Section 1 of History of Henry IV, King of France and Navarre. About four hundred years ago there was a small kingdom spreading over the cliffs and ravines of the eastern extremity of the Pyrenees called Navarre. Its population of about five hundred thousand consisted of a very simple frugal and industrious people. Those who lived upon the shore washed by the stormy waves of the Bay of Biscay gratified their love of excitement and of adventure by braving the perils of the sea. Those who lived in the solitude of the interior on the sunny slopes of the mountains by the streams which meandered through the verdant valleys, fed their flocks and harvested their grain, and pressed rich wine from the grapes of their vineyards in the enjoyment of the most pleasant duties of rural life. Proud of their independence they were ever ready to grasp arms to repel foreign aggression. The throne of this kingdom was at the time of which we speak occupied by Catherine de Foix. She was a widow, and all her hopes and affections were centered in her son Henry, an ardent and impetuous boy six or seven years of age who was to receive the crown when it should fall from her brow and transmit to posterity their ancestral honors. Ferdinand de Varajón had just married Isabella of Castile, and had thus united those two populous and wealthy kingdoms, and now in the arrogance of power seized with the pride of annexation he began to look with a wistful eye upon the picturesque Kingdom of Navarre. Its comparative feebleness under the reign of a bereaved woman weary of the world invited to the Enterprise. Should he grasp at the whole territory of the little realm France might interpose her powerful remonstrance. Should he take but the half which was spread out upon the southern declivity of the Pyrenees it would be virtually saying to the French monarch the rest I courteously leave to you. The armies of Spain were soon sweeping resistlessly through the sunny valleys and one half of her empire was ruthlessly torn from the Queen of Navarre and transferred to the dominion of imperious Castile and Arajón. Catherine retired with her child to the colder and more uncongenial regions of the northern declivity of the mountains. Her bosom glowed with mortification and rage in view of her hopeless defeat. As she sat down gloomily in the small portion which remained to her of her dismembered empire she endeavored to foster in the heart of her son the spirit of revenge and to inspire him with the resolution to regain those lost leagues of territory which had been rested from the inheritance of his fathers. Henry imbibed his mother's spirit and chafed and fretted under wrongs for which he could obtain no redress. Ferdinand and Isabella could not be annoyed, even by any force which feeble Navarre could raise. Queen Catherine however brooded deeply over her wrongs and laid plans for retributions of revenge, the execution of which she knew must be deferred till long after her body should be molded to dust in the grave. She courted the most intimate alliance with Francis I king of France. She contemplated the merging of her own little kingdom into that powerful monarchy that the infant Navarre, having grown into the giant France, might crush the Spanish tyrants into humiliation. Nerved by this determined spirit of revenge and inspired by a mother's ambition, she intrigued to wed her son to the heiress of the French throne that even in the world of spirits she might be cheered by seeing Henry leading the armies of France the terrible Avenger of her wrongs. These hopes invigorated her until the fitful dream of her joyless life was terminated and her restless spirit sank into the repose of the grave. She lived, however, to see her plans apparently in progress toward their most successful fulfillment. Henry, her son, was married to Margaret, the favorite sister of the king of France. Their nuptials were blessed with but one child, Jean d'Albray. This child in whose destinies such ambitious hopes were centered, bloomed into most marvelous beauty and became also as conspicuous for her mental endowments as for her personal charms. She had hardly emerged from the period of childhood when she was married to Antony of Bourbon, a near relative of the royal family of France. Immediately after her marriage she left Navarre with her husband to take up her residence in the French metropolis. One hope still lived with undying vigor in the bosom of Henry. It was the hope, the intense passion, with which his departed mother had inspired him, that a grandson would arise from this union, who would with the spirit of Hannibal avenge the family wrongs upon Spain. Twice Henry took a grandson into his arms with the feeling that the great desire of his life was about to be realized, and twice with almost a broken heart he saw these hopes blighted as he committed the little ones to the grave. Summers and winters had now lingered wearily away and Henry had become an old man. Disappointment and care had worn down his frame. World weary and joyless he still clung to hope.  The agent king sent importantly for his daughter to return without delay to the paternal castle that the child might be born in the kingdom of Navarre whose wrongs it was to be his peculiar destiny to avenge. It was midwinter. The journey was long and the roads rough, but the dutiful and energetic Jean promptly obeyed the wishes of her father and hastened to his court. Henry could hardly restrain his impatience as he waited week after week for the advent of the long look for avenger. With the characteristic superstition of the time he constrained his daughter to promise that at the period of birth during the most painful moments of her trial she would sing a mirthful and triumphant song that her child might possess a sanguine, joyous and energetic spirit. Henry entertained not a doubt that the child would prove a boy commissioned by Providence as the Avenger of Navarre. The old king received the child at the