 11. As the solemn dirge from the steeple rang out upon the night-air, the king stood at the window of the palace trembling in every nerve. Hardly had the first tones of the alarm bell fallen upon his ear when the report of a musket was heard and the first victim fell. The sound seemed to animate to fury the demoniac Catherine, while it almost froze the blood in the veins of the young monarch and he passionately called out for the massacre to be stopped. It was too late. The train was fired and could not be extinguished. The signal passed with the rapidity of a sound from steeple to steeple till not only Paris but entire France was roused. The roar of human passion, the crackling fire of musketry and the shrieks of the wounded in the dying rose and blended in one fearful din throughout the homo-tropolis. Guns, pistols, daggers were everywhere busy. Old men, terrified maidens, helpless infants, venerable matrons, were alike smitten and mercy had no appeal which could touch the heart of the murderers. The wounded Admiral Colligny was lying helpless upon his bed, surrounded by a few personal friends, as the uproar of the rising storm of human violence and rage rolled in upon their ears. The Duke of Guise, with three hundred soldiers, hastened to the lodgings of the admiral. The gates were immediately knocked down and the sentinels stabbed. A servant, greatly terrified, rushed into the inner apartment where the wounded Admiral was lying and exclaimed, the house is forced and there is no means of resisting. I have long since, said the Admiral Colligny, prepared myself to die. Save yourselves, my friends, if you can, for you cannot defend my life. I commend my soul to the mercy of God. The companions of the Admiral having no possible means of protection and perhaps adding to his peril by their presence immediately fled to other apartments of the house. They were pursued and stabbed. Three leaped from the windows and were shot in the streets. Colligny, left alone in his apartment, rose with difficulty from his bed, and, being unable to stand, leaned for support against the wall. A desperado by the name of Brem, a follower of the Duke of Guise, with a congenial band of accomplices rushed into the room. They saw a venerable man, pale and with bandaged wounds in his nightdress, engaged in prayer. Art thou the Admiral demanded the assassin with brandished sword? I am, replied the Admiral. And thou, young man, shouldst respect my gray hairs? Nevertheless, thou canst abridge my life, but a little. Brem plunged his sword into his bosom and then withdrawing it gave him a cut upon the head. The Admiral fell calmly, saying, If I could but die by the hand of a gentleman instead of such a nave as this, the rest of the assassins then rushed upon him, piercing his body with their daggers. The Duke of Guise, ashamed himself to meet the eye of this noble victim to the base's treachery, remained impatiently in the courtyard below. Brem, he shouted, looking up at the window. Have you done it? Yes, Brem exclaimed from the chamber, he is done for. Let us see, though, rejoined the Duke, throw the body from the window. The mangled corpse was immediately thrown down upon the pavement of the courtyard. The Duke, with his handkerchief, wiped the blood and dirt from his face and carefully scrutinized the features. He has said he, I recognize him, he is the man. Then giving the pallid cheek a kick, he exclaimed, Courage, comrades, we have happily begun. Let us now go for others. The King commands it. In sixteen years from this event the Duke of Guise was himself assassinated and received a kick in the face from Henry III, brother of the same king in whose service he had drawn the dagger of the murderer. Thus died the Admiral of Colligny, one of the noblest sons of France. Though but fifty-six years of age he was prematurely infirm from care and toil and suffering. For three days the body was exposed to the insults of the populace and finally was hung up by the feet on a gibbet. A cousin of Colligny secretly caused it to be taken down and buried. The tiger, having once lapped his tongue in blood, seems to be imbued with a new spirit of ferocity. There is in man a similar temper, which is roused and stimulated by carnage. The excitement of human slaughter converts man into a demon. The riotous multitude of Parisians was becoming each moment more and more clamorous for blood. They broke open the houses of the Protestants and rushing into their chambers, murdered indiscriminately both sexes and every age. The streets resounded with the shouts of the assassins and the shrieks of their victims. Cries of kill, kill, more blood, rent the air. The bodies of the slain were thrown out of the windows into the streets and the pavements of the city were clotted with human gore. Charles who was overwhelmed with such compunctions of conscience when he heard the first shot and beheld from his window the commencement of the butchery, soon recovered from his momentary wavering and conscious that it was too late to draw back, with fiend-like eagerness engaged himself in the work of death. The monarch when a boy had been noted for his sanguinary spirit, delighting with his own hand to perform the revolting acts of the slaughter-house. Perfect fury seemed now to take possession of him. His cheeks were flushed, his lips compressed, his eyes glared with frenzy, bending eagerly from his window he shouted words of encouragement to the assassins. Grasping a gun in the hand-leg of which he had become very skillful from long practice in the chase, he watched like a sportsman for his prey, and when he saw an unfortunate Protestant wounded and bleeding flying from his pursuers, he would take deliberate aim from the window of his palace and shout with exaltation as he saw him fall, pierced by his bullet. A crowd of fugitives rushed into the courtyard of the Louvre to throw themselves upon the protection of the king. Charles sent his own bodyguard into the yard with guns and daggers to butcher them all, and the pavements of the palace yard were drenched with their blood. Just before the carnage commenced, Marguerite, weary with excitement and the agitating conversation to which he had so long been listening, retired to her private apartment for sleep. She had hardly closed her eyes when the fearful outcries of the pursuers and the pursued filled the palace. She sprang up in her bed and heard someone struggling at the door and shrieking, Navar, Navar! In a paroxysm of terror she ordered an attendant to open the door. One of her husband's retinue instantly rushed in, covered with wounds and blood pursued by four soldiers of her brother's guard. The captain of the guard entered at the same moment, and at the earnest entreaty of the princess spared her the anguish of seeing the friend of her husband murdered before her eyes. Marguerite, half delirious with bewilderment and terror, fled from her room to seek the apartment of her sister. The palace was filled with uproar, the shouts of the assassins and the shrieks of their victims blending in awful confusion. As she was rushing through the hall she encountered another Protestant gentleman flying before the dripping sword of his pursuer. He was covered with blood, flowing from the many wounds he had already received. Just as he reached the young queen of Navar his pursuer overtook him and plunged a sword through his body. He fell dead at her feet. No tongue can tell the horrors of that night. It would require volumes to record the frightful scenes which were enacted before the morning dawned. Among the most remarkable escapes we may mention, that of a lad whose name afterwards attained much celebrity, the Béran de Rony, a Protestant lord of great influence and worth, had accompanied his son, Maximilion, a very intelligent and spirited boy about eleven years of age to Paris to attend the nuptials of the king of Navar. This young prince, Maximilion, afterwards the world-renowned Duke of Sully, had previously been prosecuting his studies in the College of Burgundy and the Metropolis, and had become a very great favorite of the warm-hearted king of Navar. His father had come to Paris with great reluctance, for he had no confidence in the protestations of Catherine and Charles IX. Immediately after the attempt was made to assassinate the admiral, the Béran de Rony with many of his friends left the city, entrusting his son to the care of a private tutor and a valet de chambre. He occupied lodgings in a remote quarter of the city and near the colleges. Young Maximilion was asleep in his room, when a little after midnight he was aroused by the ringing of the alarm bells and the confused cries of the populace. His tutor and valet de chambre sprang from their beds and hurried out to ascertain the cause of the tumult. They did not, however, return, for they had hardly reached the door when they were shot down. Maximilion, in great bewilderment, respecting their continued absence and the dreadful clamour continually increasing, was hurriedly dressing himself when his landlord came in pale and trembling, and informed him of the massacre which was going on, and that he had saved his own life only by the avowal of his faith in the Catholic religion. He earnestly urged Maximilion to do the same. The young prince magnanimously resolved not to save his life by falsehood and apostasy. He determined to attempt in the darkness and confusion of the night to gain the College of Burgundy where he hoped to find some Catholic friends who would protect him. The distance of the college from the house in which he was rendered the undertaking desperately perilous, having disguised himself in the dress of a Roman Catholic priest, he took a large prayer-book under his arm and tremblingly issued forth into the streets. The sights which met his eye and the gloom of that awful night were enough to appall the stoutest heart. The murderers, frantic with excitement and intoxication, were uttering wild outcries and pursuing in every direction their terrified victims. Women and children in their night-clothes having just sprung in terror from their beds were flying from their pursuers covered with wounds and uttering fearful shrieks. The mangled bodies of the young and of the old, of males and females, were strewn along the streets and the pavements were slippery with blood. Loud and dreadful outcries were heard from the interior of the dwellings as the work of midnight assassination proceeded, and struggles of desperate violence were witnessed as the murderers attempted to throw their bleeding and dying victims from the high windows of chambers and addicts upon the pavements below. The shots of the assailants, the shrieks of the wounded as blow after blow fell upon them, the incessant reports of muskets and pistols, the tramp of soldiers, and the peals of the alarm bell all combined to create a scene of terror such as human eyes have seldom witnessed. In the midst of ten thousand perils the young man crept along, protected by his priestly garb, while he frequently saw his fellow Christians shot and stabbed at his very side. Suddenly, in turning a corner, he fell into the midst of a band of the bodyguard of the king, whose swords were dripping with blood. They seized him with great roughness. When seeing the Catholic Prayer Book which was in his hands, they considered it a safe passport and permitted him to continue on his way uninjured. Twice again he encountered similar peril as he was seized by bands of infuriated men, and each time he was extricated in the same way. At length he arrived at the College of Burgundy, and now his danger increased tenfold. It was a Catholic College. The porter at the gate absolutely refused him admittance. The murderers began to multiply in the street around him with fierce and threatening questions. Maximilion, at length, by inquiring for Lafay, the president of the College, and by placing a bribe in the hands of the porter, succeeded in obtaining entrance. Lafay was a humane man, and exceedingly attached to his Protestant pupil. Maximilion entered the apartment of the president and found there two Catholic priests. The priests, as soon as they saw him, insisted upon cutting him down, declaring that the king had commanded that not even the infant at the breast should be spared. The good old man, however, firmly resolved to protect his young friend, and conducting him privately to a secure chamber, locked him up. Here he remained three days in the greatest suspense, apprehensive every hour that the assassins would break in upon him. A faithful servant of the president brought him food, but could tell him of nothing but deeds of treachery and blood. At the end of three days the heroic boy, who afterward attained great celebrity as the minister and bosom friend of Henry, was released and protected. The morning of St. Bartholomew's day had not dawned when a band of soldiers entered the chamber of Henry of Navarre, and conveyed him to the presence of the king. Frenzied with the excitements of the scene, the imbecile but