Vaniero and Colonna fought with great gallantry and success, and each vanquished the Turk who had engaged him. The brave old Admiral of Venice fairly earned the Doge's cap, which soon after crowned his hoary brow. He was often in the thickest of the fire; and when, in the absence of many of his men, who had boarded the Turkish flag-ship, his own was also boarded, he repulsed the assailants in person, and, fighting with all the vigor of youth, received a wound in the foot on the deck of the galley of Pertau Pacha, whither he had pursued his advantage. A second Turkish galley, advancing to attack Vaniero, was run into about midships and sunk by Giovanni Contarini. Giovanni de Loredano and Caterino Malipieri were less happy in the enemies whom they encountered, and perished in their sunken vessels. From the flag-ship of Genoa the young Prince of Parma, followed by a single Spanish soldier named Alonso Davalos, leaped into a Turkish galley, fought their way through its defenders without a wound, and might also boast of having, unaided, caused it to strike its flag. Two other Turks afterward surrendered to the Genoese flag-ship, the captain of which, Ettore Spinola, lost his life by an arrow. In the flag-ship of Savoy, under a captain named Leni, of remarkable courage, who was also severely wounded, the Prince of Urbino likewise greatly distinguished himself. The gallant Karacosh was compelled to surrender to Juan Bautista Cortez, a captain of the King of Spain, although his galley was defended by one hundred fifty picked janizaries and was one of the best built and equipped vessels in the fleet. The Eleugina of the Pope had the credit of taking the guard-ship of Rhodes; and the Toscana, also a papal galley, in making a prize of the vessel of the Turkish paymaster recovered to the pontifical squadron the flag-ship of the contingent of Pius IV in the unfortunate battle of Gerbi. The crowning achievement of the central division was performed by the Grand Commander, who attacked and captured after an obstinate and bloody contest, a fine galley, in which were the sons of the deceased Ali Pacha. These lads—Mahomet Bey, aged seventeen years, and Said Bey, aged thirteen—had been brought to sea by their father for the first time. Their capture was of importance, because the mother of one of them was a sister of Sultan Selim.

Juan de Cardona, who sailed on the left of the right wing, finding no enemy opposed to him, brought his vessel round to the rear of the Turkish centre, and attacked Pertau Pacha, with whom Paolo Giordano Orsini was engaged in a somewhat unequal conflict. After a stout resistance the Christians entered the Turkish galley, out of which the Pacha, though wounded, succeeded in escaping in a boat.

The right wing of the Christians and the Turkish left wing did not engage each other until some time after the other divisions were in deadly conflict. Doria and Aluch Ali were, each of them, bent on outmanoeuvring the other. The Algerine did not succeed, like Sirocco, in insinuating himself between his adversary and the shore. But the seamen whose skill and daring were the admiration of the Mediterranean were not easily baffled. Finding himself foiled in his first attempt, he slackened his course, and, threatening sometimes one vessel and sometimes another, drew the Genoese eastward, until the inferior speed of some of the galleys had caused an opening at the northern end of the Christian line. Upon this opening the crafty corsair immediately bore down with all the speed of his oars, and passed through it with most of his galleys. This evolution placed him in the rear of the whole Christian line of battle. On the extreme right of the centre division sailed Prior Giustiniani, the commodore of the small Maltese squadron. This officer had hitherto fought with no less success than skill, and had already captured four Turkish galleys. The Viceroy of Algiers had, the year before, captured three galleys of Malta, and was fond of boasting of being the peculiar scourge and terror of the Order of St. John. The well-known white cross banner, rising over the smoke of battle, soon attracted his eye and was marked for his prey. Wheeling round like a hawk, he bore down from behind upon the unhappy prior. The three war-worn vessels of St. John were no match for seven stout Algerines which had not yet fired a shot. The knights and their men defended themselves with a valor worthy of their heroic order. A youth named Bernardino de Heredia, son of the Count of Fuentes, signally distinguished himself; and a Saragossan knight, Geronimo Ramirez, although riddled with arrows like another St. Sebastian, fought with such desperation that none of the Algerine boarders cared to approach him until they saw that he was dead. A knight of Burgundy leaped alone into one of the enemy's galleys, killed four Turks, and defended himself until overpowered by numbers. On board the prior's vessel, when he was taken, he himself, pierced with five arrow wounds, was the sole survivor, except two knights, a Spaniard and a Sicilian, who, being senseless from their wounds, were considered as dead. Having secured the banner of St. John, Aluch Ali took the prior's ship in tow, and was making the best of his way out of a battle which his skilful eye soon discovered to be irretrievably lost. He had not, however, sailed far when he was in turn descried by the Marquess of Santa Cruz, who, with his squadron of reserve, was moving about redressing the wrongs of Christian fortune. Aluch Ali had no mind for the fate of Giustiniani, and resolved to content himself with the banner of Malta. Cutting his prize adrift, he plied his oars and escaped, leaving the prior grievously wounded to the care of his friends, and once more master, not only of his ship, but of three hundred dead enemies who cumbered the deck, a few living Algerine mariners who were to navigate the vessel, and some Turkish soldiers, from whom he had just purchased his life. This struggle cost the order, in killed alone, upward of thirty knights, among whom was the Grand Bailiff of Germany, commander-in-chief of its land forces. A few were also made prisoners, most of them desperately wounded. For one of them, Borgianni Gianfigliazzi, his relations at Florence, supposing him dead, performed funeral obsequies, in spite of which he returned home from captivity, and was afterward ambassador from the Grand Duke to Sultan Amurath. Two other knights, Mastrillo and Caraffa, finding themselves unsupported in an enemy's brigantine, had given themselves up, and had just bribed their captor to spare their lives and admit them to a ransom, when a Neapolitan galley coming by boarded the brigantine and turned their new master into their slave.

The main body of the Turkish left wing, though long of engaging the Christian right, fought with perhaps greater fierceness than any other part of the fleet. The battle was raging in that part of the line with very doubtful aspect, when Don John of Austria found himself free from the attacks of the enemies immediately around him. Thither, therefore, he steered to the assistance of his comrades. The Turks, perceiving the approach of a succoring squadron, and surmising the disasters which had occurred in the centre, immediately gave way and dispersed. Sixteen of the Algerine galleys, however, retired together, and rallying at a little distance, adopted the tactics of their chief, by making a circuit toward the shore of the Morea, and endeavoring to sweep round upon the rear of the Christians. Their manoeuvres were closely watched by Don Juan de Cardona, who placed himself in their path with eight galleys. The encounter which took place between the two unequal squadrons was one of the bloodiest episodes of the battle. Cardona was completely successful, disabling some of his antagonists and putting the rest to flight. His loss was, however, very severe. His own galley suffered more damage than any vessel in the fleet which was not rendered absolutely unfit for service. The forecastle was a ruin; the bulwark and defences of all kinds were shattered to pieces; and the masts and spars were stuck full of arrows. Cardona himself, after escaping a ball from an arquebus, which was turned by a cuirass of fine steel given to him at Genoa by the Prince of Tuscany, received a severe wound in the throat, of which he died. Of the five hundred Sicilian soldiers who fought on board his galleys only fifty remained unwounded. Many of the officers were slain, and not one escaped without a wound. Others had suffered even greater loss. In the Florence, a papal galley, not only many knights of St. Stephen were killed, but also every soldier and slave; and the captain, Tommaso de' Medicis, himself severely wounded, found himself at the head of only seventeen wounded seamen. In the San Giovanni, another vessel of the Pope, the soldiers were also killed to a man, the rowing-benches occupied by corpses, and a captain laid for dead with two musket-balls in his neck. The Piamontesa of Savoy had likewise lost her commander and all of her soldiers and rowers.

Although Doria, having suffered himself to be outmanoeuvred by Aluch Ali, and having failed to exchange a shot with that leader, could not claim any considerable part of the laurels of the day, he was nevertheless frequently engaged with other foes and made several prizes. He escaped without a wound, though he was covered with blood of a soldier killed by a cannon-ball close behind him.

On the left wing of the Christian fleet, the battle, which had begun so unpropitiously, was also brought to a prosperous issue. The wound of Barbarigo transferred the command to the commissary Canale. Aided by Nano, who commanded Barbarigo's galley, Canale engaged and sunk the vessel of the Pacha of Alexandria. Mahomet Sirocco himself, severely wounded, was fished out of the sea by Gian Contarini, and sent on board Canale's galley. As the wound of the Turk appeared to be mortal, the Venetian relieved him from further suffering by cutting off his head. Marco Quirini likewise did gallant service, compelling several of the enemy to strike their flags. Of the remaining galleys many were run ashore by their crews, of whom the greater number were slain or drowned as they attempted to swim to land.

