, he pointed out the fatal errors which were committed by the Protestants in all the arrangements which preceded the battle.

“It is folly,” he said, “to think of fighting, with forces so divided, a united army making an attack at one point.”

For the security of his person, deemed so precious to the Protestants, his friends, notwithstanding his entreaties and even tears, would not allow him to expose himself to any of the perils of the conflict.  As he stood upon an eminence which overlooked the field of battle, surrounded by a few faithful guards, he gazed with intense anguish upon the sanguinary scene spread out before him.  He saw his friends utterly defeated, and their squadrons trampled in the dust beneath the hoofs of the Catholic cavalry.

The Protestants, without loss of time, rallied anew their forces.  The Queen of Navarre soon saw thousands of strong arms and brave hearts collecting again around her banner.  Accompanied by her son, she rode through their ranks, and addressed them in words of feminine yet heroic eloquence, which roused their utmost enthusiasm.  But few instances have been recorded in which human hearts have been more deeply moved than were these martial hosts by the brief sentences which dropped from the lips of this extraordinary woman.  Henry, in the most solemn manner, pledged himself to consecrate all his energies to the defense of the Protestant religion.  To each of the chiefs of the army the queen also presented a gold medal, suspended from a golden chain, with her own name and that of her son impressed upon one side, and on the other the words “Certain peace, complete victory, or honorable death.”  The enthusiasm of the army was raised to the highest pitch, and the heroic queen became the object almost of the adoration of her soldiers.

Catharine, seeing the wonderful enthusiasm with which the Protestant troops were inspired by the presence of the Queen of Navarre, visited the head-quarters of her own army, hoping that she might also enkindle similar ardor.  Accompanied by a magnificent retinue of her brilliantly-accoutred generals, she swept, like a gorgeous vision, before her troops.  She lavished presents upon her officers, and in high-sounding phrase harangued the soldiers; but there was not a private in the ranks who did not know that she was a wicked and a polluted woman.  She had talent, but no soul.  All her efforts were unavailing to evoke one single electric spark of emotion.  She had sense enough to perceive her signal failure and to feel its mortification.  No one either loved or respected Catharine.  Thousands hated her, yet, conscious of her power, either courting her smiles or dreading her frown, they often bowed before her in adulation.

The two armies were soon facing each other upon the field of battle.  It was the third of October, 1569.  More than fifty thousand combatants met upon the plains of Moncontour.  All generalship seemed to be ignored as the exasperated adversaries rushed upon each other in a headlong fight.  The Protestants, outnumbered, were awfully defeated.  Out of twenty-five thousand combatants whom they led into the field, but eight thousand could be rallied around their retreating banner after a fight of but three quarters of an hour.  All their cannon, baggage, and munitions of war were lost.  No mercy was granted to the vanquished.

Coligni, at the very commencement of the battle, was struck by a bullet which shattered his jaw.  The gushing blood under his helmet choked him, and they bore him upon a litter from the field.  As they were carrying the wounded admiral along, they overtook another litter upon which was stretched L’Estrange, the bosom friend of the admiral, also desperately wounded.  L’Estrange, forgetting himself, gazed for a moment with tearful eyes upon the noble Coligni, and then gently said, “It is sweet to trust in God.”  Coligni, unable to speak, could only look a reply.  Thus the two wounded friends parted.  Coligni afterward remarked that these few words were a cordial to his spirit, inspiring him with resolution and hope.

Henry of Navarre, and his cousin, Henry of Conde, son of the prince who fell at the battle of Jarnac, from a neighboring eminence witnessed this scene of defeat and of awful carnage.  The admiral, unwilling to expose to danger lives so precious to their cause, had stationed them there with a reserve of four thousand men under the command of Louis of Nassau.  When Henry saw the Protestants giving way, he implored Louis that they should hasten with the reserve to the protection of their friends; but Louis, with military rigor, awaited the commands of the admiral.  “We lose our advantage, then,” exclaimed the prince, “and consequently the battle.”