passionate monarch received him with accountants inflamed with fury. With blasphemous oaths and implications he commanded the king of Navarre as he valued his life to abandon a religion which Charles affirmed that the Protestants had assumed only as a cloak for their rebellion. With violent gesticulations and threats he declared that he would no longer submit to be contradicted by his subjects, but that they should revere him as the image of God. Henry, who was a Protestant from considerations of state policy rather than from Christian principle, and who saw in the conflict merely a strife between two political parties, ingloriously yielded to that necessity by which alone he could save his life, Charles gave him three days to deliberate, declaring with a violent oath, that if at the end of that time he did not yield to his commands he would cause him to be strangled. Henry yielded. He not only went to mass himself, but submitted to the degradation of sending an edict to his own dominions prohibiting the exercise of any religion except that of Rome. This indecision was a serious plot upon his character. Energetic and decisive as he was in all his measures of government his religious convictions were ever feeble and wavering. When the darkness of night passed away in the morning of the Sabbath dawned upon Paris a spectacle was witnessed such as the streets even of that blood-renowned metropolis of seldom presented. The city still resounded with that most awful of all tumults. The clamour of an infuriated mob. The pavements were covered with gory corpses. Men, women, and children were still flying in every direction wounded and bleeding pursued by merciless assassins riotous with demonic laughter and drunk with blood. The report of guns and pistols was heard in all parts of the city, sometimes in continuous follies as if platoons of soldiers were firing upon their victims, while the scattered shots incessantly repeated in every section of the extended metropolis proved the universality of the massacre. Drunken wretches besmeared with blood were swaggering along the streets with ribbed jests and demonic howlings hunting for the Protestants. Bodies, torn and gory were hanging from the windows and the severed heads were spurned like footballs along the pavements. Priests were seen in their sacro-dotal robes with elevated crucifixes and with fanatical exclamations encouraging the murderers not to grow weary in their holy work of exterminating God's enemies. The most distinguished nobles and generals of the court and the camp of Charles, mounted on horseback with gorgeous retinue, rowed through the streets encouraging by voice and arm the indiscriminate massacre. Let not, the king proclaimed, one single Protestant be spared to reproach me hereafter with this deed. For a whole week the massacre continued, and it was computed that from eighty to a hundred thousand Protestants were slain throughout the kingdom. Charles himself, with Catherine and the high-born but profligate ladies who disgraced her court, emerged with the morning light in splendid array into the reeking streets. The ladies contemplated with merriment and ribble jests the dead bodies of the Protestants piled before the Louvre. Some of the retinue, appalled by the horrid spectacle, wished to retire, alleging that the bodies already emitted a putrid odor. Charles inhumanely replied, The smell of a dead enemy is always pleasant. On Thursday, after four days spent in hunting out the fugitives and finishing the bloody work, the clergy paraded the streets in a triumphal procession and with jubilant prayers and hymns gave thanks to God for their great victory. The Catholic pulpits resounded with exultant harangues, in an honor of the event a medallion was struck off with the inscription, La piété à réveiller la justice. Religion has awakened justice. In the distant provinces of France, the massacre was continued as the Protestants were hunted from all their hiding places. In some departments as in Saint-Tonge and Lower Languedoc, the Protestants were so numerous that the Catholics did not venture to attack them. In some other provinces they were so few that the Catholics had nothing whatever to fear from them and therefore spared them. And in the sparsely settled rural districts, the peasants refused to imbrew their hands in the blood of their neighbors. Many thousand Protestants throughout the kingdom in these ways escaped. But in nearly all the populous towns where the Catholic population predominated, the massacre was universal and indiscriminate. In Meaux, four hundred houses of Protestants were pillaged and devastated and the inmates without regard to sex or age utterly exterminated. At Orléans there were three thousand Protestants. A troop of armed horsemen rode furiously through the streets shouting, Courage boys, kill all and then you shall divide their property. At Rouen many of the Protestants at the first alarm fled. The rest were arrested and thrown into prison. They were then brought out one by one and deliberately murdered. Six hundred were thus slain. Such were the scenes which were enacted in Toulouse, Bordeaux, Bourges, Angers, Lyons and scores of other cities in France. It is impossible to ascertain with precision the number of victims. The Duke of Soulis estimates them at seventy thousand. The bishop Perifix at one hundred thousand. This latter estimate is probably not exaggerated if we include the unhappy fugitives, who fleeing from their homes died of cold, hunger and fatigue, and all the other nameless woes which accrued from this great calamity. CHAPTER V. MASSACRE OF ST. BARTHOLOMU, PART III In the midst of these scenes of horror it is pleasant to record several instances of generous humanity. In the barbarism of those times dueling was a common practice. A Catholic officer by the name of Vesson, one of the most fierce and irritable men in France, had a private quarrel with a Protestant officer whose name was Renier. They had mutually sought each other in Paris to obtain such satisfaction as a duel could afford. In the midst of the massacre, Renier, while at prayers with his servant, for in those days dueling and praying were not deemed inconsistent, heard the door of his room broken open, and looking round in expectation of instant death, saw his foe Vesson, enter breathless with excitement and haste. Renier, conscious that all resistance would be unavailing, calmly bared his bosom to his enemy, exclaiming, You will have an easy victory. Vesson made no reply, but ordered the valet to seek his master's cloak and sword. Then leading him into the street, he mounted him upon a powerful horse, and with fifteen armed men escorted him out of the city. Not a word was exchanged between them. When they arrived at a little grove at a short distance from the residence of the Protestant gentleman, Vesson presented him with his sword and bade him dismount and defend himself, saying, Do not imagine that I seek your friendship for what I have done. All I wish is to take your life honorably. Renier threw away his sword, saying, I will never strike at one who has saved my life. Very well, Vesson replied, and left him, making him a present of the horse on which he rode. Though the commands which the king sent to the various provinces of France for the massacre were very generally obeyed, there were examples of distinguished virtue in which Catholics of high rank not only refused to imbrew their own hands and blood, but paroled their lives to protect the Protestants. The Bishop of Lysieux, in the exercise of true Christian character, saved all the Protestants in the town over which he presided. The Governor of Auvergne replied to the secret letter of the king in the following words, Sire, I have received an order under your majesty's seal to put all the Protestants of this province to death, and if which God forbid the order be genuine, I respect your majesty's still too much to obey you. The king had sent a similar order to the commandant at Bayonne, the Viscount of Orctes. The following noble words were returned in reply. Sire, I have communicated the commands of your majesty to the inhabitants of the town and to the soldiers of the garrison, and I have found good citizens and brave soldiers, but not one executioner. On which account they and I humbly beseech you to employ your arms and our lives in enterprises in which we can conscientiously engage. However perilous they may be, we will willingly shed therein the last drop of our blood. Both of these noble-minded men soon very suddenly and mysteriously died. Few entertained a doubt that poison had been administered by the Order of Charles. The Law of France required that these Protestants should be hunted to death. This was the law promulgated by the king and sent by his own letters misive to the appointed officers of the crown. But there is, there is a higher law than that of kings and courts. Nobly these majestic men rendered to it their allegiance. They sealed their fidelity to this higher law with their blood. They were martyrs, not fanatics. On the third day of the massacre the king assembled the parliament in Paris and made a public avowal of the part he had taken in this fearful tragedy and of the reasons which had influenced him to the deed. Though he hoped to silence all Protestant tongues in his own realms in death, he knew that the tale would be told throughout all Europe. He therefore stated in justification of the act that he had, as if by a miracle, discovered that the Protestants were engaged in a conspiracy against his own life and that of all his family. This charge, however, uttered for the moment, was speedily dropped and forgotten. There was not the slightest evidence of such a design. The parliament, to give a little semblance of justice to the king's accusations, sat in judgment upon the memory of the noble Colligny. They sentenced him to be hung in effigy, ordered his arms to be dragged at the heels of a horse, through all the principal towns of France, his magnificent castle of Chatillon to be raised to its foundations and never to be rebuilt, his fertile acres in the culture of which he had found his chief delight to be desolated and sown with salt, his portraits and statues were ever found to be destroyed, his children to lose their title of nobility, all his goods in the States to be confiscated to the use of the crown, and a monument of durable marble to be raised upon which this sentence of the court should be engraved to transmit to all posterity his alleged infamy. Thus was punished on earth one of the noblest servants both of God and man. But there is a day of final judgment yet to come. The oppressor has but his brief hour. There is eternity to write the oppressed. Notwithstanding this general and awful massacre, the Protestants were far from being exterminated. Several nobles surrounded by the retainers in their distant castles, religious of treachery, had refused to go to Paris to attend the wedding of Henry and Marguerite. Others had gone to Paris, alarmed by the attack upon Admiral Colligny, immediately retired to their homes. Some concealed themselves in garrets, cellars and wells until the massacre was over. As has been stated in some towns the governors refused to engage in the merciless butchery, and in others the Protestants had the majority and with their arms could defend themselves within the walls which their own troops garrisoned. Though in the first panic, caused by the dreadful slaughter, the Protestants made no resistance, but either surrendered themselves submissively to the sword of the assassin or sought safety in concealment or flight, soon indignation took the place of fear. Those who had fled from the kingdom to Protestant states rallied together. The survivors in France began to count their numbers and marshal their forces for self-preservation. From every part of Protestant Europe a cry of horror and execration simultaneously arose in view of this crime of unparalleled enormity. In many places the Catholics themselves seemed appalled in contemplation of the deed they had perpetrated. Words of sympathy were sent to these martyrs to a pure faith from many of the Protestant kingdoms with pledges of determination and efficient aid. The Protestants rapidly gained courage. From all the country they flocked into those wall towns which still remained in their power. As the fugitives from France, emaciate, pale and woe-stricken with tattered and dusty garb recited in England, Switzerland, and Germany the horrid story of the massacre the hearts of their auditors were frozen with horror. In Geneva a day of fasting and prayer was instituted which is observed even to the present day. In Scotland every church was founded with the thrilling tale, and Knox whose inflexible spirit was nerved for those iron times exclaimed in language of prophetic nerve. Sentence has gone forth against that murderer the king of France and the vengeance of God will never be withdrawn from his house. His name shall be held in everlasting execration. The French