The victory of the Christians at Lepanto was in a great measure to be ascribed to the admirable tactics of their chief. The shock of the Turkish onset was effectually broken by the dexterous disposition made of the galeases of Venice. Indeed, had the great ships been there to strengthen the sparse line formed by these six vessels, it is not impossible that the Turks would have failed in forcing their way through the wall of that terrible fire. Each Christian vessel, by the retrenchment of its peak, enjoyed an advantage over its antagonist in the freer play of its artillery. When, however, the galleys of Selim came to close combat with the galleys of the League, the battle became a series of isolated struggles which depended more upon individual mind and manhood than upon any comprehensive plan of far-seeing calculation. But Don John of Austria had the merit or the good-fortune of bringing his forces into action in the highest moral and material perfection; of placing admirable means in the hands of men whose spirit was in the right temper to use them. He struck his great blow at the happy moment when great dangers are cheerfully confronted and great things easily accomplished.

His plan of battle was on the whole admirably executed. The galleys of the various confederates were so studiously intermingled that each vessel was incited to do its utmost by the spur of rivalry. Vaniero and Colonna deserve their full share of the credit of the day; and the gallant Santa Cruz, although at first stationed in the rear, soon found and employed his opportunity of earning his share of laurels. On Doria alone Roman and Venetian critics, and indeed public opinion, pronounced a less favorable verdict. His shoreward movement unquestionably had the effect of enabling Aluch Ali to cut the Christian line and fall with damaging force upon its rear, and of rendering the victory more costly in blood and less rich in prizes. This movement was ascribed to the desire of the Genoese to spare his own ships, and to secure a safe retreat for himself in case of a disaster; and he was further even taunted with cowardice for hauling down the gilded celestial sphere, the proud cognizance of his house, which usually surmounted his flag-staff. To the latter charge his friends replied that the sphere was taken down to secure it from injury, it being the gift of his wife, and that his ship was too well known to both the fleets to find safety in the want of her usual badge. The other accusations, they considered, were disposed of by the necessity of shaping his course according to the tactics of the Algerine, and abundantly refuted by the vigor and success with which he at last attacked the enemy. It is not improbable that the true explanation of his conduct is that offered by the captain of a Neapolitan galley, present at the battle, that he wished to gain an advantage over Aluch Ali by seamanship, and that the renegade, no less skilled in the game, played it on this occasion better than he.

Although in numbers, both of men and vessels, the Sultan's fleet was superior to the fleet of the League, this superiority was more than counterbalanced by other important advantages possessed by the Christians. The artillery of the West was of greater power and far better served than the ordnance of the East; and its fire was rendered doubly disastrous by the thronged condition of the Turkish vessels. The lofty-peaked prows of these vessels seriously interfered, as we have already seen, with the working of their guns. A great number of their combatants were armed with the bow instead of the firelock, which placed them at an obvious disadvantage, except during heavy rains, which extinguished the match of the latter weapon. Of the Turks who carried the musket or arquebus few could handle them with the expertness of a Christian soldier. The advantages which the League derived from its galeases were heightened by the fact that a large proportion of its other vessels were superior to their antagonists. The galleys of the King of Spain were, in general, both more strongly built and more carefully protected against boarders than those of the Sultan. Even early in the battle the Moslems began to discover that they were overmatched. In many of the galleys the guns were at once silenced by the heavier artillery of the Christians, in whose hands the fire of the arquebus and the musket, when they came to close quarters, proved so withering that the enemy's deck was sometimes swept clean before they boarded, and the turbaned heads of the janizaries were seen crouching beneath the benches of the slaves. When the conflict was transferred to the Turkish decks, the Christians, however, found themselves fiercely met, and among other means of opposing their progress they perceived that the central gangway (corsia) had been torn up, or they slipped upon planking which had been smeared with butter, oil, or even, it is said, with honey, to render the footing insecure. So efficient were the nettings and other precautions with which Don John of Austria defended the bulwarks of his ships that he was able to inform Philip II that not a Turk had set foot upon a single deck belonging to his majesty.

Such were some of the chief causes of the success of the arms of the League. In the sixteenth century, in a vast concourse of men of the South, hot from battle and largely leavened with priests and friars, it was natural that the victory should be by many ascribed to a more mysterious agency. In the opinion of these persons the Almighty had evidently been fighting on the side of the Pope and the Cross, although they would perhaps have demurred to the logical deduction from that opinion that at Cyprus he had steadily adhered to the drunken Sultan and the Crescent. It was not only in the victory that they saw the finger of Omnipotence, but in many accidents and incidents of the day. The wind, which wafted the Turks swiftly to destruction, changed at the precise moment when it was needed to aid the onset of the Christians. The boisterous sea also sank to smoothness in the special interest of the League. Of the clergy and friars who ministered on the Spanish decks to the wounded and dying, although some of them were struck, not one was killed. The Venetians were less fortunate, having four chaplains killed and three wounded; and the Pope likewise lost one of his friars, who died of his wounds soon after the battle. The churchmen exposed themselves as freely as the combatants, whom they encouraged from conspicuous posts either on deck or in the rigging, and sometimes by example as well as precept. A Spanish Capuchin, an old soldier, had tied his crucifix to a halbert, and, crying that Christ would fight for his faith, led the boarders of his galley over the bulwarks of her antagonist; after using his weapon manfully, he returned victorious and untouched.

An Italian priest, with a great gilded crucifix in one hand and a sword in another, stood cheering on his spiritual sons, unharmed in the fiercest centre of the arrowy sleet and iron hail. A Roman Capuchin, finding his flock getting the worst of it, seized a boat-hook, and, pulling his peaked hood over his face, rushed into the fray, laid about him until he had slain seven Turks and driven the rest from the deck, and lived to call a smile to the thin lips of Pius V by telling the story of his prowess. The green banner of Mecca, brought from the Prophet's tomb, and unfurled from the main-top of Ali, was riddled with shot, which rendered illegible many of the sacred words with which it was embroidered. But the azure standard of the League, blessed by the supreme Pontiff and emblazoned with the image of the crucified Redeemer, remained untouched by bolt or bullet, although masts, spars, and shrouds around were torn and shattered from top to bottom.

The battle was over about four o'clock in the afternoon. The rout of the centre and right wing of the Turk was complete. The vessels which composed these divisions were either sunk or taken, or they had singly sought safety in flight. A few galleys of the left wing still followed the banner of the Viceroy of Algiers. After hovering for a while near the coast of the Morea he made sail for St. Maura. Don John of Austria, with Doria and some other captains, gave him chase, but was compelled to desist for want of oarsmen. The pursuit, however, was not altogether unsuccessful, for several of the panic-stricken Algerines ran their galleys ashore, where some of them suffered shipwreck on the rocks. In the course of the night Aluch Ali and his little squadron of fugitives stole back from St. Maura to Lepanto. That harbor afforded a refuge to about nine-and-twenty vessels, most of them much shattered, the sole remains of the proud and confident armament which had so lately sailed out from between the two castles.



MASSACRE OF ST. BARTHOLOMEW

A.D. 1572

HENRY WHITE ISAAC D'ISRAELI JNO. RUDD

Among the numberless butcheries which history, both ancient and modern, records, there has been none more remarkable in motive, execution, and number of victims than the Massacre of St. Bartholomew. It is scarcely less remarkable as being one of those historic crimes which defeat their own purpose by reacting against the perpetrators and advancing the cause of those who suffer outrage.

The tragedy of St. Bartholomew's Day marked the culmination of the great struggle which devastated France in the latter half of the sixteenth century. During the reign of Francis I (1515-1547) and his immediate successors, Henry II (1547-1559), Francis II (1559-1560), and Charles IX (1560-1574), "the Huguenot (French Protestant) character was formed, and the nation gradually separated into two parties so fanatically hostile that the extermination of the weaker seemed the only possible means of reestablishing the unity of France."

The "Puritans of France" were persecuted under all these kings. During the minority of Charles IX his mother, Catherine de' Medici, was regent, and throughout his reign she dictated the King's policy. Under this rule the persecutions continued with increasing violence.

From 1562 to 1570 France was torn with civil wars between Catholics and Protestants. On the Protestant side the great leaders were the Prince of Conde, Admiral Coligny, and later Henry of Navarre. Conde was murdered in 1569. By the Peace of St. Germain (1570) the Huguenots received some favorable concessions. The weak Charles IX, now in fear of Philip II of Spain, was inclining to the Protestant side. Seconded by Coligny, he planned alliances with all the enemies of Philip in Europe. But Catherine overruled him. Charles and Coligny, however, had their way in the marriage of the King's sister, Margaret of Valois, to Henry of Navarre. Coligny now gained a stronger influence over the young Charles. He was followed by a large body of exulting Protestants to Paris, and the Catholic party, headed by Catherine, the Duke of Anjou, and the Guises, became greatly enraged.