The most awful of earthly calamities seemed now to fall like an avalanche upon Coligni, the noble Huguenot chieftain.  His beloved brother was slain.  Bands of wretches had burned down his castle and laid waste his estates.  The Parliament of Paris, composed of zealous Catholics, had declared him guilty of high treason, and offered fifty thousand crowns to whoever would deliver him up, dead or alive.  The Pope declared to all Europe that he was a “detestable, infamous, execrable man, if, indeed, he even merited the name of man.”  His army was defeated, his friends cut to pieces, and he himself was grievously wounded, and was lying upon a couch in great anguish.  Under these circumstances, thirteen days after receiving his wound, he thus wrote to his children: 

“We should not repose on earthly possessions.  Let us place our hope beyond the earth, and acquire other treasures than those which we see with our eyes and touch with our hands.  We must follow Jesus our leader, who has gone before us.  Men have ravished us of what they could.  If such is the will of God, we shall be happy and our condition good, since we endure this loss from no wrong you have done those who have brought it to you, but solely for the hate they have borne me because God was pleased to direct me to assist his Church.  For the present, it is enough to admonish and conjure you, in the name of God, to persevere courageously in the study of virtue.”

In the course of a few weeks Coligni rose from his bed, and the Catholics were amazed to find him at the head of a third army.  The indomitable Queen of Navarre, with the calm energy which ever signalized her character, had rallied the fugitives around her, and had reanimated their waning courage by her own invincible spirit.  Nobles and peasants from all the mountains of Béarn, and from every province in France, thronged to the Protestant camp.  Conflict after conflict ensued.  The tide of victory now turned in favor of the Reformers.  Henry, absolutely refusing any longer to retire from the perils of the field, engaged with the utmost coolness, judgment, and yet impetuosity in all the toils and dangers of the battle.  The Protestant cause gained strength.  The Catholics were disheartened.  Even Catharine became convinced that the extermination of the Protestants by force was no longer possible.  So once more they offered conditions of peace, which were promptly accepted.  These terms, which were signed at St. Germaine-en-Laye the 8th of August, 1570, were more favorable than the preceding.  The Protestants were allowed liberty of worship in all the places then in their possession.  They were also allowed public worship in two towns in each province of the kingdom.  They were permitted to reside any where without molestation, and were declared eligible to any public office.

Coligni, mourning over the untold evils and miseries of war, with alacrity accepted these conditions.  “Sooner than fall back into these disturbances,” said he, “I would choose to die a thousand deaths, and be dragged through the streets of Paris.”

The queen, however, and her advisers were guilty of the most extreme perfidy in this truce.  It was merely their object to induce the foreign troops who had come to the aid of the allies to leave the kingdom, that they might then exterminate the Protestants by a general massacre.  Catharine decided to accomplish by the dagger of the assassin that which she had in vain attempted to accomplish on the field of battle.  This peace was but the first act in the awful tragedy of St. Bartholomew.

Peace being thus apparently restored, the young Prince of Navarre now returned to his hereditary domains and visited its various provinces, where he was received with the most lively demonstrations of affection.  Various circumstances, however, indicated to the Protestant leaders that some mysterious and treacherous plot was forming for their destruction.  The Protestant gentlemen absented themselves, consequently, from the court of Charles IX.  The king and his mother were mortified by these evidences that their perfidy was suspected.

Jeanne, with her son, after visiting her subjects in all parts of her own dominions, went to Rochelle, where they were joined by many of the most illustrious of their friends.  Large numbers gathered around them, and the court of the Queen of Navarre was virtually transferred to that place.  Thus there were two rival courts, side by side, in the same kingdom.  Catharine, with her courtiers, exhibited boundless luxury and voluptuousness at Paris.  Jeanne d’Albret, at Rochelle, embellished her court with all that was noble in intellect, elegant in manners, and pure in morals.  Catharine and her submissive son Charles IX. left nothing untried to lure the Protestants into a false security.  Jeanne scrupulously requited the courtesies she received from Catharine, though she regarded with much suspicion the adulation and the sycophancy of her proud hostess.

The young King of France, Charles IX., who was of about the same age with Henry, and who had been his companion and playmate in childhood, was now married to Elizabeth, the daughter of the Emperor Maximilian II. of Austria.  Their nuptials were celebrated with all the ostentatious pomp which the luxury of the times and the opulence of the French monarchy could furnish.  In these rejoicings the courts of France and Navarre participated with the semblance of the most heartfelt cordiality.  Protestants and Catholics, pretending to forget that they had recently encountered each other with fiendlike fury in fields of blood, mingled gayly in these festivities, and vied with each other in the exchange of courtly greetings and polished flatteries.  Catharine and Charles IX. lavished, with the utmost profusion, their commendations and attentions upon the young Prince of Navarre, and left no arts of dissimulation unessayed which might disarm the fears and win the confidence of their victims.