court, alarmed by the indignation it had aroused, sent an ambassador to London with a poor apology for the crime by pretending that the Protestants had conspired against the life of the king. The ambassador was received in the court of the queen with appalling coldness and gloom. Arrangements were made to invest the occasion with the most impressive solemnity. The court was shrouded in mourning, and all the lords and ladies appeared in sable weeds. A stern and sombre sadness was upon every countenance. The ambassador, overwhelmed by this reception, was overheard to exclaim to himself in bitterness of heart. I am ashamed to acknowledge myself a Frenchman. He entered, however, the presence of the queen, passed through the long line of silent courtiers who refused to salute him or even to honor him with a look, stammered out his miserable apology, and receiving no response, retired covered with confusion. Elizabeth, we thank thee, this one noble deed atones for many of thy crimes. Very different was the reception of these tidings in the court of Rome. The messenger who carried the news was received with transports of joy and was rewarded with a thousand pieces of gold. Canons were fired, bells rung, and an immense procession with all the trappings of sacrodotal rejoicing paraded the streets. Anthems were chanted, and thanksgivings were solemnly offered for the great victory over the enemies of the church. A gold medal was struck off to commemorate the event, and Charles IX and Catherine were pronounced by the infallible word of his holiness to be the special favorites of God. Spain and the Netherlands united with Rome in these infamous exaltations. Pope II wrote from Madrid to Catherine. These tidings are the greatest and the most glorious I could have received. Such was the awful massacre of Saint Bartholomew. When contemplated in all its aspects of perfidy, cruelty, and cowardice it must be pronounced the greatest crime recorded in history. The victims were invited under the guise of friendship to Paris. They were received with solemn oaths of peace and protection. The leading men in the nation placed the dagger in the hands of an ignorant and degraded people. The priests, professed ministers of Jesus Christ, stimulated the benighted multitude by all the appeals of fanaticism to exterminate those whom they denounced as the enemies of God and man. After the great atrocity was perpetrated, princes and priests with bloodstained hands flocked to the altars of God our common father to thank him that the massacre had been accomplished. The annals of the world are filled with narratives of crime and woe, but the massacre of Saint Bartholomew stands perhaps without a parallel. It has been said, the blood of the martyrs is the seed of the Church. This is only true with exceptions. Protestantism in France has never recovered from this blow. But for this massacre one half of the nobles of France would have continued Protestant. The Reformers would have constituted so large a portion of the population that mutual toleration would have been necessary. Henry IV would not have abjured the Protestant faith. Intelligence would have been diffused. Religion would have been respected. And in all probability the horrors of the French Revolution would have been averted. God is an Avenger. In the mysterious government which he wields, mysterious only to our feeble vision, he visits the iniquities of the fathers upon the children even unto the third and fourth generation. As we see, the priests of Paris and of France, during the awful tragedy of the Revolution, massacred in the prisons, shot in the streets, hung upon the lampposts, and driven to starvation and woe from the kingdom, we cannot but remember the day of Saint Bartholomew. The 24th of August, 1572, and the 2nd of September, 1792, though far apart in the records of time, are consecutive days in the government of God. At this time in France there were three illustrious and rival families prominent above all others. Their origin was lost in the remoteness of antiquity. Their renown had been accumulating for many generations through rank and wealth and power and deeds of heroic and semi-barbarian daring. As these three families are so blended in all the struggles of this most warlike period, it is important to give a brief history of their origin and condition. 1 The House of Valois More than a thousand years before the birth of Christ we get dim glimpses of France or as it was then called Gaul. It was peopled by a barbarian race divided into petty tribes or clans, each with its chieftain, and each possessing undefined and sometimes almost unlimited power. Age after age rolled on, to ring which generations came and went like ocean-billows and all Gaul was but a continued battlefield. The history of each individual of its countless million seems to have been that he was born, killed as many of his fellow creatures as he could, and then having acquired thus much of glory, died. About fifty years before the birth of Christ Caesar with his conquering hosts swept through the whole country causing his rivers to run red with blood until the subjugated Gauls submitted to Roman sway. In the decay of the Roman Empire about four hundred years after Christ, the Franks from Germany, a barbarian horde as ferocious as wolves, penetrated the northern portion of Gaul, and obtaining permanent settlement there gave the whole country the name of France. Clovis was the chieftain of this warlike tribe. In the course of a few years France was threatened with another invasion by combined hordes of barbarians from the north. The chiefs of the several independent tribes in France found it necessary to unite to repel the foe. They chose Clovis as their leader. This was the origin of the French monarchy. He was but little elevated above the surrounding chieftains, but by intrigue and power perpetuated his supremacy. For about three hundred years the family of Clovis retained its precarious and oft contested elevation. At last this line, innervated by luxury, became extinct, and another family obtained the throne. This new dynasty under Pepin was called the Carlovingian. The crown descended generally from father to son for about two hundred years when the last of the race was poisoned by his wife. This family has been rendered very illustrious, both by Pepin and by his son, the still more widely renowned Charlemagne. Hugh Capet then succeeded in grasping the scepter, and for three hundred years the Capets held at bay the powerful chieftains who alternately assailed and defended the throne. Thirteen hundred years after Christ, the last of the Capet were born to his tomb, and the feudal lords gave the preeminence to Philip of Valois. For about two hundred years the house of Valois had reigned. At the period of which we treat in this history, luxury and vice had brought the family near to extinction. Charles the knight who now occupied the throne under the rigorous rule of his infamous mother was feeble in body and still more feeble in mind. He had no child, and there was no probability that he ever would be blessed with an heir. His exhausted constitution indicated that a premature death was his inevitable destiny. His brother Henry who had been elected King of Poland would then succeed to the throne, but he had still less of manly character than Charles. An early death was his unquestioned doom. At his death, if childless, the house of Valois would become extinct. Who then should grasp the rich prize of the scepter of France? The house of Guise and the house of Bourbon were rivals for this honor, and were mustering their strength and arraying their forces for the anticipated conflict. Each family could bring such fast influences into the struggle that no one could imagine in whose favor victory would decide. Such was the condition of the house of Valois in France in the year 1592. 2. Let us now turn to the house of Guise. No tale of fiction can present a more fascinating collection of romantic enterprises and of wild adventures than must be recorded by the truthful historian of the house of Guise. On the western banks of the Rhine, between the river and the mews, there was the Ducatum of Lorraine. It was a state of no inconsiderable wealth and power extending over a territory of about ten thousand square miles and containing a million and a half inhabitants. René II, Duke of Lorraine, was a man of great renown, and in all the pride and pomp of feudal power he energetically governed his little realm. His body was scarred with the wounds he had received in enumerable battles, and he was ever ready to head his army of fifty thousand men to punish any of the feudal lords around him who trespassed upon his rights. The wealthy old Duke owned large possessions in Normandy, Peacockty, and various other of the French provinces. He had a large family. His fifth son Claude was a proud spirited boy of sixteen. René sent this lad to France, and endowed him with all the fertile acres and the castles and the feudal rites which in France pertain to the noble house of Lorraine. Young Claude of Lorraine was presented at the court of Saint-Clue as the Count of Guise, a title derived from one of his domains. His illustrious rank, his manly beauty, his princely bearing, his energetic mind and brilliant talents immediately gave him a great prominence among the glittering throng of courtiers. Louis XII was much delighted with the young Count and wished to attach the powerful and attractive stranger to his own house by an alliance with his daughter. The heart of the proud boy was however captivated by another beauty who embellished the court of the monarch, and turning from the Princess Royal he sought the hand of Antoinette, an exceedingly beautiful maiden of about his own age, a daughter of the house of Bourbon. The wedding of this young pair was celebrated with great magnificence in Paris in the presence of the whole French court. Claude was then but sixteen years of age. A few days after this event the infirm old king espoused the young and beautiful sister of Henry VIII of England. The Count of Guise was honored with the commission of proceeding to Boulogne with several princes of the blood to receive the royal bride. Louis soon died, and his cousin, Francis I, ascended the throne. Claude was by marriage his cousin. He could bring all the influence of the proud house of Bourbon and the powerful house of Lorraine in support of the king. His own energetic, fearless, war-loving spirit invested him with great power in those barbarous days of violence and blood. Francis received his young cousin into high favor. Claude was indeed a young man of very rare accomplishments. His prowess in the jousts and tournaments then so common, and his grace and magnificence in the drawing-room rendered him an object of universal admiration. One night Claude accompanied Francis I to the queen's circle. She had gathered around her the most brilliant beauty of her realm. In those days woman occupied a very inferior position in society and seldom made her appearance in the general assemblages of men. The gallant young Count was fascinated with the amyability and charms of those distinguished ladies and suggested to the king the expediency of breaking over the restraints which long usage had imposed and embellishing his court with the attractions of female society and conversation. The king immediately adopted the welcome suggestion and decided that throughout the whole realm women should be freed from the unjust restraint to which they had so long been subject. Guise had already gained the goodwill of the nobility and of the army, and he now became a universal favorite with the ladies and was thus the most popular man in France. Francis I was at this time making preparations for the invasion of Italy, and the Count of Guise, the old but eighteen years of age, was appointed commander-in-chief of a division of the army consisting of twenty thousand men. In all the perils of the bloody battles which soon ensued he displayed that utter recklessness of danger which had been the distinguishing trait of his ancestors. In the first battle when discomforture and flight were spreading through his ranks the proud Count refused to retire one step before his foes. He was surrounded, overmatched, his horse killed from under him, and he fell covered with twenty-two wounds in the midst of the piles of mangled bodies which strewed the ground. He was afterwards dragged from among the dead, insensible and apparently lifeless, and conveyed to his tent, where his vigorous constitution and that energetic vitality which seemed to characterize his race triumphed over wounds whose severity rendered their cure almost miraculous. Francis I, in his report of the battle, extolled in the most glowing terms the prodigies of valor which Guise had displayed. War, desolating war, still ravaged wretched Europe, and Guise with his untiring energy became so prominent in the court and the camp that he was regarded rather as an ally of the King of France than as his