Of the terrible massacre which followed, and in which the number killed throughout France has been estimated at from twenty thousand to one hundred thousand, Coligny was the first victim. One attempt to assassinate him failed; he was only wounded; and the Queen-mother then plied her weak son with argument and persuasion in order to make him consent to the admiral's murder and to the massacre which had been arranged, with profound secrecy, for August 24th. She told him of a Huguenot plot, in which, at a signal from Coligny, conspirators were to rise throughout the kingdom, overturn the throne, take Charles himself prisoner, and destroy the Queen-mother and the Catholic nobility. She showed him some proofs, "forged or real," of his personal danger.

As a counter-view to the intensely bitter picture of Catherine presented by most non-Catholic historians, and represented here by White, the explanation of Charles IX himself, in the letter furnished by D'Israeli, possesses a peculiar interest.

HENRY WHITE

The King sat moody and silent, biting his nails, as was his wont. He would come to no decision. He asked for proofs, and none was forthcoming, except some idle gossip of the streets and the foolish threats of a few hot-headed Huguenots. Charles had learned to love the admiral: could he believe that the gentle Coligny and that Rochefoucault, the companion of his rough sports, were guilty of this meditated plot? He desired to be the king of France—of Huguenots and Catholics alike—not a king of party. Catherine, in her despair, employed her last argument. She whispered in his ear, "Perhaps, sire, you are afraid." As if struck by an arrow, he started from his chair. Raving like a madman, he bade them hold their tongues, and with fearful oaths exclaimed: "Kill the admiral, if you like, but kill all the Huguenots with him—all—all—all—so that not one be left to reproach me hereafter. See to it at once—at once; do you hear?" And he dashed furiously out of the closet, leaving the conspirators aghast at his violence.

But there was no time to be lost; the King might change his mind; the Huguenots might get wind of the plot. The murderous scheme must be carried out that very night, and accordingly the Duke of Guise was summoned to the Louvre. And now the different parts of the tragedy were arranged, Guise undertaking, on the strength of his popularity with the Parisian mob, to lead them to the work of blood. We may also imagine him begging as a favor the privilege of despatching the admiral in retaliation for his father's murder. The city was parted into districts, each of which was assigned to some trusty officer, Marshal Tavannes having the general superintendence of the military arrangements. The conspirators now separated, intending to meet again at ten o'clock. Guise went into the city, where he communicated his plans to such of the mob leaders as could be trusted. He told them of a bloody conspiracy among the Huguenot chiefs to destroy the King and the royal family and extirpate Catholicism; that a renewal of war was inevitable, but it was better that war should come in the streets of Paris than in the open field, for the leaders would thus be far more effectually punished and their followers crushed. He affirmed that letters had been intercepted in which the admiral had sought the aid of German reiters and Swiss pikemen, and that Montmorency was approaching with twenty-five thousand men to burn the city, as the Huguenots had often threatened. And, as if to give color to this idle story, a small body of cavalry had been seen from the walls in the early part of the day.

Such arguments and such falsehoods were admirably adapted to his hearers, who swore to carry out the Duke's orders with secrecy and despatch. "It is the will of our lord the King," continued Henry of Guise, "that every good citizen should take up arms to purge the city of that rebel Coligny and his heretical followers. The signal will be given by the great bell of the Palace of Justice. Then let every true Catholic tie a white band on his arm and put a white cross in his cap, and begin the vengeance of God." Finding upon inquiry that Le Charron, the provost of the merchants, was too weak and tender-hearted for the work before him, the Duke suggested that the municipality should temporarily confer his power on the ex-provost Marcel, a man of very different stamp.

About four in the afternoon Anjou rode through the crowded streets in company with his bastard brother Angouleme. He watched the aspect of the populace, and let fall a few insidious expressions in no degree calculated to quiet the turbulent passions of the citizens. One account says he distributed money, which is not probable, his afternoon ride being merely a sort of reconnaissance. The journals of the Hotel de Ville still attest the anxiety of the court—of Catherine and her fellow-conspirator—that the massacre should be sweeping and complete. "Very late in the evening"—it must have been after dark, for the King went to lie down at eight, and did not rise until ten—the provost was sent for. At the Louvre he found Charles, the Queen-mother, and the Duke of Anjou, with other princes and nobles, among whom we may safely include Guise, De Retz, and Tavannes. The King now repeated to him the story of the Huguenot plot which had already been whispered abroad by Guise of Anjou, and bade him shut the gates of the city, so that no one could pass in or out, and take possession of the keys. He was also to draw up all the boats on the river bank and chain them together, to remove the ferry, to muster under arms the able-bodied men of each ward under their proper officers, and hold them in readiness at the usual mustering-places to receive the orders of his majesty. The city artillery, which does not appear to have been as formidable as the word would imply, was to be stationed at the Greve to protect the Hotel de Ville or for any other duty required of it. With these instructions the provost returned to the Hotel de Ville, where he spent great part of the night in preparing the necessary orders, which were issued "very early the next morning." There is reason for believing that these measures were simply precautions in case the Huguenots should resist and a bloody struggle should have to be fought in the streets of their capital. The municipality certainly took no part in the earlier massacres, whatever they may have done later. Tavannes complains of the "want of zeal" in some of the citizens, and Brantome admits that "it was necessary to threaten to hang some of the laggards."

That evening the King had supped in public, and, the hours being much earlier than with us, the time was probably between six and seven. The courtiers admitted to witness the meal appear to have been as numerous as ever, Huguenots as well as Catholics, victims and executioners. Charles, who retired before eight o'clock, kept Francis, Count of La Rochefoucault, with him for some time, as if unwilling to part with him. "Do not go," he said; "it is late. We will sit and talk all night."

"Excuse me, sire, I am tired and sleepy."

"You must stay; you can sleep with my valets." But as Charles was rather too fond of rough practical jokes, the Count still declined, and went away, suspecting no evil, to pay his usual evening visit to the Dowager Princess of Conde. He must have remained some time in her apartments, for it was past twelve o'clock when he went to bid Navarre good-night. As he was leaving the palace a man stopped him at the foot of the stairs and whispered in his ear. When the stranger left. La Rochefoucault bade Mergey, one of his suite, to whom we are indebted for these particulars, return and tell Henry that Guise and Nevers were about the city. During Mergey's brief absence something more appears to have been told the Count, for he returned upstairs with Nancay, captain of the guard, who, lifting the tapestry which closed the entrance to Navarre's antechamber, looked for some time at the gentlemen within, playing at cards or dice, others talking. At last he said: "Gentlemen, if any one of you wishes to retire, you must do so at once, for we are going to shut the gates." No one moved, as it would appear, for at Charles' express desire, it is said—which is scarcely probable—these Huguenot gentlemen had gathered round the King of Navarre to protect him against any outrage of the Guises. In the court-yard Mergey found the guard under arms. "M. Rambouillet, who loved me," he continues, "was sitting by the wicket as I passed out. He took my hand, and with a piteous look said: 'Adieu, Mergey; adieu, my friend,' not daring to say more, as he told me afterward."

Coligny's hotel had been crowded all day by visitors; the Queen of Navarre had paid him a visit, and most of the gentlemen in Paris, Catholic as well as Huguenot, had gone to express their sympathy. For the Frenchman is a gallant enemy and respects brave men; and the foul attempt upon the admiral, whom they had so often encountered on the battle-field, was felt as a personal injury. A council had been held that day, at which the propriety of removing in a body from Paris and carrying the admiral with them had again been discussed. Navarre and Conde opposed the proposition, and it was finally resolved to petition to the King "to order all the Guisians out of Paris, because they had too much sway with the people of the town." One Bouchavannnes, a traitor, was among them, greedily listening to every word, which he reported to Anjou, strengthening him in his determination to make a clean sweep that very night.

As the evening came on, the admiral's visitors took their leave. Teligny, his son-in-law, was the last to quit his bedside. To the question whether the admiral would like any of them to keep watch in his house during the night, he answered, says the contemporary biographer, "that it was labor more than needed, and gave them thanks with very loving words." It was after midnight when Teligny and Guerchy departed, leaving Ambrose Pare and Pastor Merlin with the wounded man. There were besides in the house two of his gentlemen, Cornaton, afterward his biographer, and La Bonne; his squire Yolet, five Switzers belonging to the King of Navarre's guard, and about as many domestic servants. It was the last night on earth for all except two of that household.

It is strange that the arrangements in the city, which must have been attended with no little commotion, did not rouse the suspicion of the Huguenots. Probably, in their blind confidence, they trusted implicitly in the King's word that these movements of arms and artillery, these postings of guards and midnight musters, were intended to keep the Guisian faction in order. There is a story that some gentlemen, aroused by the measured tread of the soldiers and the glare of torches—for no lamps then lit up the streets of Paris—went outdoors and asked what it meant. Receiving an unsatisfactory reply, they proceeded to the Louvre, where they found the outer court filled with armed men, who, seeing them without the white cross and the scarf, abused them as "accursed Huguenots," whose turn would come next. One of them who replied to this insolent threat, was immediately run through with a spear. This, if the incident be true, occurred about one o'clock on Sunday morning, August 24th, the festival of St. Bartholomew.