The queen mother, with caressing fondness, declared that Henry must be her son.  She would confer upon him Marguerite, her youngest daughter.  This princess had now become a young lady, beautiful in the extreme, and highly accomplished in all those graces which can kindle the fires and feed the flames of passion; but she was also as devoid of principle as any male libertine who contaminated by his presence a court whose very atmosphere was corruption.  Many persons of royal blood had most earnestly sought the hand of this princess, for an alliance with the royal family of France was an honor which the proudest sovereigns might covet.  Such a connection, in its political aspects, was every thing Henry could desire.  It would vastly augment the consideration and the power of the young prince, and would bring him a long step nearer to the throne of France.  The Protestants were all intensely interested in this match, as it would invest one, destined soon to become their most prominent leader, with new ability to defend their rights and to advocate their cause.  It is a singular illustration of the hopeless corruption of the times, that the notorious profligacy of Marguerite seems to have been considered, even by Henry himself, as no obstacle to the union.

A royal marriage is ordinarily but a matter of state policy.  Upon the cold and icy eminence of kingly life the flowers of sympathy and affection rarely bloom.  Henry, without hesitation, acquiesced in the expediency of this nuptial alliance.  He regarded it as manifestly a very politic partnership, and did not concern himself in the least about the agreeable or disagreeable qualities of his contemplated spouse.  He had no idea of making her his companion, much less his friend.  She was to be merely his wife.

Jeanne d’Albret, however, a woman of sincere piety, and in whose bosom all noble thoughts were nurtured, cherished many misgivings.  Her Protestant principles caused her to shrink from the espousals of her son with a Roman Catholic.  Her religious scruples, and the spotless purity of her character, aroused the most lively emotions of repugnance in view of her son’s connection with one who had not even the modesty to conceal her vices.  State considerations, however, finally prevailed, and Jeanne, waiving her objections, consented to the marriage.  She yielded, however, with the greatest reluctance, to the unceasing importunities of her friends.  They urged that this marriage would unite the two parties in a solid peace, and thus protect the Protestants from persecution, and rescue France from unutterable woe.  Even the Admiral Coligni was deceived.  But the result proved, in this case as in every other, that it is never safe to do evil that good may come.  If any fact is established under the government of God, it is this.

The Queen of Navarre, in her extreme repugnance to this match, remarked,

“I would choose to descend to the condition of the poorest damsel in France rather than sacrifice to the grandeur of my family my own soul and that of my son.”

With consummate perjury, Charles IX. declared, “I give my sister in marriage, not only to the Prince of Navarre, but, as it were, to the whole Protestant party.  This will be the strongest and closest bond for the maintenance of peace between my subjects, and a sure evidence of my good-will toward the Protestants.”

Thus influenced, this noble woman consented to the union.  She then went to Blois to meet Catharine and the king.  They received her with exuberant displays of love.  The foolish king quite overacted his part, calling her “his great aunt, his all, his best beloved.”  As the Queen of Navarre retired for the night, Charles said to Catharine, laughing,

“Well, mother, what do you think of it?  Do I play my little part well?”

“Yes,” said Catharine, encouragingly, “very well; but it is of no use unless it continues.”

“Allow me to go on,” said the king, “and you will see that I shall ensnare them.”

The young Princess Marguerite, heartless, proud, and petulant, received the cold addresses of Henry with still more chilling indifference.  She refused to make even the slightest concessions to his religious views, and, though she made no objection to the decidedly politic partnership, she very ostentatiously displayed her utter disregard for Henry and his friends.  The haughty and dissolute beauty was piqued by the reluctance which Jeanne had manifested to an alliance which Marguerite thought should have been regarded as the very highest of all earthly honors.  Preparations were, however, made for the marriage ceremony, which was to be performed in the French capital with unexampled splendor.  The most distinguished gentlemen of the Protestant party, nobles, statesmen, warriors, from all parts of the realm, were invited to the metropolis, to add lustre to the festivities by their presence.  Many, however, of the wisest counselors of the Queen of Navarre, deeply impressed with the conviction of the utter perfidy of Catharine, and apprehending some deep-laid plot, remonstrated against the acceptance of the invitations, presaging that, “if the wedding were celebrated in Paris, the liveries would be very crimson.”

Jeanne, solicited by the most pressing letters from Catharine and her son Charles IX., and urged by her courtiers, who were eager to share the renowned pleasures of the French metropolis, proceeded to Paris.  She had hardly entered the sumptuous lodgings provided for her in the court of Catharine, when she was seized with a violent fever, which raged in her veins nine days, and then she died.  In death she manifested the same faith and fortitude which had embellished her life.  Not a murmur or a groan escaped her lips in the most violent paroxysms of pain.  She had no desire to live except from maternal solicitude for her children, Henry and Catharine.