subject. His enormous fortune, his ancestral renown, the vast political and military influences which were at his command, made him almost equal to the monarch whom he served. Francis lavished honors upon him, converted one of his counties into a dukdom, and as duke of Guise young clothe of Lorraine had now attained the highest position which his subject could occupy. Years of conflagration, carnage and woe, rolled over war-deluged Europe, during which all the energies of the human race seemed to be expended in destruction, and in almost every scene of smoldering cities, of ravaged valleys, of battlefields rendered hideous with the shouts of onset and shrieks of despair, we see the apparition of the stalwart frame of Guise, scarred and war-worn, and blackened with the smoke and dust of the fray, riding upon his proud charger wherever peril was most imminent as if his body were made of iron. At one time he drove before him in most bloody route a numerous army of Germans, the fugitives spreading over leagues of country fled by his own strong castle of Neuchatot. Antoinette and the ladies of her court stood upon the battlements of the castle, gazing upon the scene to them so new and to them so pleasantly exciting. As they saw the charges of the cavalry trampling the dead and the dying beneath their feet, as they witnessed all the horrors of that most horrible scene which earth can present, a victorious army, cutting to pieces its flying foes, with shouts of applause they animated the ardor of the victors. The once fair-faced boy had now become a veteran. His bronzed cheek and sinewy frame attested his life of hardship and toil. The nobles were jealous of his power. The king was annoyed by his haughty bearing, but he was the idol of the people. In one campaign he caused the death of forty thousand Protestants, for he was the devoted servant of Mother Church. Claude de Butcher was the not inappropriate name by which the Protestants designated him. His brother John attained the dignity of Cardinal of Lorraine. Claude with his keen sword and John with his pomp and pride and spiritual power became the most relentless foes of the Reformation and the most valiant defenders of the Catholic faith. The kind-heartedness of the wealthy but disillute Cardinal and the prodigality of his charity rendered him almost as popular as his war-like brother. When he went abroad his valet de Chambre invariably prepared him a bag filled with gold from which he gave to the poor most freely. His reputation for charity was so exalted that a poor, blind mendicant, to whom he gave gold in the streets of Rome, overjoyed at the acquisition of such a treasure exclaimed, Surely thou art either Christ or the Cardinal of Lorraine. CHAPTER VI. THE Houses of Valois, of Guise and of Bourbon, Part II. The Duke of Guise in his advancing years was accompanied to the field of battle by his son Francis, who inherited all his father's courtly bearing, energy, talent, and headlong valor. At the siege of Luxembourg a musket-ball shattered the ankle of young Francis, then count of all mal, and about eighteen years of age. As the surgeon was operating upon the splintered bones and quivering nerves the sufferer gave some slight indication of his sense of pain. His iron father severely reprimanded him, saying, Persons of your rank should not feel their wounds, but on the contrary should take pleasure in building up their reputation upon the ruin of their bodies. Others of the sons of Claude also signalized themselves in the wars which then desolated Europe, and they received wealth and honors. The king erected certain lands and lordships belonging to the Duke of Guise into a marquisate, and then immediately elevated the marquisate into a duchy, and the youngest son of the Duke of Guise inheriting the property was ennobled with the title of the Duke of Maillots. Thus there were two rich dukedoms in the same family. Claude had six sons, all young men of imperious spirit and magnificent bearing. They were allied by marriage with the most illustrious families in France, several of them being connected with princes of the blood royal. The war-worn Duke, covered with wounds which he deemed his most glorious ornaments, often appeared at court accompanied by his sons. They occupied the following posts of rank and power. Francis the eldest, Count of Omal, was the heir of the titles and the estates of the noble house. Claude was Marquis of Maillots. Charles was Archbishop of Reims, the richest benefice in France, and he soon attained one of the highest dignities of the church by the reception of a cardinal's hat. Louis was Bishop of Tois, and Francis the youngest chevalier of Lorraine and Duke of Maillots was general of the galleys of France. One of the daughters was married to the king of Scotland, and the others had formed most illustrious connections. Thus the house of geese towered proudly and sublimely from among the noble families in the midst of whom it had so recently been implanted. Henry the Eighth of England, inflamed by the report of the exceeding beauty of Mary, daughter of the Duke of Geese had solicited her hand, but Claude was unwilling to surrender his daughter to England's burly and brutal old tyrant and declined the regal match. The exasperated monarch in revenge declared war against France. Years of violence and blood lingered away. At last Claude aged and infirm, surrendered to that king of terrors before whom all must bow. In his strong castle of Joinville, on the 12th of April, 1550, the illustrious, magnanimous, blood-stained Duke, after a whole lifetime spent in slaughter, breathed his last. His children and his grandchildren were gathered around the bed of the dying chieftain. In the darkness of that age he felt that he had been contending with divine approval for Christ and his church. With prayers and thanksgivings and language expressive of meekness and humility before God, he ascended to that tribunal of final judgment where there is no difference between the peasant and the prince. The chivalrous and warlike Francis inherited his father's titles, wealth, and power, and now the House of Guise was so influential that the king trembled in view of its rivalry. It was but the kingly office alone which rendered the House of Valois superior to the House of Guise. In illustration of the character of those times and the hardyhood and sufferings through which the renown of these chieftains was obtained, the following anecdote may be narrated. Francis Duke of Guise, in one of the skirmishes with the English invaders, received a wound which is described as the most severe from which anyone ever recovered. The lance of an English officer entered above the right eye, declining toward the nose, and piercing through on the other side between the nape and the ear. The weapon having thus penetrated the head more than half a foot was broken off by the violence of the blow, the lance iron, and two finger-breaths of the staff remained in the dreadful wound. The surgeons of the army stupefied by the magnitude of the injury declined to attempt the extraction of the splinter, saying that it would only expose him to dreadful and unavailing suffering, as he must inevitably die. The king immediately sent his surgeon with orders to spare no possible efforts to save the life of the hero. The lance head was broken off so short that it was impossible to grasp it with the hand. The surgeon took the heavy pincers of a blacksmith and asked the sufferer if he would allow him to make use of so rude an instrument and would also permit him to place his foot upon his face. You may do anything you consider necessary, said the duke. The officer standing around looked on with horror as the king's surgeon aided by an experienced practitioner tore out thus violently the barbed iron, fracturing the bones and tearing nerves, veins, and arteries. The hearty soldier bore the anguish without the contraction of a muscle and was only heard gently to exclaim to himself, oh my God! The sufferer recovered, and ever after regarded the frightful scar which was left as a signal badge of honor. He hence bore the common name of Lubelavre, or the scarred. As the duke returned to court, the king hurried forth from his chamber to meet him, embraced him warmly, and said, It is fair that I should come out to meet my old friend, who on his part is ever so ready to meet my enemies. Gradually however, Francis, the king, became very jealous of the boundless popularity and enormous power acquired by this ambitious house. Upon his dying bed he warned his son of the dangerous rivalry to which the geese had attained, and enjoined it upon him to curb their ambition by admitting none of the princes of that house to a share in the government. But as soon as King Francis was consigned to his tomb, Henry II, his son and successor, rallied the members of this family around him, and made the duke almost the partner of his throne. He needed the support of the strong arm and of the inexhaustible purse of the princes of Lorraine. The arrogance of the geese, or the princes of Lorraine as they were frequently called, in consequence of their descent from clothe of Lorraine, reached such a pitch that on the occasion of a proud pageant when Henry II was on a visit of inspection to one of his frontier fortresses, the duke of geese claimed equal rank with Henry of Navarre, who was not only king of Navarre, but as the duke of Vendôme, was also first prince of the blood in France. An angry dispute immediately arose. The king settled it in favour of the audacious geese, for he was intimidated by the power of that arrogant house. He thus exasperated Henry of Navarre and also nurtured the pride of a dangerous rival. All classes were now courting the duke of geese. The first nobles of the land sought his protection and support by flattering letters and costly presents. From all quarters, says an ancient manuscript, he received offerings of wine, fruit, confections, or tolain, horses, dogs, hawks, and gear-valkans. The letters accompanying these often contain a second paragraph petitioning for pensions or grants from the king, or for places even down to that of apothecary or of barber to the dauphin. The monarchs of foreign countries often wrote to him soliciting his aid. The duke, in the enjoyment of this immense wealth, influence, and power, assumed the splendours of royalty, and his court was hardly inferior to that of the monarch. The king of Poland and the duke of geese were rivals for the hand of Anne, the beautiful daughter of the duke of Ferrara, and geese was the successful suitor. Francis of Lorraine was now appointed Lieutenant General of the French armies, and the king addressed to all the provincial authorities special injunction to render as prompt and absolute obedience to the orders of the duke of geese as if they emanated from himself. And truly, says one of the writers of those times, never had monarch in France been obeyed more punctually or with greater zeal. In fact, geese was now the head of the government, and all the great interests of the nation were ordered by his mind. Henry was a feeble prince, with neither vigor of body nor energy of intellect to resist the encroachments of so imperial a spirit. He gave many indications of uneasiness and view of his own thralldom, but he was entirely unable to dispense with the aid of his sagacious ally. It will be remembered that one of the daughters of Claude, and a sister of Francis, the second duke of geese, married the king of Scotland. Her daughter, the niece of Francis, was the celebrated Mary Queen of Scots. She had been sent to France for her education, and she was married when very young to her cousin, Francis, son of Henry II, and of the infamous Catherine de Medici. He was heir of the French throne. This wedding was celebrated with the utmost magnificence, and the geeses moved on the occasion through the palaces of royalty with the pride of monarchs. Henry II was accidentally killed in a tournament, and Francis, his son, under the title of Francis II, with his young and beautiful bride, the unfortunate Mary Queen of Scots, ascended the throne. Francis was a feeble-minded, consumptive youth of sixteen, whose thoughts were all centered in his lovely wife. Mary, who was but fifteen years of age, was fascinating in the extreme and entirely devoted to pleasure. She gladly transferred all the power of the realm to her uncles, the geeses. About this time the conflict between the Catholics and the Protestants began to grow more violent. The Catholics drew the sword for the extirpation of heresy, the Protestants grasped their arms to defend themselves. The geeses consecrated all their energies to the support of the papal church and to the suppression of the Reformation. The feeble boy, Francis II, sat languidly upon his throne but seventeen months when he died on the fifth of December, 1560, and his brother, Charles IX, equally enervated in mind and with far less moral worth, succeeded to the crown. The death of Francis II was a heavy blow to the