Shortly after midnight the Queen-mother rose and went to the King's chamber, attended only by one lady, the Duchess of Nemours, whose thirst for revenge was to be satisfied at last. She found Charles pacing the room in one of those fits of passion which he at times assumed to conceal his infirmity of purpose. At one moment he swore he would raise the Huguenots and call them to protect their sovereign's life as well as their own. Then he burst out into violent imprecations against his brother Anjou, who had entered the room but did not dare say a word. Presently the other conspirators arrived—Guise, Nevers, Birague, De Retz, and Tavannes. Catherine alone ventured to interpose, and, in a tone of sternness well calculated to impress the mind of her weak son, she declared that there was now no turning back: "It is too late to retreat, even were it possible. We must cut off the rotten limb, hurt it ever so much; if you delay, you will lose the finest opportunity God ever gave man of getting rid of his enemies at a blow." And then, as if struck with compassion for the fate of her victims, she repeated in a low tone—as if talking to herself—the words of a famous Italian preacher, which she had often been heard to quote before: "E la pieta lor ser crudele, e la crudelta lor ser pietosa" ("Mercy would be cruel to them, and cruelty merciful"). Catherine's resolution again prevailed over the King's weakness, and, the final orders being given, the Duke of Guise quitted the Louvre, followed by two companies of arquebusiers and the whole of Anjou's guard.

As soon as Guise had left, the chief criminals—each afraid to lose sight of the other, each needing the presence of the other to keep his courage up—went to a room adjoining the tennis-court overlooking the Place Bassecour. Of all the party—Charles, Catherine, Anjou, and De Retz—Charles was the least guilty and the most to be pitied. They went to the window, anxiously listening for the signal that the work of death had begun. Their consciences, no less than their impatience, made it impossible for them to sit calmly within the palace. Anjou's narrative continues: "While we were pondering over the events and the consequences of such a mighty enterprise, of which, to tell the truth, we had not thought much until then, we heard a pistol shot. The sound produced such an effect upon all three of us that it confounded our senses and deprived us of judgment. We were smitten with terror and apprehension of the great disorders about to be perpetrated." Catherine, who was a timid woman, adds Tavannes, would willingly have recalled her orders, and with that intent hastily despatched a gentleman to the Duke of Guise expressly desiring him to return and attempt nothing against the admiral. "It is too late," was the answer brought back; "the admiral is dead"—a statement at variance with other accounts. "Thereupon," continues Anjou, "we returned to our former deliberations, and let things take their course."

Between three and four in the morning the noise of horses and measured tramp of foot-soldiers broke the silence of the narrow street in which Coligny lay wounded. It was the murderers seeking their victims: they were Henry of Guise with his uncle the Duke of Aumale, the bastard of Angouleme, and the Duke of Nevers, with other foreigners, Italian and Swiss, namely, Fesinghi (or Tosinghi) and his nephew Antonio, Captain Petrucci, Captain Studer of Winkelbach with his soldiers, Martin Koch of Freyberg, Conrad Burg, Leonard Grunenfelder of Glaris, and Carl Dianowitz, surnamed Behm (the Bohemian?). There were, besides, one Captain Attin, in the household of Aumale, and Sarlabous, a renegade Huguenot and commandant of Havre. It is well to record the names even of these obscure individuals who stained their hands in the best blood of France. De Cosseins, too, was there with his guard, some of whom he posted with their arquebuses opposite the windows of Coligny's hotel, that none might escape.

Presently there was a loud knock at the outer gate—"Open in the King's name." La Bonne, imagining it to be a message from the Louvre, hastened with the keys, withdrew the bolt, and was immediately butchered by the assassins who rushed into the house. The alarmed domestics ran half awake to see what was the uproar: some were killed outright, others escaped upstairs, closing the door at the foot and placing some furniture against it. This feeble barrier was soon broken down, and the Swiss who had attempted to resist were shot. The tumult woke Coligny from his slumbers, and divining what it meant—that Guise had made an attack on the house—he was lifted from his bed, and, folding his robe-de-chambre round him, sat down prepared to meet his fate. Cornaton entering the room at this moment, Ambrose Pare asked him what was the meaning of the noise. Turning to his beloved master he replied: "Sir, it is God calling us to himself. They have broken into the house, and we can do nothing."

"I have been long prepared to die," said the admiral. "But you must all flee for your lives, if it be not too late; you cannot save me. I commit my soul to God's mercy." They obeyed him, but only two succeeded in making their way over the roofs. Pastor Merlin lay hid for three days in a loft, where he was fed by a hen, that every morning laid an egg within his reach.

Pare and Coligny were left alone—Coligny looking as calm and collected as if no danger impended. After a brief interval of suspense the door was dashed open, and Cosseins, wearing a corselet and brandishing a bloody sword in his hand, entered the room, followed by Behm, Sarlabous, and others; a party of Anjou's Swiss guard, in their tricolored uniform of black, white, and green, keeping in the rear. Expecting resistance, the ruffians were for a moment staggered at seeing only two unarmed men. But his brutal instincts rapidly regaining the mastery, Behm stepped forward, and pointing his sword at Coligny's breast asked, "Are you not the admiral?"

"I am, but, young man, you should respect my gray hairs, and not attack a wounded man. Yet what matters it? You cannot shorten my life except by God's permission." The German soldier, uttering a blasphemous oath, plunged his sword into the admiral's breast.

"Jugulumque parans, immota tonebat Ora senex."

Others in the room struck him also, Behm repeating his blows until the admiral fell to the floor. The murderer now ran to the window and shouted into the court-yard, "It is all over." Henry of Guise, who had been impatiently ordering his creatures to make haste, was not satisfied. "Monsieur d'Angouleme will not believe it unless he sees him," returned the Duke. Behm raised the body from the ground, and dragged it to the window to throw it out; but life was not quite extinct, and the admiral placed his foot against the wall, faintly resisting the attempt. "Is it so, old fox?" exclaimed the murderer, who drew his dagger and stabbed him several times. Then, assisted by Sarlabous, he threw the body down. It was hardly to be recognized. The bastard of Angouleme—the chevalier as he is called in some of the narratives—wiped the blood from the face of the corpse. "Yes, it is he; I know him well," said Guise, kicking the body as he spoke. "Well done, my men," he continued, "we have made a good beginning. Forward—by the King's command." He mounted his horse and rode out of the court-yard, followed by Nevers, who cynically exclaimed as he looked at the body, "Sic transit gloria mundi." Tosinghi took the chain of gold—the insignia of his office—from the admiral's neck, and Petrucci, a gentleman in the train of the Duke of Nevers, cut off the head and carried it away carefully to the Louvre. Of all who were found in the house, not one was spared except Ambrose Pare, who was escorted in safety to the palace by a detachment of Anjou's guard.

Coligny's headless trunk was left for some hours where it fell, until it became the sport of rabble children, who dragged it all round Paris. They tried to burn it, but did little more than scorch and blacken the remains, which were first thrown into the river, and then taken out again "as unworthy to be food for fish," says Claude Haton. In accordance with the old sentence of the Paris Parliament, it was dragged by the hangman to the common gallows at Montfaucon, and there hanged up by the heels. All the court went to gratify their eyes with the sight, and Charles, unconsciously imitating the language of Vitellius, said, as he drew near the offensive corpse, "The smell of a dead enemy is always sweet." The body was left hanging for a fortnight or more, after which it was privily taken down by the admiral's cousin, Marshal Montmorency, and it now rests, after many removals, in a wall among the ruins of his hereditary castle of Chatillon-sur-Loing. What became of the head no one knows.

When Guise left the admiral's corpse lying in the court-yard, he went to the adjoining house, in which Teligny lived. All the inmates were killed, but he escaped by the roof. Twice he fell into the hands of the enemy, and twice he was spared; he perished at last by the sword of a man who knew not his amiable and inoffensive character. His neighbor La Rochefoucault was perhaps more fortunate in his fate. He had hardly fallen asleep when he was disturbed by the noise in the street. He heard shouts and the sound of many footsteps; and scarcely awake and utterly unsuspicious, he went to his bedroom door at the first summons in the King's name. He seems to have thought that Charles, indulging in one of his usual mad frolics, had come to punish him as he had punished others, like schoolboys. He opened the door and fell dead across the threshold, pierced by a dozen weapons.

When the messenger returned from the Duke of Guise with the answer that it was "too late," Catherine, fearing that such disobedience to the royal commands might incense the King and awaken him to a sense of all the horrors that were about to be perpetrated in his name, privately gave orders to anticipate the hour. Instead of waiting until the matin bell should ring out from the old clock tower of the Palace of Justice, she directed the signal to be given from the nearer belfry of St. Germain l'Auxerrois. As the harsh sound rang through the air of that warm summer night, it was caught up and echoed from tower to tower, rousing all Paris from their slumbers.