“But God,” said she, “will be their father and protector, as he has been mine in my greatest afflictions.  I confide them to his providence.”

She died in June, 1572, in the forty-fourth year of her age.  Catharine exhibited the most ostentatious and extravagant demonstrations of grief.  Charles gave utterance to loud and poignant lamentations, and ordered a surgeon to examine the body, that the cause of her death might be ascertained.  Notwithstanding these efforts to allay suspicion, the report spread like wildfire through all the departments of France, and all the Protestant countries of Europe, that the queen had been perfidiously poisoned by Catharine.  The Protestant writers of the time assert that she fell a victim to poison communicated by a pair of perfumed gloves.  The Catholics as confidently affirm that she died of a natural disease.  The truth can now never be known till the secrets of all hearts shall be revealed at the judgment day.

Henry, with his retinue, was slowly traveling toward Paris, unconscious of his mother’s sickness, when the unexpected tidings arrived of her death.  It is difficult to imagine what must have been the precise nature of the emotions of an ambitious young man in such an event, who ardently loved both his mother and the crown which she wore, as by the loss of the one he gained the other.  The cloud of his grief was embellished with the gilded edgings of joy.  The Prince of Béarn now assumed the title and the style of the King of Navarre, and honored the memory of his noble mother with every manifestation of regret and veneration.  This melancholy event caused the postponement of the marriage ceremony for a short time, as it was not deemed decorous that epithalamiums should be shouted and requiems chanted from the same lips in the same hour.  The knell tolling the burial of the dead would not blend harmoniously with the joyous peals of the marriage bell.  Henry was not at all annoyed by this delay, for no impatient ardor urged him to his nuptials.  Marguerite, annoyed by the opposition which Henry’s mother had expressed in regard to the alliance, and vexed by the utter indifference which her betrothed manifested toward her person, indulged in all the wayward humors of a worse than spoiled child.  She studiously displayed her utter disregard for Henry, which manifestations, with the most provoking indifference, he did not seem even to notice.

During this short interval the Protestant nobles continued to flock to Paris, that they might honor with their presence the marriage of the young chief.  The Admiral Coligni was, by very special exertions on the part of Catharine and Charles, lured to the metropolis.  He had received anonymous letters warning him of his danger.  Many of his more prudent friends openly remonstrated against his placing himself in the power of the perfidious queen.  Coligni, however, was strongly attached to Henry, and, in defiance of all these warnings, he resolved to attend his nuptials.  “I confide,” said he, “in the sacred word of his majesty.”

Upon his arrival in the metropolis, Catharine and Charles lavished upon him the most unbounded manifestations of regard.  The king, embracing the admiral, exclaimed, “This is the happiest day of my life.”  Very soon one of the admiral’s friends called upon him to take leave, saying that he was immediately about to retire into the country.  When asked by the admiral the cause of his unexpected departure, he replied, “I go because they caress you too much, and I would rather save myself with fools than perish with sages.”

At length the nuptial day arrived.  It was the seventeenth of August, 1572.  Paris had laid aside its mourning weeds, and a gay and brilliant carnival succeeded its dismal days of gloom.  Protestants and Catholics, of highest name and note, from every part of Europe, who had met in the dreadful encounters of a hundred fields of blood, now mingled in apparent fraternity with the glittering throng, all interchanging smiles and congratulations.  The unimpassioned bridegroom led his scornful bride to the church of Notre Dame.  Before the massive portals of this renowned edifice, and under the shadow of its venerable towers, a magnificent platform had been reared, canopied with the most gorgeous tapestry.  Hundreds of thousands thronged the surrounding amphitheatre, swarming at the windows, crowding the balconies, and clustered upon the house-tops, to witness the imposing ceremony.  The gentle breeze breathing over the multitude was laden with the perfume of flowers.  Banners, and pennants, and ribbons of every varied hue waved in the air, or hung in gay festoons from window to window, and from roof to roof.  Upon that conspicuous platform, in the presence of all the highest nobility of France, and of the most illustrious representatives of every court of Europe, Henry received the hand of the haughty princess, and the nuptial oath was administered.