geeses. The Admiral Coligny, one of the most illustrious of the Protestants, and the bosom friend of Henry of Navarre, was standing with many other nobles at the bedside of the monarch as he breathed his last. Gentlemen, said the Admiral, with that gravity which was in accordance with his character and his religious principles, the king is dead. It is the lesson to teach us all how to live. The Protestants could not but rejoice that the geeses had thus lost the peculiar influence which they had secured from their near relationship to the queen. Admiral Coligny retired from the death bed of the monarch to his own mansion and sitting down by the fire became lost in the most profound reverie. He did not observe that his boots were burning until one of his friends called his attention to the fact. Ah, he replied, not a week ago you and I would each have given a leg to have things take this turn and now we get off with a pair of boots. Antoinette, the widow of Claude of Lorraine, and the mother of Francis, the then Duke of Gies, was still living. She was so rancorous in her hostility to the Protestants that she was designated by them mother of the tyrants and enemies of the gospel. Greatly to her annoyance a large number of Protestants conducted their worship in the little town of Vassi just on the frontier of the domains of the Duke of Gies. She was incessantly imploring her son to drive off these obnoxious neighbors. The Duke was at one time journeying with his wife. Their route lay through the town of Vassi. His suite consisted of two hundred and sixty men at arms, all showing the warlike temper of their chief and even far surpassing him in bigoted hatred of the Protestants. On arriving at Vassi the Duke entered the church to hear high mass. It is said that while engaged in this act of devotion his ears were annoyed by the psalms of the Protestants who were assembled in the vicinity. He sent an imperious message for the minister and the leading members of the congregation immediately to appear before him. The young men fulfilled their mission in a manner so taunting and insulting that a quarrel ensued, shots were exchanged, and immediately all the vassals of the Duke, who were ripe for a fray, commenced an indiscriminate massacre. The Protestants valiantly but unavailingly defended themselves with sticks and stones, but the bullets of their enemies reached them everywhere, in the houses, on the roofs, in the streets. For an hour the carnage continued unchecked, and sixty men and women were killed, and two hundred wounded. One only of the men of the Duke was killed. Francis was ashamed of this slaughter of the defense, listened to Claire that it was a sudden outbreak for which he was not responsible and which he had done everything in his power to check, but ever after this he was called by the Protestants the butcher of Vassi. CHAPTER VI. The Houses of Valois, of Guise, and of Bourbon. CHAPTER III. When the news of this massacre reached Paris, Theodore de Béza was deputed by the Protestants to demand of Catherine their regent severe justice on the Duke of Guise. But Catherine feared the princes of Lorraine and said to Béza, whoever touches so much as the fingertip of the Duke of Guise touches me in the middle of my heart. Béza meekly but courageously replied. It assuredly behooves that church of God in whose name I speak to endure blows and not to strike them, but may it please your Majesty also to remember that it is an anvil which has worn out many hammers. At the siege of Rouen the Duke of Guise was informed that an assassin had been arrested who had entered the camp with the intention of taking his life. He ordered the men to be brought before him and calmly inquired. Have you not come hither to kill me? The intrepid but misguided young man openly avowed his intention. And what motive, inquired the Duke, impelled you to such a deed. Have I done you any wrong? No, he replied. But in removing you from the world I should promote the best interests of the Protestant religion which I profess. My religion then generously replied the Duke is better than yours, for it commands me to pardon, of my own accord, you who are convicted of guilt. And by his orders the assassin was safely conducted out of camp. A fine example exclaims his historian of truly religious sentiments and magnanimous proselytism very natural to the Duke of Guise, the most moderate and humane of the chiefs of the Catholic army, and whose brilliant generosity had been but temporarily obscured by the occurrence at Vassi. The war between the Catholics and Protestants was now raging with implacable fury, and Guise, victorious in many battles had acquired from the Catholic party the name of savior of his country. The Duke was now upon the very loftiest summits of power which a subject can attain. In great exaltation of spirits he one morning left the army over which he was commander in chief to visit the Duchess who had come to meet him at the neighboring castle of Cournie. The Duke very imprudently took with him merely one general officer in a page. It was a beautiful morning in February, as he crossed in a boat the mirrored surface of the Loire, the vegetation of returning spring and the songs of the rejoicing birds strikingly contrasted with the blood, desolation and misery with which the hateful spirit of war was desolating France. The Duke was silent, apparently lost in painful reveries. His companions disturbed not his thoughts. Having crossed the stream he was slowly walking his horse with the reins hanging listlessly upon his mane when a pistol was discharged at him from behind a hedge at a distance of but six or seven paces. Two bullets pierced his side. On feeling himself wounded he calmly said, They have long had this shot and reserve for me. I deserve it for my want of precaution. He immediately fell upon his horse's neck and was caught in the arms of his friends. They conveyed him to the castle where the Duchess received him with cries of anguish. He embraced her tenderly, minutely described the circumstances of his assassination and expressed himself grieved in view of the stain which such a crime would inflict upon the honor of France. He exhorted his wife to bow in submission to the will of heaven and kissing his son Henry, the Duke of Joinville, who was weeping by his side, gently said to him, God grant thee grace my son to be a good man. Thus died Francis, the second Duke of Guise, on the 24th of February, 1563. His murderer was a young Protestant noble, Jean Poultreau, 24 years of age. Poultreau from being an ardent Catholic had embraced the Protestant faith. This exposed him to persecution and he was driven from France with the loss of his estates. He was compelled to support himself by manual labor. Sourd in disposition, exasperated and half-maddened, he insanely felt that he would be doing God's service by the assassination of the Butcher of Vassie, the most formidable foe of the Protestant religion. It was a day of general darkness and of the confusion of all correct ideas of morals. Henry, the eldest son of the Duke of Guise, a lad of but 13 years of age, now inherited the titles and the renown which his bold ancestors had accumulated. This was the Duke of Guise, who was the bandit chieftain in the massacre of Saint Bartholomew. One day Henry II was holding his little daughter Marguerite, who afterwards became the wife of Henry II of Navarre. When Henry of Guise, then Prince of Joimville, and the Marquis of Beaupro, were playing together upon the floor, the one being but seven years of age and the other but nine. Which of the two do you like the best inquired the king of his child? I prefer the Marquis, she promptly replied. Yes, but the Prince of Joimville is the handsomest, the king rejoined. Oh, retorted Marguerite, he is always in mischief and he will be master everywhere. Francis the Duke of Guise had fully apprehended the ambitious, impetuous, and reckless character of his son. He is said to have predicted that Henry, intoxicated by popularity, would perish in the attempt to seat himself upon the throne of France. Henry, says a writer of those times, surpassed all the princes of his house in certain natural gifts, in certain talents, which procured him the respect of the court, the affection of the people, but which nevertheless were tarnished by a singular alloy of great faults and unlimited ambition. France was mad about that man, writes another, for it is too little to say that she was in love with him. Her passion approached idolatry. There were persons who invoked him in their prayers. His portrait was everywhere. Some ran after him in the streets to touch his mantle with their rosaries. One day, that he entered Paris on his return from a journey, the multitude not only cried, Vive Guise, but many sang on his passage, Hosanna to the son of David. Number three, the house of Bourbon. The origin of this family fades away in the remoteness of antiquity. Some bold chieftain, far remote in barbarian ages, emerged from obscurity and laid the foundations of the illustrious house. Generation after generation passed away as the son succeeded the father in baronial pomp and pride and power, till the light of history with its steadily increasing brilliancy illumined Europe. The family had often been connected in marriage, both with the house of Guise and the royal line, the house of Valois. Antony of Bourbon, a sturdy soldier, united the houses of Bourbon and Navarre by marrying Jean d'Alberais, the only child of the king of Navarre. Henry came from the Union and only son and he, by marrying Marguerite, the daughter of the king of France, united the houses of Bourbon, Navarre and Valois and became heir to the throne of France should the sons of Henry II die without issue. This episode in reference to the condition of France at the time of which we write seems necessary to enable the reader fully to understand the succeeding chapters. End of section 16. Section 17 of Henry IV King of France and Navarre by John Stevens Cabot Abbott. This Librivox recording is in the public domain, recording by Pamela Nagami. Chapter 7 The Death of Charles IX and the Accession of Henry III Part I. After the massacre of Saint Bartholomew, a large number of the Protestants threw themselves into the city of Rochelle. For several months they were besieged by all the power which the king of France could bring against them. They were at length weakened by sickness and exhausted by famine, compelled to surrender. By their valiant resistance however they obtained highly honorable terms, securing for the inhabitants of Rochelle the free exercise of their religion within the walls of the city, and a general act of amnesty for all the Protestants in the realm. Immediately after this event Henry, the brother of Charles IX, was elected king of Poland, an honor which he attained in consequence of the military prowess he had displayed in the wars against the Protestants of France. Accompanied by his mother, Catherine de Medici, the young monarch set out for his distant dominions. Henry had been a very active agent in the massacre of Saint Bartholomew. At Lorraine Catherine took leave of him, and he went on his way in a very melancholy mood. His election had been secured by the greatest efforts of intrigue and bribery on the part of his mother. The melancholy countenances of the Protestants driven into exile and bewailing the murder of friends and relatives whose assassination he had caused met him at every turn. His reception at the German courts was cold and repulsive. In the palace of the elector Palatine Henry beheld the portrait of Coligny, who had been so treacherously slaughtered in the massacre of Saint Bartholomew. The portrait was suspended in a very conspicuous place of honor, and beneath it were inscribed the words, such was the former countenance of the hero Coligny, who has been rendered truly illustrious by both his life and his death. The Protestant elector pointed out the picture to the young king, whom he both hated and despised, and cruelly asked him if he knew the man. Henry, not a little embarrassed, replied that he did. He was rejoined the German prince, the most honest man and the wisest and the greatest captain of Europe, whose children I keep with me lest the dogs of France should tear them as their father has been torn. Thus Henry glued me through the repulses which he was ever encountering, journeyed along to Poland, where he was crowned king, notwithstanding energetic remonstrances on the part of those who had executed him for his deeds. The two brothers Charles the ninth and Henry were bitter enemies, and Charles had declared with many oaths that one of the two should leave the realm. Henry was the favourite of Catherine, and hence she made such efforts to secure his safety by placing him upon the throne of Poland. She was aware that the feeble Charles would not live long, and when with tears she took leave of Henry, she assured him that he would soon return. The outcry of indignation which the massacre of Saint Bartholomew