Immediately from every quarter of that ancient city uprose a tumult as of hell. The clanging of bells, the crashing doors, the rush of armed men, the musket-shots, the shrieks of their victims, and high over all the yells of the mob, fiercer and more pitiless than hungry wolves—made such an uproar that the stoutest hearts shrank appalled, and the sanest appear to have lost their reason. Women unsexed, men wanting but the strength of the wild beast, children without a single charm of youth or innocence, crowded the streets where rising day still struggled with the glare of a thousand torches. They smelt the odor of blood, and, thirsting to indulge their passions for once with impunity, committed horrors that have become the marvel of history.

Within the walls of the Louvre, within the hearing of Charles and his mother, if not actually within their sight, one of the foulest scenes of this detestable tragedy was enacted. At daybreak, says Queen Margaret of Navarre, her husband rose to go and play tennis, with a determination to be present at the King's lever, and demand justice for the assault on the admiral. He left his apartment, accompanied by the Huguenot gentlemen who had kept watch around him during the night. At the foot of the stairs he was arrested, while the gentlemen with him were disarmed, apparently without any attempt at resistance. A list of them had been carefully drawn up, which the sire D'O, quartermaster of the guards, read out. As each man answered his name, he stepped into the court-yard, where he had to make his way through a double line of Swiss mercenaries. Sword, spear, and halberd made short work of them, and two hundred, according to Davila, of the best blood of France soon lay a ghastly pile beneath the windows of the palace. Charles, it is said, looked on coldly at the horrid deed, the victims appealing in vain to his mercy. Among the gentlemen they murdered were two who had been boldest in their language to the King not many hours before—Segur, Baron of Pardaillan, and Armand de Clermont, Baron of Pilles, who with stentorian voices called upon the King to be true to his word. De Pilles took off his rich cloak and offered it to someone whom he recognized: "Here is a present from the hand of De Pilles, basely and traitorously murdered."

"I am not the man you take me for," said the other, refusing the cloak. The Swiss plundered their victims as they fell, and, pointing to the heap of half-naked bodies, described them to the spectators as the men who had conspired to kill the King and all the royal family in their sleep, and make France a republic. But more disgraceful than even this massacre was the conduct of some of the ladies in Catherine's train, of her "flying squadron," who, later in the day, inspected and laughed at the corpses as they lay stripped in the court-yard, being especially curious about the body of Soubise, from whom his wife had sought to be divorced on the ground of nullity of marriage.

A few gentlemen succeeded in escaping from this slaughter. Margaret, "seeing it was daylight," and imagining the danger past of which her sister had told her, fell asleep. But her slumbers were soon rudely broken. "An hour later," she continues, "I was awoke by a man knocking at the door and calling, 'Navarre! Navarre!' The nurse, thinking it was my husband, ran and opened it. It was a gentleman named Leran, who had received a sword-cut in the elbow and a spear-thrust in the arm; four soldiers were pursuing him, and they all rushed into my chamber after him. Wishing to save his life, he threw himself upon my bed. Finding myself clasped in his arms, I got out on the other side; he followed me, still clinging to me. I did not know the man, and could not tell whether he came to insult me or whether the soldiers were after him or me. We both shouted out, being equally frightened. At last, by God's mercy, Captain de Nancay of the guards came in, and, seeing me in this condition, could not help laughing, although commiserating me. Severely reprimanding the soldiers for their indiscretion, he turned them out of the room, and granted me the life of the poor man who still clung to me. I made him lie down and had his wounds dressed in my closet until he was quite cured. While changing my night-dress, which was all covered with blood, the captain told me what had happened, and assured me that my husband was with the King and quite unharmed. He then conducted me to the room of my sister of Lorraine, which I reached more dead than alive. As I entered the anteroom, the doors of which were open, a gentleman named Bourse, running from the soldiers who pursued him, was pierced by a halberd three paces from me. I fell almost fainting into Captain de Nancay's arms, imagining the same thrust had pierced us both. Being somewhat recovered, I entered the little room where my sister slept. While there De Moissans, my husband's first gentleman, and Armagnac, his first valet-de-chambre, came and begged me to save their lives. I went and threw myself at the feet of the King and the Queen—my mother—to ask the favor, which they at last granted me."

When Captain de Nancay arrived so opportunely, he was leaving the King's chamber, whither he had conducted Henry of Navarre and the Prince of Conde. The tumult and excitement had worked Charles up to such a pitch of fury that the lives of the princes were hardly safe. But they were gentlemen, and their first words were to reproach the King for his breach of faith. Charles bade them be silent—"Messe ou mort"—("Apostatize or die"). Henry demanded time to consider; while the Prince boldly declared that he would not change his religion: "With God's help it is my intention to remain firm in my profession." Charles, exasperated still more by this opposition to his will, angrily walked up and down the room, and swore that if they did not change in three days he would have their heads. They were then dismissed, but kept close prisoners within the palace.

The houses in which the Huguenots lodged, having been registered, were easily known. The soldiers burst into them, killing all they found, without regard to age or sex, and if any escaped to the roof they were shot down like pigeons. Daylight served to facilitate a work that was too foul even for the blackest midnight. Restraint of every kind was thrown aside, and while the men were the victims of bigoted fury, the women were exposed to violence unutterable. As if the popular frenzy needed excitement, Marshal Tavannes, the military director of this deed of treachery, rode through the streets with dripping sword, shouting: "Kill! Kill! Bloodletting is as good in August as in May." One would charitably hope that this was the language of excitement, and that in his calmer moods he would have repented of his share in the massacre. But he was consistent to the last. On his death-bed he made a general confession of his sins, in which he did not mention the day of St. Bartholomew; and when his son expressed surprise at the omission, he observed, "I look upon that as a meritorious action, which ought to atone for all the sins of my life."

The massacre soon exceeded the bounds upon which Charles and his mother had calculated. They were willing enough that the Huguenots should be murdered; but the murderers might not always be able to draw the line between orthodoxy and heresy. Things were fast getting beyond all control; the thirst for plunder was even keener than the thirst for blood. And it is certain that among the many ignoble motives by which Charles was induced to permit the massacre, was the hope of enriching himself and paying his debts out of the property of the murdered Huguenots. Nor were Anjou and others insensible to the charms of heretical property. Hence we find the provost of Paris remonstrating with the King about "the pillaging of the houses and the murders in the streets by the guards and others in the service of his majesty and the princes." Charles, in reply, bade the magistrates "mount their horses, and with all the force of the city put an end to such irregularities, and remain on the watch day and night." Another proclamation, countersigned by Nevers, was issued about five in the afternoon, commanding the people to lay down the arms which they had taken up "that day by the King's orders," and to leave the streets to the soldiers only—as if implying that they alone were to kill and plunder.

The massacre, commenced on Sunday, was continued through that and the two following days. Capilupi tells us, with wonderful simplicity, "that it was a holiday, and therefore the people could more conveniently find leisure to kill and plunder." It is impossible to assign to each day its task of blood; in all but a few exceptional cases, we know merely that the victims perished in the general slaughter. Writing in the midst of the carnage, probably not later than noon on the 24th, the nuncio Salviati says: "The whole city is in arms; the houses of the Huguenots have been forced with great loss of life, and sacked by the populace with incredible avidity. Many a man to-night will have his horses and his carriage, and will eat and drink off plate, who had never dreamed of it in his life before. In order that matters may not go too far, and to prevent the revolting disorders occasioned by the insolence of the mob, a proclamation has just been issued, declaring that there shall be three hours in the day during which it shall be unlawful to rob and kill; and the order is observed, though not universally. You can see nothing in the streets but white crosses in the hats and caps of everyone you meet, which has a fine effect!" The nuncio says nothing of the streets encumbered with bleeding corpses, nothing of the cart-loads of bodies conveyed to the Seine, and then flung into the river, "so that not only were all the waters in it turned to blood, but so many corpses grounded on the bank of the little island of Louvre that the air became infected with the smell of corruption." The living, tied hand and foot, were thrown off the bridges. One man—probably a rag-gatherer—brought two little children in his creel, and tossed them into the water as carelessly as if they had been blind kittens. An infant, yet unable to walk, had a cord tied round its neck, and was dragged through the streets by a troop of children nine or ten years old. Another played with the beard and smiled in the face of the man who carried him; but the innocent caress exasperated instead of softened the ruffian, who stabbed the child, and with an oath threw it into the Seine. Among the earliest victims was the wife of the King's plumassier. The murderers broke into her house on the Notre-Dame bridge, about four in the morning, stabbed her, and flung her still breathing into the river. She clung for some time to the wooden piles of the bridge, and was killed at last with stones, her body remaining for four days entangled by her long hair among the woodwork. The story goes that her husband's corpse, being thrown over, fell against hers and set it free, both floating away together down the stream. Madeleine Briconnet, the widow of Theobald of Yverni, disguised herself as a woman of the people, so that she might save her life, but was betrayed by the fine petticoat which hung below her coarse gown. As she would not recant, she was allowed a few moments' prayer, and then tossed into the water. Her son-in-law, the marquis Renel, escaping in his shirt, was chased by the murderers to the bank of the river, where he succeeded in unfastening a boat. He would have got away altogether but for his cousin Bussy d'Amboise, who shot him down with a pistol. One Keny, who had been stabbed and flung into the Seine, was revived by the reaction of the cold water. Feeble as he was he swam to a boat and clung to it, but was quickly pursued. One hand was soon cut off with a hatchet, and as he still continued to steer the boat down the stream, he was "quieted" by a musket-shot. One Puviaut, or Pluviaut, who met with a similar fate, became the subject of a ballad.