Marguerite, however, even in that hour, and in the presence of all those spectators, gave a ludicrous exhibition of her girlish petulance and ungoverned willfulness.  When, in the progress of the ceremony, she was asked if she willingly received Henry of Bourbon for her husband, she pouted, coquettishly tossed her proud head, and was silent.  The question was repeated.  The spirit of Marguerite was now roused, and all the powers of Europe could not tame the shrew.  She fixed her eyes defiantly upon the officiating bishop, and refusing, by look, or word, or gesture, to express the slightest assent, remained as immovable as a statue.  Embarrassment and delay ensued.  Her royal brother, Charles IX., fully aware of his sister’s indomitable resolution, coolly walked up to the termagant at bay, and placing one hand upon her chest and the other upon the back of her head, compelled an involuntary nod.  The bishop smiled and bowed, and acting upon the principle that small favors were gratefully received, proceeded with the ceremony.  Such were the vows with which Henry and Marguerite were united.  Such is too often love in the palace.

The Roman Catholic wife, unaccompanied by her Protestant husband, who waited at the door with his retinue, now entered the church of Notre Dame to participate in the solemnities of the mass.  The young King of Navarre then submissively received his bride and conducted her to a very magnificent dinner.  Catharine and Charles IX., at this entertainment, were very specially attentive to the Protestant nobles.  The weak and despicable king leaned affectionately upon the arm of the Admiral Coligni, and for a long time conversed with him with every appearance of friendship and esteem.  Balls, illuminations, and pageants ensued in the evening.  For many days these unnatural and chilling nuptials were celebrated with all the splendor of national festivities.  Among these entertainments there was a tournament, singularly characteristic of the times, and which certainly sheds peculiar lustre either upon the humility or upon the good-nature of the Protestants.

A large area was prepared for the display of one of those barbaric passes of arms in which the rude chivalry of that day delighted.  The inclosure was surrounded by all the polished intellect, rank, and beauty of France.  Charles IX., with his two brothers and several of the Catholic nobility, then appeared upon one side of the arena on noble war-horses gorgeously caparisoned, and threw down the gauntlet of defiance to Henry of Navarre and his Protestant retinue, who, similarly mounted and accoutred, awaited the challenge upon the opposite side.

The portion of the inclosure in which the Catholics appeared was decorated to represent heaven.  Birds of Paradise displayed their gorgeous plumage, and the air was vocal with the melody of trilling songsters.  Beauty displayed its charms arrayed in celestial robes, and ambrosial odors lulled the senses in luxurious indulgence.  All the resources of wealth and art were lavished to create a vision of the home of the blessed.

The Protestants, in the opposite extreme of the arena, were seen emerging from the desolation, the gloom, and the sulphurous canopy of hell.  The two parties, from their antagonistic realms, rushed to the encounter, the fiends of darkness battling with the angels of light.  Gradually the Catholics, in accordance with previous arrangements, drove back the Protestants toward their grim abodes, when suddenly numerous demons appeared rushing from the dungeons of the infernal regions, who, with cloven hoofs, and satanic weapons, and chains forged in penal fires, seized upon the Protestants and dragged them to the blackness of darkness from whence they had emerged.  Plaudits loud and long greeted this discomfiture of the Protestants by the infernal powers.

But suddenly the scene is changed.  A winged Cupid appears, the representative of the pious and amiable bride Marguerite.  The demons fly in dismay before the irresistible boy.  Fearlessly this emissary of love penetrates the realms of despair.  The Protestants, by this agency, are liberated from their thralldom, and conducted in triumph to the Elysium of the Catholics.  A more curious display of regal courtesy history has not recorded.  And this was in Paris!

Immediately after the marriage, the Admiral Coligni was anxious to obtain permission to leave the city.  His devout spirit found no enjoyment in the gayeties of the metropolis, and he was deeply disgusted with the unveiled licentiousness which he witnessed every where around him.  Day after day, however, impediments were placed in the way of his departure, and it was not until three days after the marriage festivities that he succeeded in obtaining an audience with Charles.  He accompanied Charles to the racket-court, where the young monarch was accustomed to spend much of his time, and there bidding him adieu, left him to his amusements, and took his way on foot toward his lodgings.

The Pope, not aware of the treachery which was contemplated, was much displeased in view of the apparently friendly relations which had thus suddenly sprung up between the Catholics and the Protestants.  He was exceedingly perplexed by the marriage, and at last sent a legate to expostulate with the French king.  Charles IX. was exceedingly embarrassed how to frame a reply.  He wished to convince the legate of his entire devotion to the Papal Church, and, at the same time, he did not dare to betray his intentions; for the detection of the conspiracy would not only frustrate all his plans, but would load him with ignominy, and vastly augment the power of his enemies.

“I do devoutly wish,” Charles replied, “that I could tell you all; but you and the Pope shall soon know how beneficial this marriage shall prove to the interests of religion.  Take my word for it, in a little time the holy father shall have reason to praise my designs, my piety, and my zeal in behalf of the faith.”