called forth from combined Europe fell like the knell of death on the ear of the depraved and cowardly Charles. Disease began to ravage with new violence his exhausted frame. He became silent, morose, irritable, and gloomy. He secluded himself from all society, and surrendered himself to the dominion of remorse. He was detested by the protestants and utterly despised by the Catholics. A bloody sweat oozing from every poor crimsoned his bed clothes. His occasional outcries of remorse and his aspect of misery drove off from his chamber, accepting those who were compelled to render him service. He groaned and wept incessantly, exclaiming, O what blood! O what murders! Alas! Why did I follow such evil councils? He saw continually the specters of the slain with ghastly gory wounds stalking about his bed, and demons of hideous aspect, and with weapons of torture in their hands, with horrid and derisive malice were impatiently waiting to seize his soul the moment it should pass from the decaying body. The day before his death he lay for some time upon his bed in perfect silence. Suddenly starting up he exclaimed, Call my brother. His mother who was sitting by his side directed an attendant to call his brother Francis the Duke of Alonso. No, not him the King replied. My brother, the King of Navarre, I mean. Henry of Navarre was then detained in princely imprisonment in the court of Catherine. He had made many attempts to escape, but all had been unavailing. Catherine directed that Henry should be called. In order to intimidate him, and thus to prevent him from speaking with freedom and boldness to her dying son, she ordered him to be brought through the vaults of the castle between a double line of armed guards. Henry, as he descended into those gloomy dungeons and saw the glittering arms of the soldiers, felt that the hour for his assassination had arrived. He, however, passed safely through and was ushered into the chamber of his brother in law and former playfellow the dying King. Charles the Ninth, subdued by remorse and appalled by approaching death, received him with gentleness and affection, and weeping profusely embraced him as he knelt by his bedside. My brother, said the dying King, you lose a good master and a good friend. I know that you are not the cause of the troubles which have come upon me. If I had believed all which has been told me, you would not now have been living, but I have always loved you. Then turning his eyes to the queen mother, he said energetically, do not trust to, here Catherine hastily interrupted him and prevented the finishing of the sentence with the words, my mother. Charles designated his brother Henry the King of Poland as his successor. He expressed the earnest wish that neither his younger brother Francis the Duke of Alonso, nor Henry, would disturb the repose of the realm. The next night, as the cathedral clock was tolling the hour of twelve, the nurse who was sitting with two watchers at the bedside of the dying monarch heard him sighing and moaning and then convulsively weeping. Gently she approached the bed and drew aside the curtains. Charles turned his dimmed and despairing eye upon her and exclaimed, Oh, my nurse, my nurse, what blood have I shed? What murders have I committed? Great God, pardon me, pardon me. A convulsive shuddering for a moment agitated his frame, his head fell back upon his pillow and the wretched man was dead. He died at twenty-four years of age, expressing satisfaction that he left no heir to live and to suffer in a world so full of misery. In reference to this guilty king, Chateau Brion says, Should we not have some pity for this monarch of twenty-three years, born with fine talents, a taste for literature and the arts, a character naturally generous, whom an execrable mother had tried to deprave by all the abuses of debauchery and power? Yes, warmly responds Gita Feliz, we will have compassion for him, with the Ugano themselves whose fathers he ordered to be slain and who with a merciful hand would wipe away the blood which covers his face to find still something human. Henry, his brother who was to succeed him upon the throne, was then in Poland. Catherine was glad to have the pusillanimous Charles out of the way. He was sufficiently depraved to commit any crime without being sufficiently resolute to brave its penalty. Henry III had an early life displayed great vigor of character. At the age of fifteen he had been placed in the command of armies and in several combats had defeated the veteran generals of the Protestant forces. His renown had extended through Europe and had contributed much in placing him on the elective throne of Poland. Catherine, by the will of the King, was appointed regent until the return of Henry. She immediately dispatched messengers to recall the King of Poland. In the meantime she kept Henry of Navarre and her youngest son the Duke of Alonso in close captivity and watched them with the greatest vigilance that they might make no movements toward the throne. Henry was by this time utterly weary of his Polish crown and sighed for the voluptuous pleasures of Paris. The Poles were not willing that their King should leave the realm as it might lead to civil war in the choice of a successor. Henry was compelled to resort to stratagem to affect his escape. A large and splendid party was invited to the palace, a wilderness of rooms brilliantly illuminated were thrown open to the guests. Masked dancers walked the floor in every variety of costume. Wine and wasale filled the halls with revelry. When all were absorbed in music and mirth, the King, by a private passage, stole from the palace and mounting a swift horse which was awaiting him in the courtyard accompanied by two or three friends, commenced his flight from his crown and his Polish throne. Through the long hours of the night they pressed their horses to their utmost speed and when the morning dawned, obtaining fresh steeds they hurried on their way, tarrying not for refreshment or repose until they had passed the frontiers of the kingdom. Henry was afraid to take the direct route through the Protestant states of Germany for the massacre of Saint Bartholomew was still bitterly remembered. He therefore took a circuitous route through Italy and arrived at Venice in August. In sunny Italy he lingered for some time, surrendering himself to every innervating indulgence and even bartering the fortresses of France to purchase luxuries in the midst of which he was reveling. At last, sated with guilty pleasure, he languidly turned his steps toward Paris. End of Section 17. Section 18 of Henry IV King of France and Navarre by John Stevens Cabot Abbott. This Lubrovox recording is in the public domain, recording by Pamela Nagami. Chapter 7 The Death of Charles IX and the Accession of Henry III. Part II There were now three Henrys who had been companions in childhood who were at the head of the three rival houses of Valois of Poupon and of Guise. One of these was King of France, one was King of Navarre, but Henry of Guise was in wealth and the attachment of the Catholic population of France superior to either. The war which ensued is sometimes called the War of the Three Henrys. As soon as his mother learned that he was approaching France, she set out from Paris with a magnificent retinue to meet her pet child, taking with her the Duke of Alonso and Henry of Navarre. Disappation had impaired the mental as well as the physical energies of the king, and a maudlin good nature had absorbed all his faculties. He greeted his brother and his brother-in-law with much kindness, and upon receiving their oaths of obedience withdrew much of the restraint to which they previously had been subjected. Henry was now known as Henry III of France. Soon after his coronation he married Louisa of Lorraine, a daughter of one of the sons of the Duke of Guise. She was a pure-minded and lovely woman, and her mild and gentle virtues contrasted strongly with the vulgarity, coarseness, and vice of her degraded husband. The Duke of Alonso was however by no means appeased by the kindness with which he had been received by his brother the king. He called him the robber of his crown, and formed a conspiracy for attacking the carriage of his brother and putting him to death. The plot was revealed to the king. He called his brother to his presence, reproached him with his perfidy and ingratitude, but generously forgave him. But the heart of Alonso was impervious to any appeals of generosity or of honor. Upon the death of Henry III, the Duke of Alonso, his only surviving brother would ascend the throne. The Duke of Guise hated with implacable rancor the Duke of Alonso, and even proffered his aid to place Henry of Navarre upon the throne in the event of the death of the king, that he might thus exclude his detested rival. Francis the Duke of Alonso was impatient to reach the crown, and again formed a plot to poison his brother. The king was suddenly taken very ill. He declared that his brother had poisoned him. As each succeeding day his illness grew more severe and the probabilities became stronger of its fatal termination, Francis assumed an air of haughtiness and of authority, as if confident that the crown was already his own. The open exaltation which he manifested in view of the apparently dying condition of his brother Henry confirmed all in the suspicion that he had caused poison to be administered. Henry III, believing his death inevitable, called Henry of Navarre to his bedside, and heaping the bitterest invectives upon his brother Francis, urged Henry of Navarre to procure his assassination and thus secure for himself the vacant throne. Henry of Navarre was the next heir to the throne after the Duke of Alonso, and the dying king most earnestly urged Henry to put the Duke to death, showing him the ease with which it could be done, and assuring him that he would be abundantly supported by all the leading nobles of the kingdom. While this scene was taking place at the sick bed of the monarch, Francis passed through the chamber of his brother without deigning to notice either him or the king of Navarre. Strongly as Henry of Navarre was desirous of securing for himself the throne of France, he was utterly incapable of meditating even upon such a crime and he refused to give it a second thought. To the surprise of all the king recovered, and Francis made no efforts to conceal his disappointment. There were thousands of armed insurgents ready at any moment to rally around the banner of the Duke of Alonso, for they would thus be brought into positions of amolument and power. The king who was ready himself to act the assassin, treated his assassin brother with the most profound contempt. No description can convey an adequate idea of the state of France at this time. Universal anarchy prevailed. Civil war, exasperated by the utmost rancor, was raging in nearly all the provinces. Assassinations were continually occurring. Female virtue was almost unknown, and the most shameful licentiousness filled the capital. The treasury was so utterly exhausted that in a journey made by the king and his retinue in midwinter, the pages were obliged to sell their cloaks to obtain a bare subsistence. The king, steeped in pollution, a fanatic and a hypocrite, exhibited himself to his subjects bare-headed, bare-footed, and half-naked, scourging himself with a whip, reciting his prayers and preparing the way by the most ostentatious penances, to plunge anew into every degrading sensual indulgence. He was thoroughly despised by his subjects, and many were anxious to exchange him for the reckless and impetuous but equally depraved Francis. The situation of the Duke of Alonsoin was now not only very uncomfortable but exceedingly perilous. The king did everything in his power to expose him to humiliations and was evidently watching for an opportunity to put him to death, either by the dagger or by a cup of poison. The Duke, aided by his proflicate sister Marguerite, wife of Henry of Navarre, formed a plan of escape. One dark night he wrapped himself in a large cloak and issued forth alone from the Louvre. Passing through obscure streets he arrived at the suburbs of the city, where a carriage with trusty attendance was in waiting. Driving as rapidly as possible he gained the open country and then mounting a very fleet charger, which by previous appointment was provided for him, he spurred his horse at the utmost speed for many leagues, till he met an escort of three hundred men with whom he took refuge in a fortified town. His escape was not known in the palace until nine o'clock the next morning. Henry was exceedingly agitated when he received the tidings, for he knew that his energetic and reckless brother would join the Protestant party, carrying with him powerful influence, and thus add immeasurably to the distractions which now crowded upon the King. For once imminent peril roused Henry III to vigorous action. He forgot his spaniels, his parrots, his monkeys, and even his painted concubines, and roused himself