moment of its birth into his own arms totally regardless of a mother's rights and exultingly enveloping it in soft folds bore it off as his own property to his private apartment. He rubbed the lips of the plump little boy with garlic and then taking a golden goblet of generous wine the rough and royal nurse forced the beverage he loved so well down the untainted throat of his newborn heir. A little good old wine said the doting grandfather will make the boy vigorous and brave. We may remark in passing that it was wine rich and pure, not that mixture of all abominations whose very vintages in cellars, sunless, damp and fetid, where guilty men fabricate poisons for a nation. This little stranger received the ancestral name of Henry. By his subsequent exploits he filled the world with his renown. He was the first of the bourbon line who ascended the throne of France and he swayed the scepter of energetic rule over that widespread realm with a degree of power and grandeur which none of his descendants have ever rivaled. The name of Henry IV is one of the most illustrious in the annals of France. The story of his struggles for the attainment of the throne of Charlemagne is full of interest. His birth, to which we have just alluded, occurred at par in the kingdom of Navarre in the year 1553. His grandfather immediately assumed the direction of everything relating to the child, apparently without the slightest consciousness that either the father or the mother of Henry had any prior claims. The king possessed among the wild and romantic fastnesses of the mountains a strong old castle, as rugged and frowning as the eternal granite upon which its foundations were laid. Gloomy evergreens clung to the hillsides, a mountain stream often swollen to an impetuous torrent by the autumnal rains and the spring thaws swept through the little verdant lawn which smiled among the stern sublimities surrounding this venerable and moss-covered fortress. Around the solitary towers the eagles wheeled and screamed in harmony with the gales and storms which often swept through these wild regions. The expanse around was sparsely settled by a few hardy peasants who by feeding their herds and cultivating little patches of soil among the crags obtained a humble living, and by exercise in the pure mountain air acquired a vigor and an athletic hardyhood of frame which had given them much celebrity. To the storm-battered castle of Cujas, thus lowering in congenial gloom among these rocks, the old king sent the infant Henry to be nurtured as a peasant boy, that by frugal fare and exposure to hardship he might acquire a peasant's robust frame. He resolved that no French delicacies should enfeeble the constitution of this noble child. Bear-headed and bare-footed the young prince as yet hardly emerging from infancy, rolled upon the grass, played with the poultry and the dogs and the sturdy young mountaineers, and plunged into the brook or paddled in the pools of water with which the mountain showers then filled the courtyard. His hair was bleached and his cheeks bronzed by the sun and wind. Few would have imagined that the unattractive child with his unshorn locks and his studiously neglected garb was the descendant of a long line of kings and was destined to eclipse them all by the grandeur of his name. As years glided along he advanced to energetic boyhood, the constant companion and in all his sports and modes of life the equal of the peasant boys by whom he was surrounded. He hardly wore a better dress than they, he was nourished with the same coarse fare, with them he climbed the mountains and leaped the streams and swung upon the trees. He struggled with his youthful competitors in all their athletic games, running, wrestling, pitching the coit and tossing the bar. This active outdoor exercise gave a relish to the coarse food of the peasants consisting of brown bread, beef, cheese and garlic. His grandfather had decided that this regimen was essential for the education of a prince who was to humble the proud monarchy of Spain and regain the territory which had been so unjustly rested from his ancestors. When Henry was about six years of age his grandfather by gradual decay sank sorrowingly into his grave. Consequently his mother, Jean d'Aubray, ascended the throne of Navarre. Her husband, Antony of Bourbon, was a rough fearless old soldier with nothing to distinguish him from the multitude who did but live, fight and die. Jean and her husband were in Paris at the time of the death of her father. They immediately hastened to Bayard, the capital of Navarre, to take possession of the dominions which had thus descended to them. The little Henry was then brought from his wild mountain home to reside with his mother in the royal palace. Though Navarre was but a feeble kingdom, the grandeur of its court was said to have been unsurpassed at that time by that of any other in Europe. The intellectual education of Henry had been almost entirely neglected, but the hardy hood of his body had given such vigor and energy to his mind that he was now prepared to distance in intellectual pursuits with perfect ease those whose infantile brains had been over-tasked with study. Henry remained in Bayard with his parents two years, and in that time engrafted many courtly graces upon the free and fetterless carriage he had acquired among the mountains. His mind expanded with remarkable rapidity, and he became one of the most beautiful and engaging of children. Chapter 1 Childhood and Youth, Part 2 About this time Mary, Queen of Scots, was to be married to the Dauphin Francis, son of the King of France. Their nuptials were to be celebrated with great magnificence. The King and Queen of Navarre returned to the Court of France to attend the marriage. They took with them their son. His beauty and vivacity excited much admiration in the French metropolis. One day the young Prince, then but six or seven years of age, came running into the room where his father