Captain Moneins had been put into a safe hiding-place by his friend Fervacques, who went and begged the King to spare the life of the fugitive. Charles not only refused, but ordered him to kill Moneins if he desired to save his own life. Fervacques would not stain his own hands, but made his friend's hiding-place known.

Brion, governor of the young Marquis of Conti, the Prince of Conde's brother, snatched the child from his bed, and, without stopping to dress him, was hurrying away to a place of safety, when the boy was torn from his arms, and he himself murdered before the eyes of his pupil. We are told that the child "cried and begged they would save his tutor's life."

The houses on the bridge of Notre-Dame, inhabited principally by Protestants, were witnesses to many a scene of cruelty. All the inmates of one house were massacred, except a little girl, who was dipped stark naked in the blood of her father and mother and threatened to be served like them if she turned Huguenot. The Protestant booksellers and printers were particularly sought after. Spire Niquet was burned over a slow fire made out of his own books, and thrown lifeless, but not dead, into the river. Oudin Petit fell a victim to the covetousness of his son-in-law, who was a Catholic bookseller. Rene Bianchi, the Queen's perfumer, is reported to have killed with his own hands a young man, a cripple, who had already displayed much skill in goldsmith's work. This is the only man whose death the King lamented, "because of his excellent workmanship, for his shop was entirely stripped."

Mezeray writes that seven hundred or eight hundred people had taken refuge in the prisons, hoping they would be safe "under the wings of Justice"; but the officers selected for this work had brought them into the fitly named "Valley of Misery," and there beat them to death with clubs and threw their bodies into the river. The Venetian ambassador corroborates this story, adding that they were murdered in batches of ten. Where all were cruel, some few persons distinguished themselves by especial ferocity. A gold-beater, named Crozier, one of those prison-murderers, bared his sinewy arm and boasted of having killed four thousand persons with his own hands. Another man—for the sake of human nature we would fain wish him to be the same—affirmed that unaided he had "despatched" eighty Huguenots in one day. He would eat his food with hands dripping with gore, declaring "that it was an honor to him, because it was the blood of heretics." On Tuesday a butcher, Crozier's comrade, boasted to the King that he had killed one hundred fifty the night before. Coconnas, one of the mignons of Anjou, prided himself on having ransomed from the populace as many as thirty Huguenots, for the pleasure of making them abjure, and then killing them with his own hand, after he had "secured them for hell."

About seven o'clock the King was at one of the windows of his palace, enjoying the air of that beautiful August morning, when he was startled by shouts of "Kill, kill!" They were raised by a body of guards, who were firing with much more noise than execution at a number of Huguenots who had crossed the river—"to seek the King's protection," says one account; "to help the King against the Guises," says another. Charles, who had just been telling his mother that "the weather seemed to rejoice at the slaughter of the Huguenots," felt all his savage instincts kindle at the sight. He had hunted wild beasts; now he would hunt men, and, calling for an arquebuse, he fired at the fugitives, who were fortunately out of range. Some modern writers deny this fact, on the ground that the balcony from which Charles is said to have fired was not built until after 1572. Were this true, it would only show that tradition had misplaced the locality. Brantome expressly says the King fired on the Huguenots—not from a balcony, but—"from his bedroom window." Marshal Tesse heard the story, according to Voltaire, from the man who loaded the arquebuse. Henault, in his Abrege chronologique, mentions it with a "dit-on" and it is significant that the passage is suppressed in Latin editions. Simon Goulart, in his contemporary narrative, uses the same words of caution.

Not many of the Huguenot gentlemen escaped from the toils so skilfully drawn round them on that fatal Saturday night: yet there were a few. The Count of Montgomery—the same who was the innocent cause of the death of Henry II—got away safe, having been forewarned by a friend who swam across the river to him. Guise set off in hot pursuit, and would probably have caught him up had he not been waiting for the keys of the city gate. Some sixty gentlemen, also, lodging near him in the Faubourg St. Germain, were the companions of his flight.

Sully, afterward the famous minister of Henry IV, had a narrow escape. He was in his twelfth year, and had gone to Paris in the train of Joan of Navarre for the purpose of continuing his studies. "About three after midnight," he says, "I was awoke by the ringing of bells and the confused cries of the populace. My governor, St. Julian, with my valet-de-chambre, went out to know the cause; and I never heard of them afterward. They, no doubt, were among the first sacrificed to the public fury. I continued alone in my chamber, dressing myself, when in a few moments my landlord entered, pale and in the most utmost consternation. He was of the Reformed religion, and, having learned what was the matter, had consented to go to mass to save his life and preserve his house from being pillaged. He came to persuade me to do the same and to take me with him. I did not think proper to follow him, but resolved to try if I could gain the College of Burgundy, where I had studied; though the great distance between the house in which I then was and the college made the attempt very dangerous. Having disguised myself in a scholar's gown, I put a large prayer-book under my arm, and went into the street. I was seized with horror inexpressible at the sight of the furious murderers, running from all parts, forcing open the houses, and shouting out: 'Kill, kill! Massacre the Huguenots!' The blood which I saw shed before my eyes, redoubled my terror. I fell into the midst of a body of guards, who stopped and questioned me, and were beginning to use me ill, when, happily for me, the book that I carried was perceived and served me for a passport. Twice after this I fell into the same danger, from which I extricated myself with the same good-fortune. At last I arrived at the College of Burgundy, where a danger still greater than any that I had yet met with awaited me. The porter having twice refused me entrance, I continued standing in the midst of the street, at the mercy of the savage murderers, whose number increased every moment, and who were evidently seeking for their prey, when it came into my head to ask for La Faye, the principal of the college, a good man, by whom I was tenderly beloved. The porter, prevailed upon by some small pieces of money which I put in his hand, admitted me; and my friend carried me to his apartment, where two inhuman priests whom I heard mention 'Sicilian Vespers,' wanted to force me from him, that they might cut me in pieces, saying the order was, not to spare even infants at the breast. All the good man could do was to conduct me privately to a distant chamber, where he locked me up. Here I was confined three days, uncertain of my destiny, and saw no one but a servant of my friend's, who came from time to time to bring me provisions."

Not until the second day does there appear to have been any remorse or pity for the horrors inflicted upon the wretched Huguenots. Elizabeth of Austria, the young Queen who hoped shortly to become a mother, interceded for Conde, and so great was her agitation and distress that her "features were quite disfigured by the tears she had shed night and day." And, the Duke of Alencon, a youth of by no means lovable character, "wept much," we are told, "over the fate of those brave captains and soldiers." For this tenderness he was so bitterly reproached by Charles and his mother that he was forced to keep out of their sight. Alencon was partial to Coligny, and when there was found among the admiral's papers a report in which he condemned appanages, the grants usually given by the crown to the younger members of the royal family, Catherine exultingly showed it to him—"See what a fine friend he was to you."

"I know not how far he may have been my friend," replied the Duke, "but the advice he gave me was very good."

If Mezeray is to be trusted, Charles broke down on the second day of the massacre. Since Saturday he had been in a state of extraordinary excitement, more like madness than sanity, and at last his mind gave way under the pressure. To his surgeon, Ambrose Pare, who kept at his side all through these dreadful hours, he said: "I do not know what ails me. For these two or three days past, both mind and body have been quite upset. I burn with fever; all around me grin pale blood-stained faces. Ah! Ambrose, if they had but spared the weak and innocent." A change, indeed, had come over him; be became more restless than ever, his looks savage, his buffoonery coarser and more boisterous. "Ne mai poteva pigliar requie" says Sigismond Cavalli. Like Macbeth, he had murdered sleep. "I saw the King on my return from Rochelle," says Brantome, "and found him entirely changed. His features had lost all the gentleness [douceur] usually visible in them."