to circumvent the plans of his hated rival. Letter after letter was sent to all the provinces, informing the governors of the flight of the Prince, and commanding the most vigorous efforts to secure his arrest. Francis issued a proclamation declaring the reasons for his escape, and calling upon the Protestants and all who loved the public good to rally around him. Hence the short but merciless war which in suit was called the War of the Public Good. The Duke of Alonsoin was now at the head of a powerful party, for he had thrown himself into the arms of the Protestants, and many of his Catholic partisans followed him. Henry III called to his aid the fearless and energetic Duke of Guise, and gave him the command of his armies. In the first terrible conflict which ensued, Guise was defeated and received a hideous gash upon his face, which left a scar of which he was very proud as a signet of valor. Catherine was now in deep trouble. Her two sons were in open arms against each other, heading powerful forces and sweeping France with the whirlwinds of destruction. Henry of Navarre was still detained to prisoner in the French court, though surrounded by all the luxuries and indulgences of the capital. The dignity of his character and his great popularity alarmed Catherine, lest in the turmoil of the times he should thrust both her sons from the throne and grasp the crown himself. Henry and his friends all became fully convinced that Catherine entertained designs upon his life. Marguerite was fully satisfied that it was so, and bad as she was, as Henry interfered not in the slightest degree with any of her practices, she felt a certain kind of regard for him. The guards who had been assigned to Henry profusely as a mark of honor and to add to the splendor of his establishment, or in reality his jailers, who watched him with an eagle eye. They were all zealous papists, and most of them in the massacre of Saint Bartholomew had dipped their hands deep in Protestant blood. Catherine watched him with unceasing vigilance and crowded every temptation upon him which could enervate and ruin. Her depravity did but stimulate her woman's shrewdness intact. Henry of Navarre sighed for liberty. He was however so closely guarded that escape seemed impossible. At last the following plan was formed for a flight. A hunting party was got up. Henry was to invite persons to attend the chase in whose fidelity he could repose confidence, while one only was to be entrusted with the secret. Others of his friends were secretly to resort to an appointed rendezvous with fresh horses, and all well-armed and insufficient numbers to overpower the guard placed about his person. Henry was to press on in the chase with the utmost eagerness, until the horses of the guard were completely exhausted. When his friends with the fresh steeds were to appear, rescue him from the guards, and accompany him in his flight. The guards being drawn far from the palace could not speedily obtain fresh horses, neither could they pursue him with their jaded animals. The Duke of Guise was now in great favor with Henry III. Henry of Navarre during the few days in which he was making preparation for his flight, blinded the eagle eyes of the Duke by affecting great confidence that he would obtain from the King the High Office of Lieutenant General of France. The Duke and Henry III made themselves very merry over this supposed simplicity of Henry of Navarre, little aware that he was making himself equally merry at their expense. Two days before the execution of the scheme, a rumor spread through the court that Henry had escaped. For a short time great anxiety and confusion ensued. Henry being informed of the report and of the agitation which filled the palace, hastened to the apartments where Catherine and the King were in deliberation and laughingly told them that he had arrested the King of Navarre and that he now surrendered him for safekeeping. In the morning of the day fixed for his flight, the King of Navarre held a long and familiar conversation with the Duke of Guise and urged him to accompany him to the hunt. Just as the moment arrived for the execution of the plot, it was betrayed to the King by the treachery of a confederate. Notwithstanding this betrayal, however, matters were so thoroughly arranged that Henry after several hair breath escapes from a rest accomplished his flight. His apprehension was so great that for sixty miles he rode as rapidly as possible without speaking a word or stopping for one moment except to mount a fresh horse. He rode over a hundred miles on horseback that day and took refuge in Alonso, a fortified town held by the Protestants. As soon as his escape was known thousands of his friends flocked around him. The Duke of Alonso was not a little troubled at the escape of the King of Navarre for he was well aware that the authority he had acquired among the Protestants would be lost by the presence of one so much his superior in every respect and so much more entitled to the confidence of the Protestants. Thus the two princes remained separate but ready in case of emergence to unite their forces which now amount to two fifty thousand men. Henry of Navarre soon established his headquarters on the banks of the Loire where every day fresh parties of Protestants were joining his standard. Henry III with no energy of character despised by his subjects and without either money or armies seemed to be now entirely at the mercy of the Confederate princes. Henry of Navarre and the Duke of Alonso sent an ambassador to the French court to propose terms to Henry III. The King of Navarre required among other conditions that France should unite with him in recovering from Spain that portion of the territory of Navarre which had been arrested from his ancestors by Ferdinand and Isabella. While the proposed conditions of peace were under discussion Catherine succeeded in bribing her son the Duke of Alonso to abandon the cause of Henry of Navarre. A treaty of peace was then concluded with the Protestants and by a royal edict the full and free exercise of the Protestant religion was guaranteed in every part of France except Paris and a circle twelve miles diameter around the capital. As a bribe to the Duke of Alonso he was invested with sovereign power over the three most important provinces of the realm with an annual income of one hundred thousand crowns. This celebrated treaty called the Paix de Monsieur because concluded under the auspices of Francis the brother of the king was signed at Chastinet the 6th of May 1576. The ambitious and perfidious Duke now assumed the title of the Duke of Anjou and entirely separated himself from the Protestants. He tried to lure the prince of Condé the cousin and devoted friend of Henry of Navarre to accompany him into the town of Bourges. The prince suspecting treachery refused the invitation saying that some rogue would probably be found in the city who would send a bullet through his head. The rogue would be hanged I know he added but the prince of Condé would be dead. I will not give you occasion my lord to hang rogues for love of me. He accordingly took his leave of the Duke of Alonso and putting spurs to his horse with fifty followers joined the king of Navarre. Henry was received with royal honors in the Protestant town of Rochelle where he publicly renounced the Roman Catholic faith declaring that he had ascended to that faith from compulsion and as the only means of saving his life. He also publicly performed penance for the sin which he declared that he had thus been compelled to commit. Catherine and Henry III having detached Francis who had been the Duke of Alonso but who now was the Duke of Anjou from the Protestants no longer feigned any friendship or even toleration for that cause. They acted upon the principal that no faith was to be kept with heretics. The Protestants not withstanding the treaty were exposed to every species of insult and injury. The Catholics were determined that the Protestant religion should not be tolerated in France and that all who did not conform to the Church of Rome should either perish or be driven from the kingdom. Many of the Protestants were men of devoted piety who cherished their religious convictions more tenaciously than life. There were others however who joined them merely from motives of political ambition. Though the Protestant party in France itself was comparatively small, the great mass of the population being Catholics, yet the party was extremely influential from the intelligence and the rank of its leaders and from the unconquerable energy with which all of its members were animated. The weak and a resolute king was ever vacillating between the two parties. The Duke of Guise was the great idol of the Catholics. Henry of Navarre was the acknowledged leader of the Protestants. The king feared them both. It was very apparent that Henry III could not live long. At his death his brother Francis Duke of Anjou would ascend the throne. Should he die childless, Henry of Navarre would be his lawful successor. But the Catholics would be horror stricken at the idea of seeing a heretic on the throne. The Duke of Guise was laying his plans deep and broad to array all the Catholic population of France in his own favor and thus to rob the Protestant prince of his rights. Henry III, Henry of Navarre, Henry Duke of Guise and Francis Duke of Anjou had all been playmates in childhood and classmates at school. They were now heading armies and struggling for the prize of the richest crown in Europe. Francis was weary of waiting for his brother to die. To strengthen himself he sought in marriage the hand of Queen Elizabeth of England. Though she had no disposition to receive a husband, she was ever very happy to be surrounded by lovers. She consequently played the coquette with Francis until he saw that there was no probability of the successful termination of his suit. Francis returned to Paris bitterly disappointed and with Nuziel consecrated his sword to the cause of the Catholics. Had Elizabeth accepted his suit he would then most earnestly have espoused the cause of the Protestants. Henry III now determined to make a vigorous effort to crush the Protestant religion. He raised large armies and gave the command to the Duke of Anjou, the Duke of Guise, and to the brother of the Duke of Guise, the Duke of Mayenne. Henry of Navarre encountering fearful odds was welcomed by acclamation to head the small but indomitable band of Protestants, now struggling not for liberty only, but for life. The king was very anxious to get Henry of Navarre again in his power and sent most flattering messages and most pressing invitations to lure him again to his court. But years of captivity had taught a lesson of caution not soon to be forgotten. Again hideous war ravaged France. The Duke of Anjou, exasperated by disappointed love, disgraced himself by the most atrocious cruelties. He burned the dwellings of the Protestants, surrendered unarmed and defenseless men and women and children to massacre. The Duke of Guise, who had inflicted such an ineffacible stain upon his reputation by the foul murder of the Admiral Colligny, made some atonement for this shameful act by the chivalrous spirit with which he endeavored to mitigate the horrors of civil war. One day in the vicinity of Bayonne, a party of Catholics consisting of a few hundred horse and foot were conducting to their execution three Protestant young ladies who for their faith were infamously condemned to death. As they were passing over a wide plane covered with broken woods and heath, they were encountered by a body of Protestants, a desperate battle immediately ensued. The Protestants, impelled by a noble chivalry as well as by religious fervor, rushed upon their foe with such impetuosity that resistance was unavailing and the Catholics threw down their arms and implored quarter. Many of the soldiers were from the city of Dux. The leader of the Protestant band remembered that at the massacre of St. Bartholomew all the Protestants in that city had been slain without mercy. With a most deplorable want of magnanimity he caused all the prisoners who belonged to that place to be separated from the rest and in cold blood they were slaughtered. The remainder of the prisoners were from the city of Bayonne whose inhabitants, though Catholics, had nobly refused to imbrew their hands in the blood of that horrible massacre which Charles IX had enjoined. To them, after they had seen their comrades surrendered to butchery before their eyes, he restored their horses and their arms and gave them their entire liberty. Go, said he to your homes, and there tell the different treatment which I showed to soldiers and to assassins. The three ladies, thus rescued from impending death, were born back in triumph to their friends. Eight days after this a trumpet was sounded and a flag of truce appeared emerging from the gates of Bayonne. The friends of the Catholic soldiers who had been thus generously restored sent a beautifully embroidered scarf