"About a week after the massacre," says a contemporary, "a number of crows flew croaking round and settled on the Louvre. The noise they made drew everybody out to see them, and the superstitious women infected the King with their own timidity. That very night Charles had not been in bed two hours when he jumped up and called for the King of Navarre, to listen to a horrible tumult in the air; shrieks, groans, yells, mingled with blasphemous oaths and threats, just as they were heard on the night of the massacre. The sound returned seven successive nights, precisely at the same hour." Juvenal des Ursins tells the story rather differently. "On August 31st I supped at the Louvre with Madame de Fiesque. As the day was very hot we went down into the garden and sat in an arbor by the river. Suddenly the air was filled with a horrible noise of tumultuous voices and groans, mingled with cries of rage and madness. We could not move for terror; we turned pale and were unable to speak. The noise lasted for half an hour, and was heard by the King, who was so terrified that he could not sleep the rest of the night." As for Catherine; knowing that strong emotions would spoil her digestion and impair her good looks, she kept up her spirits. "For my part," she said, "there are only six of them on my conscience;" which is a lie, for when she ordered the tocsin to be rung, she must have foreseen the horrors—perhaps not all the horrors—that would ensue.

ISAAC D'ISRAELI

An original document now lying before me, the autograph letter of Charles IX, will prove that that unparalleled massacre, called by the world religious, was, in the French cabinet, considered merely as political; one of those revolting state expedients which a pretended instant necessity has too often inflicted on that part of a nation which, like the under-current, subterraneously works its way, and runs counter to the great stream, till the critical moment arrives when one or the other must cease.

The massacre began on St. Bartholomew Day, in August, 1572, lasted in France during seven days; that awful event interrupted the correspondence of our court with that of France. A long silence ensued; the one did not dare tell the tale which the other could not listen to. But sovereigns know how to convert a mere domestic event into a political expedient. Charles IX, on the birth of a daughter, sent over an ambassador extraordinary to request Elizabeth to stand as sponsor; by this the French monarch obtained a double purpose; it served to renew his interrupted intercourse with the silent Queen, and alarmed the French Protestants by abating their hopes, which long rested on the aid of the English Queen.

The following letter, dated February 8, 1573, is addressed by the King to La Motte Fenelon, his resident ambassador at London. The King in this letter minutely details a confidential intercourse with his mother, Catherine de' Medici, who, perhaps, may have dictated this letter to the secretary, although signed by the King with his own hand. Such minute particulars could only have been known to herself. The Earl of Wolchester (Worcester) was now taking departure, having come to Paris on the baptism of the princess; and accompanied by Walsingham, our resident ambassador, after taking leave of Charles, had the following interview with Catherine de' Medici. An interview with the young monarch was usually concluded by a separate audience with his mother, who probably was still the directress of his councils.

After Catherine de' Medici had assured the Earl of Worcester of her great affection for the Queen of England, and the King's strict intention to preserve it, she took this opportunity of inquiring of the Earl of Worcester the cause of the Queen his mistress' marked coolness toward them. The narrative becomes now dramatic.

"On this, Walsingham, who always kept close by the side of the Count [Earl of Worcester], here took on himself to answer, acknowledging that the said Count had indeed been charged to speak on this head; and he then addressed some words in English to Worcester. And afterward the Count gave to my lady and mother to understand that the Queen his mistress had been waiting for an answer on two articles; the one concerning religion, and the other for an interview.

"In regard to what has occurred these latter days, that he must have seen how it happened by the fault of the chiefs of those who remained here; for when the late admiral was treacherously wounded at Notre Dame, he knew the affliction it threw us into—fearful that it might have occasioned great troubles in this kingdom—and the diligence we used to verify judicially whence it proceeded; and the verification was nearly finished, when they were so forgetful as to raise a conspiracy, to attempt the lives of myself, my lady and mother, and my brothers, and endanger the whole state; which was the cause that to avoid this I was compelled, to my very great regret, to permit what had happened in Paris; but as he had witnessed, I gave orders to stop, as soon as possible, this fury of the people, and place everyone on repose. On this, the Sieur Walsingham replied to my lady and mother that the exercise of the said religion had been interdicted in this kingdom. To which she also answered that this had not been done but for a good and holy purpose; namely, that the fury of the Catholic people might the sooner be allayed, who else had been reminded of the past calamities, and would again have been let loose against those of the said religion had they continued to preach in this kingdom. Also should these once more fix on any chiefs, which I will prevent as much as possible, giving him clearly and pointedly to understand that what is done here is much the same as what has been done and is now practised by the Queen his mistress in her kingdom. For she permits the exercise but of one religion, although there are many of her people who are of another; and having also during her reign punished those of her subjects whom she found seditious and rebellious. It is true this has been done by the laws, but I, indeed, could not act in the same manner; for finding myself in such imminent peril, and the conspiracy raised against me and mine and my kingdom ready to be executed, I had no time to arraign and try in open justice as much as I wished, but was constrained, to my very great regret, to strike the blow [lascher la main] in what has been done in this city."

This letter of Charles IX, however, does not here conclude. "My lady and mother" plainly acquaints the Earl of Worcester and Sir Francis Walsingham that her son had never interfered between their mistress and her subjects, and in return expects the same favor although, by accounts they had received from England, many ships were arming to assist their rebels at La Rochelle. "My lady and mother" advances another step, and declares that Elizabeth by treaty is bound to assist her son against his rebellious subjects; and they expect, at least, that Elizabeth will not only stop these armaments in all her ports, but exemplarily punish the offenders. I resume the letter.

"And on hearing this, the said Walsingham changed color, and appeared somewhat astonished, as my lady and mother well perceived by his face; and on this he requested the Count of Worcester to mention the order which he knew the Queen his mistress had issued to prevent these people from assisting those of La Rochelle; but that in England, so numerous were the seamen and others who gained their livelihood by maritime affairs, and who would starve without the entire freedom of the seas, that it was impossible to interdict them."

Such is the first letter on English affairs which Charles IX despatched to his ambassador, after an awful silence of six months, during which time La Motte Fenelon was not admitted into the presence of Elizabeth. The apology for the massacre of St. Bartholomew comes from the King himself, and contains several remarkable expressions, which are at least divested of that style of bigotry and exultation we might have expected: on the contrary, this sanguinary and inconsiderate young monarch, as he is represented, writes in a subdued and sorrowing tone, lamenting his hard necessity, regretting he could not have recourse to the laws, and appealing to others for his efforts to check the fury of the people, which he himself had let loose. Catherine de' Medici, who had governed from the tender age of eleven years, when he ascended the throne, might unquestionably have persuaded him that a conspiracy was on the point of explosion. Charles IX died young, and his character is unfavorably viewed by the historians. In the voluminous correspondence which I have examined, could we judge by state letters of the character of him who subscribes them, we must form a very different notion; they are so prolix and so earnest that one might conceive they were dictated by the young monarch himself!



JNO. RUDD

Popular error has done more injury to the memory of Catherine de' Medici than to that of any other woman famous in history. To understand Catherine, and the part she played on the stage of French politics, her training and the position she held must be understood. It is one thing to look upon her on the obverse as wholly without heart, a trafficker in human life, a ghoul who smiled with complacency on the victims of her hate, and another to look on the reverse of the medal. The Massacre of St. Bartholomew is pointed to as a crime—a religious crime. But is this true? It may not have been an act in accordance with twentieth-century morality, but bad, horrible indeed as it was, were there not extenuating circumstances attending it—looked upon in the light of that age? To Catherine de' Medici—perhaps justly—has been given the credit—or infamy, if you will—of its conception and execution.

"Historians are privileged liars"—this is a truism as valid to-day as when expressed by its brilliant creator. The throne of France was saved by Catherine de' Medici, the royal power was maintained by her under such difficulties as few rulers would have withstood. She is painted by Catholic and Protestant writers alike as standing without the gates of the Louvre, the morning after the massacre, and there gloating over the bodies of the slain lying about the palace entrance.

Apart from her political duty, as she understood it, and which meant the upholding of the monarchy, Catherine was a true woman; kind to her suite, faithful to her friends. She had none of the weaknesses of her sex; she lived chaste amid the debauchery of the most licentious court in Europe. The losses to art caused by the destructive Calvinists she replaced by erecting noble buildings and beautifying Paris. But she had the sense of royalty developed to the utmost; she defended it to the extreme. In France the opposition was always Protestant. It was her enemy, the enemy of the crown, the arch-enemy of France. It is laid to her charge that she coquetted with the Huguenots, whom she afterward slew. This there is no denying; she had but her craft with which to oppose the Guise faction, the various court cliques, and the Huguenots themselves.

An expert at the game, she played one piece against another, skilfully avoiding the checkmate. Pawns might be lost, bishops fall to her hand, knights be unhorsed, but her king was secured. She could only triumph by cunning.

A state cannot be governed by the same rule of morality as that which should govern individual conduct; it is impossible that it should be so. Professor Saintsbury says: "Every cool-headed student of history and ethics will admit that it was precisely the abuse of the principle at this time, and by the persons of whom Catherine de' Medici, if not the most blamable, has had the most blame put on her, that brought the principle itself into discredit."[1]

[1] The author, not Professor Saintsbury, is responsible for the Italics.