and a handkerchief to each one of the Protestant soldiers. It is a singular illustration of the blending of the horrors of war and the courtesies of peace that in the midst of this sanguinary conflict Henry of Navarre, accompanied by only six companions, accepted an invitation to a fete given by his enemies of the town of Bayonne. He was received with the utmost courtesy. His table was loaded with luxuries, voluptuous music floated upon the ear, songs and dances animated the festive hours. Henry then returned to head his army and to meet his entertainers and the carnage of the field of battle. There was but little repose in France during the year 1577. Skirmish succeeded Skirmish and battle was followed by battle. Cities were bombarded, villages burned, fields ravaged. All the pursuits of industry were arrested. Ruin, beggary and woe desolated thousands of once happy homes. Still the Protestants were unsubdued. The king's resources at length were entirely exhausted and he was compelled again to conclude a treaty of peace. Bold parties immediately disbanded their forces and the blessings of repose followed the discords of war. One of the Protestant generals immediately upon receiving the tidings of peace set out at the utmost speed of his horse to convey the intelligence to Langduck where very numerous forces of Protestants and Catholics were preparing for conflict. He spurred his steed over hills and plains till he saw gleaming in the rays of the morning sun, the banners of the embattled hosts arrayed against each other on a vast plain. The drums and trumpets were just beginning to sound the dreadful charge which in a few moments would strew that plain with mangled limbs and crimson it with blood. The artillery on the adjoining eminences were beginning to utter its voice of thunder as balls more destructive than the fabled bolts of joe were thrown into the massive columns marching to the dreadful onset. A few moments later and the cry, the uproar, and the confusion of battle would blind every eye and deafen every ear. Langduck almost frantic with a desire to stop the needless effusion of blood at the imminent risk of being shot galloped between the antagonistic armies waving energetically the white banner of peace and succeeded in arresting the battle. His generous effort saved the lives of thousands. Henry III was required as the pledge of his sincerity to place in the hands of the Protestants eight fortified cities. The reformers were permitted to conduct public worship unmolested in those places only where it was practiced at the time of signing the treaty. In other parts of France they were allowed to retain their belief without persecution but they were not permitted to meet in any worshipping assemblies. But even these pledges confirmed by the Edict of Poitiers on the 8th of October 1597 were speedily broken like all the rest. But in the midst of all these conflicts while every province in France was convulsed with a civil war the king, reckless of the woes of his subjects, rioted in all voluptuous dissipation. He was accustomed to exhibit himself to his court in those effeminate pageants in which he found his only joy dressed in the flouting robes of a gay woman with his bosom open and a string of pearls encircling his neck. On one occasion he gave a fet when for the excitement of novelty the gentlemen in female robes were weighted upon by the ladies of the court who were dressed in male attire or rather undressed for their persons were veiled by the slightest possible clothing. Such was the corruption of the court of France and indeed of nearly the whole realm in those days of darkness domestic purity was a virtue unknown. Law existed only in name. The rich committed any crimes without fear of molestation. In the royal palace itself one of the favorites of the king in a paroxysm of anger stabbed his wife and her waiting maid while the unfortunate lady was dressing. No notice whatever was taken of this bloody deed. The murderer retained all his offices and honors and it was the general sentiment of the people of France that the assassination was committed by the order of the sovereign because the lady refused to be entirely subservient to the wishes of the dissolute king. End of section 19 section 20 of history of Henry IV king of France and Navarre by John Stevens Cabot Abbott this Librivox recording is in the public domain recording by Pamela Nagami chapter 8 the league part one about this time there was formed the celebrated league which occupies so conspicuous a position in the history of the 16th century. Henry III though conscious that his throne was trembling beneath him and courting now the Catholics and again the Protestants was still amusing himself day after day with the most contemptible and trivial vices. The extinction of the house of Valois was evidently and speedily approaching. Henry of Navarre calm, sagacious and energetic was rallying around him all the Protestant influences of Europe to sustain in that event his undeniable claim to the throne. The Duke of Guise impetuous and fearless hoped in successful usurpation to grasp the rich prize by rallying around his banner all the fanatic energies of Catholic Europe. Henry III was alike despised by Catholics and Protestants. His brother Francis though far more impulsive had but few traits of character to command respect. He could summon but a feeble band for his support. Henry of Guise was the available candidate for the Catholics. All the priestly influences of France were earnestly combined to advance his claims. They declared that Henry of Navarre had forfeited every shadow of right to the succession by becoming a heretic. The genealogy of the illustrious house of Guise was blazoned forth and its descent traced from Charlemagne. It was asserted and argued in the pulpit and in the camp that even the house of Valois had usurped the crown which by right belonged to the house of Guise. Under these circumstances the most formidable secret society was organized the world is ever known. It assumed the name of the League. Its object was to exterminate Protestantism and to place the Duke of Guise upon the throne. The following are in brief its covenant and oath. The League. In the name of the Holy Trinity, Father, Son, and Holy Ghost, this League of Catholic Princes, Lords, and Gentlemen shall be instituted to maintain the Holy Catholic, Apostolic, and Roman Church of juring all errors to the contrary. Should opposition to this League arise in any quarter, the Associates shall employ all their goods and means even their own persons unto death to punish and hunt down those opposing. Should any of the Leaguers, their Associates, or friends be molested, the members of the League shall be bound to employ their bodies, goods, and means to inflict vengeance upon those thus offending. Should any Leaguer, after having taken the oath, withdraw from the Association under any pretext whatever, the refractory member shall be injured in body and goods in every manner which can be devised as enemies of God, rebels, and disturbers of the public peace. The Leaguers shall swear implicit obedience to their Chief and shall aid by Council and Service in preserving the League and in the ruin of all who oppose it. All Catholic towns and villages shall be summoned secretly by their several Governors to enter into this League and to furnish arms and men for its execution. Oath I swear by God the Creator touching the Evangelists and upon the pain of eternal damnation that I have entered into this holy Catholic League loyally and sincerely either to command, to obey, or to serve. I promise upon my life an honor to remain in this League to the last drop of my blood without opposing or retiring upon any pretext whatsoever. Such was the character of secret societies in the sixteenth century, a more atrocious Confederacy than this the human mind could hardly have conceived. It was, however, peculiarly calculated to captivate the multitude in those days of darkness and blood. Though it first formed and extended secretly, it spread like wildfire through all the cities and provinces of France. Princes, lords, gentlemen, artisans, and peasants rushed into its impious enclosures. The benighted populace enthralled by the superstitions of the Church were eager to manifest their zeal for God by wrecking the most awful vengeance upon heretics. He who for any cause declined entering the League found himself exposed to every possible annoyance. His house and his barns blazed in midnight conflagrations. His cattle were mutilated and slain. His wife and children were insulted and stoned in the streets. By day and by night, asleep and awake, at home and abroad, at all times and everywhere, he was annoyed by every conceivable form of injury and violence. Soon the League became so powerful that no farther secrecy was needful. It stalked abroad in open day, insulting its foes and wanting its invincibility. The gigantic plan it unblushingly avowed was to exterminate Protestantism by fire and the sword from France, then to drown it in blood in Holland, then to turn to England and purify that kingdom from the taint of heresy, then to march upon Germany and thus to advance from kingdom to kingdom in their holy crusade, until Protestantism should be everywhere engulfed in blood and flame and the whole of Europe should be again brought back to the despotism of Rome. The Duke of Guise was the soul of this mammoth conspiracy, though Philip II, the bigoted king of Spain, was its recorded commander-in-chief. The Protestants were justly alarmed by the enormous energy of the new power thus suddenly evoked against them. The Pope, though at first hostile, soon with his cardinals espoused the cause of the League and consecrated to its support, all the weapons which could be wielded by the Vatican. From France, the demoniac organization spread through all the kingdoms of Europe. Hundreds of thousands were arrayed beneath its crimson banner. Even Henry III in the Louvre, surrounded by his parasites and his concubines, trembled as he saw the shadow of this fearful apparition darkening his court. He immediately perceived that he must mount the car or be crushed by it. Adroitly, he leaped into the seat of the charioteer and seized the reins. The demands of the League he adopted as his own and urged them with energy. He issued a proclamation commending the League to his subjects and announcing that he, to set them an example, had signed its covenant and its oath. The Duke of Guise and his followers were quite bewildered by this unexpected step. The League had demanded the assembling of the State's General, a body somewhat resembling the Congress of the United States. The King immediately summoned them to meet. They declared war against the Protestants. The King adopted the declaration as his own decree and called loudly for supplies to prosecute the war with vigor. He outleagued the most violent of the Leaguers in denunciations of the Protestants in declaring that but one religion should be tolerated in France and in clamoring for arms and munitions of war that heresy might be utterly extirpated. The Leaguers thus found to their great perplexity the weapon which they had forged, rested from their hands and wielded against them. They had organized to drive the imbecile Henry III from the throne. He had seized upon that organization and was using it to establish himself more firmly there. The situation of Henry of Navarre was now extremely critical. Pope Sextus V, besides giving the League his papal blessing, had fulminated against the King of Navarre the awful thunders of excommunication. The bull of excommunication was exceedingly coarse and vulgar in its denunciatory terms calling the King of Navarre this bastard and detestable progeny of Bourbon. Henry replied to this assault in accents intrepid and resolute which caused Catholic Europe to stand aghast. Henry said this bull document by the grace of God, King of Navarre, sovereign Prince of Bayonne, First Peer and Prince of France, resists the declaration in excommunication of Sextus V, self-styled Pope of Rome, asserts it to be false and maintains that Mr. Sextus, the self-styled Pope, has falsely and maliciously lied. That he himself is heretic, which he will prove in any full and free council lawfully assembled, to which if he do not consent and submit, as he is bound by the canons, he, the King of Navarre, holds and pronounces him to be anti-Christ and heretic and in that quality declares against him perpetual and irreconcilable war. This energetic protest was placarded in most of the towns of France and by some fearless followers of the Prince was even attached to the walls of the Vatican. The Pope, though at first much irritated, had the magnanimity to express his admiration of the spirit manifested by Henry. There are but two princes in Europe, said he, to whom I could venture to communicate the grand schemes revolving in my mind, Henry of Navarre and Elizabeth of England, but unfortunately, they are both heretics. End of Section 20