Casimir Perier, the noted French statesman, wrote, "All power is a permanent conspiracy." This is as true to-day in republican America as it was at that time in monarchical France. And it was not religion, as such, that led to the horrible scenes of that fatal August 24th; it was a move in the game of politics. Protestantism spelt republicanism; to one raised as Catherine had been, taught her life through by bitter experience, any means available, any course adopted, was righteous if it answered the purpose of saving the realm.

Research into this period will amply repay the explorer with enlarged ideas of its meaning and its issues. Of the Queen-mother "naught extenuate nor aught set down in malice." Catherine compares more than favorably with Marie de' Medici, whom history has painted in brighter hue. Bigotry has blasted the name of one who for her time was at least the equal of any ruler in Europe.



HEROIC AGE OF THE NETHERLANDS

SIEGE OF LEYDEN

A.D. 1573

THOMAS HENRY DYER

Events followed one another rapidly after the rising of the Netherlanders in 1566. The organization of the Gueux ("beggars"), the league of noblemen pledged to resist the introduction of the Inquisition into the Low Countries by Philip II of Spain, had shown itself prepared for extreme action in self-defence. The name Gueux, first used in contempt, was borne in honor by the patriots in the ensuing war, which Philip conducted as a "war of extermination."

In 1567 the Duke of Alva, a famous veteran of the wars of Charles V and of Philip, was sent to the Netherlands as governor, where his cruelties soon made him notorious. He established the court known as the Council of Blood, which first sat in September, 1567. In less than three months this tribunal put to death eighteen hundred persons, including Horn, Egmont, and other eminent patriots. As many as one hundred thousand of the population are said to have emigrated at this time to England.

William of Orange, the great leader of the Netherlanders, refused to appear before the Council of Blood. He had resigned his offices, civil and military, and now retired to Dillenburg, still proclaiming his adhesion to the Protestant faith. But in 1568 he gathered two armies. Alva destroyed one of them, and the other was disbanded. In 1570 William issued letters of marque to seamen who were nicknamed "Sea Beggars," and bore a prominent part in the war of independence. In 1572 they captured Briel. That year Mons was captured by Louis of Nassau, William's brother, but in September it was retaken by Alva. In Dyer's narrative the subsequent course of events, to the Pacification of Ghent, is clearly and succinctly traced.

Soon after the capture of Mons, Alva went to Brussels and left the conduct of the war to his son, Frederick de Toledo. Zutphen and Naarden successively yielded to Frederick's arms, and became the scenes of the most detestable violence. Alva ordered his son not to leave a single man alive in Zutphen, and to burn down all the houses—commands which were almost literally obeyed. The treatment of Naarden was still more revolting. The town had capitulated, and Don Julian Romero, an officer of Don Frederick's, had pledged his word that the lives and property of the inhabitants should be respected. Romero then entered the town with some five hundred musketeers, for whom the citizens provided a sumptuous feast; and he summoned the inhabitants to assemble in the Gast Huis Church, then used as a town hall. More than five hundred of them had entered the church when a priest, suddenly rushing in, bade them prepare for death. Scarcely had the announcement been made when a band of Spanish soldiers entered and, after discharging a volley into the defenceless crowd, attacked them sword in hand. The church was then fired and the dead and dying consumed together.

But these cruelties only steeled the Hollanders to a more obstinate resistance; nor must it be concealed that in these plusquam civilia bella, where civil hatred was still further embittered by sectarian malignancy, the Dutch sometimes displayed as much savageness as their adversaries. Thus, during the struggle in Zealand, a surgeon at Veer cut out the heart of a Spanish prisoner, and, fixing it on the prow of a vessel, invited his fellow-townsmen to fix their teeth in it, an invitation with which many complied.

The war was continued during the winter (1572-1573). In December the Spaniards marched to attack a fleet frozen up near Amsterdam. It was defended by a body of Dutch musketeers on skates, who, by the superior skill of their evolutions, drove the enemy back and killed great numbers of them. In consequence of this extraordinary combat, Alva ordered seven thousand pairs of skates, and directed his soldiers to be instructed in their use. Siege was then laid to Haarlem, which town, warned by the fate of Zutphen and Naarden, made a defence that astonished all Europe. A corps of three hundred respectable women, armed with musket, sword, and dagger, and led by Kenan Hasselaer, a widow lady of distinguished family, about forty-seven years of age, enrolled themselves among its defenders, and partook in some of the most fiercely contested actions. Battles took place upon Haarlem Lake, on which the Prince of Orange had more than a hundred sail of various kinds; till at length Bossu, whose vessels were larger, though less numerous, entirely defeated the Hollanders, and swept the lake in triumph (May 28, 1573). The siege had lasted seven months, and Frederick de Toledo, who had lost a great part of his army by hunger, cold, and pestilence, was inclined to abandon the enterprise; but he was kept to it by the threats of his father, and on the 12th of July Haarlem surrendered. Don Frederick had written a letter solemnly assuring the besieged that no punishment should be inflicted except on those who deserved it in the opinion of the citizens themselves, yet he was in possession of strict orders from his father to put to death the whole garrison, except the Germans, and also to execute a large number of the inhabitants. Between two and three thousand were slaughtered; three hundred were drowned in the lake tied by twos back to back.

The resistance of Haarlem and other places determined Alva to try what might be done by an affectation of clemency; and on the 26th of July he issued a proclamation in which Philip was compared to a hen gathering its chickens under the parental wing. But in the same breath his subjects were admonished not to excite his rage, cruelty, and fury, and they were threatened that if his gracious offers of mercy were neglected, his majesty would strip bare and utterly depopulate the land, and cause it to be again inhabited by strangers. So ludicrous a specimen of paternal love was not calculated to excite much confidence in the breasts of the Hollanders, and Alkmaar, the next town to which Don Frederick laid siege, though defended only by eight hundred soldiers and thirteen hundred citizens against sixteen thousand veterans, also resolved to hold out to the last extremity. Enraged at this contempt of what he called his clemency, at Haarlem, Alva resolved to make Alkmaar an example of his cruelty, and he wrote to Philip that everyone in it should be put to the sword. But the inhabitants made a heroic defence and repulsed the besiegers in many a bloody assault; till at length the superstitious Spaniards, believing that the place was defended by the devil, whom they thought that the Protestants worshipped, refused to mount to the attack, suffering themselves rather to be run through the body by their officers; and Don Frederick, finding from an intercepted letter that the Prince of Orange contemplated cutting the dikes and flooding the country, in order to prevent the place from being surrendered, raised the siege (October 8th) after it had lasted seven weeks.

About this time William published his Epistle in the form of supplication to his Royal Majesty of Spain, from the Prince of Orange and States of Holland and Zealand, which produced a profound impression. It demanded that the privileges of the country should be restored, and insisted on the recall of the Duke of Alva, whose atrocities were vigorously described and condemned. Orange, as stadtholder, was now acting as the King's representative in Holland, and gave all his orders in Philip's name. He had recently turned Calvinist, and in October publicly joined the Church at Dort. It was reserved for the two greatest princes of the age to alleviate by their apostasy, which, however, approached more nearly than the orthodoxy of their adversaries, the spirit of true Christianity, the evils inflicted on society by a consistent but bloody-minded and intolerant bigotry.

The siege of Alkmaar was one of the last acts under Alva's auspices in the Netherlands, and formed a fitting termination to his career. He had himself solicited to be recalled, and in December, 1573, he was superseded by Don Luis de Requesens, Grand Commander of St. Jago. In fact, Philip had found this war of extermination too expensive for his exhausted treasury. Alva boasted on his journey back that he had caused eighteen thousand six hundred Netherlanders to be executed. He was well received by Philip, but soon after his return was imprisoned along with his son, Don Frederick; the latter for having seduced a maid of honor, his father for recommending him not to marry his victim. Alva was, however, subsequently released to undertake the conquest of Portugal.

Requesens, the new Governor, had been vice-admiral to Don John of Austria, had distinguished himself at the battle of Lepanto, and had subsequently governed the Milanese with reputation. He was mild and just and more liberal than the generality of Spaniards, though inferior to Alva in military talent. He attempted immediately after his arrival in the Netherlands to bring about a peace through the mediation of St. Aldegonde, but Orange was too suspicious to enter into it. Requesens put down robbery and murder, but he was neither able to abrogate the Council of Blood nor to alleviate the oppressive taxes. Philip had selected him as governor of the Netherlands, as a pledge of the more conciliatory policy which he had thought it prudent to adopt; yet Requesens' hands were tied up with such injunctions as rendered all conciliation hopeless, and he was instructed to bring forward no measures which had not for their basis the maintenance of the King's absolute authority and the prohibition of all worship except the Roman Catholic.