and Henry II of France were conversing, and by his artlessness and grace, strongly attracted the attention of the French monarch. The King fondly took the playful child in his arms and said affectionately, Will you be my son? No, Sire, no. That is my father, replied the ardent boy, pointing to the King of Navarre. Well, then, will you be my son-in-law? demanded Henry. Oh, yes, most willingly the Prince replied. Henry II had a daughter Marguerite, a year or two younger than the Prince of Navarre, and it was immediately resolved between the two parents that the young Princes should be considered as betrothed. Soon after this the King and Queen of Navarre, with their son, returned to the mountainous domain which Jean so ardently loved. The Queen devoted herself assiduously to the education of the young Prince, providing for him the ablest teachers whom that age could afford. A gentleman of very distinguished attainments named La Gaucherie undertook the general superintendence of his studies. The young Prince was at this time an exceedingly energetic, active, ambitious boy, very inquisitive, respecting all matters of information and passionately fond of study. Dr. Johnson, with his rough and impetuous severity, has said, It is impossible to get Latin into a boy unless you flog it into him. The experience of La Gaucherie, however, did not confirm this sentiment. Henry always went with alacrity to his Latin in his Greek. His judicious teacher did not discuss his mind with long and laborious rules, but introduced him at once to words and phrases, while gradually he developed the grammatical structure of the language. The vigorous mind of Henry, grasping eagerly at intellectual culture made rapid progress, and he was soon able to read and write both Latin and Greek with fluency, and ever retained the power of quoting with great facility and appositeness from the classical authors of Athens and Rome. Even in these early days he seized upon the Greek phrase a Nikon a apothonane, to conquer or to die and adopted it for his motto. La Gaucherie was warmly attached to the principles of the Protestant faith. He made a companion of his noble pupil and taught him by conversation in pleasant walks and rides as well as by books. It was his practice to have him commit to memory any fine passage and prose or verse which inculcated generous and lofty ideas. The mind of Henry thus became filled with beautiful images and noble sentiments from the classic writers of France. These gems of literature exerted a powerful influence in molding his character, and he was fond of quoting them as the guide of his life. Such passages as the following were frequently on the lips of the young prince. Over their subjects princes bear the rule, but God more mighty governs kings themselves. Soon after the return of the king and queen of Navarre to their kingdom, Henry II of France died, leaving the crown to his son Charles, a feeble boy both in body and mind. As Charles with but ten or twelve years of age his mother Catherine de Medecise was appointed regent during his minority. Catherine was a woman of great strength of mind but of utmost depravity of heart. There was no crime ambition could instigate her to commit from which in the slightest degree she would recoil. Perhaps the history of the world retains not another instance in which a mother could so far forget the yearnings of nature as to endeavor studiously and perseveringly to deprave the morals and by vice to enfeeble the Constitution of her son that she might retain the power which belonged to him. This proud and dissolute woman looked with great solicitude upon the enterprising and energetic spirits of the young Prince of Navarre. There were many providential indications that ere long Henry would be a prominent candidate for the throne of France. Plutarch's lives of ancient heroes has perhaps been more influential than any other uninspired book in invigorating genius and in kindling passion for great achievements. Napoleon was a careful student and a great admirer of Plutarch. His spirit was entranced with the grandeur of the Greek and Roman heroes, and they were ever to him as companions and bosom friends. During the whole of his stormy career their examples animated him and his addresses and proclamations were often invigorated by happy quotations from classic story. Henry, with similar exaltation of genius, read and reread the pages of Plutarch with the most absorbing delight. Catherine, with an eagle eye, watched these indications of a lofty mind. Her solicitude was roused lest the young Prince of Navarre should with his commanding genius supplant her degenerate house. At the close of the 16th century, the period of which we write, all Europe was agitated by the great controversy between the Catholics and the Protestants. The writings of Luther, Calvin and other reformers had aroused the attention of the whole Christian world. In England and Scotland the ancient faith had been overthrown and the doctrines of the Reformation were in those kingdoms established. In France, where the writings of Calvin had been extensively circulated, the Protestants had also become quite numerous, embracing generally the most intelligent portion of the populace. The Protestants were in France called Ugenaux, but for what reason is not now known? They were sustained by many noble families and had for their leaders the Prince of Condé, Admiral Colligny and the House of Navarre. There were arrayed against them the power of the Crown, many of the most powerful nobles and conspicuously the almost regal House of Guise. It is perhaps difficult for a Protestant to write upon this subject with perfect impartiality, however earnestly he may desire to do so. The lapse of two hundred years has not terminated the great conflict. The surging strife has swept across the ocean and even now with more or less of vehemence rages in all the states of this new world. Though the weapons of blood are laid aside, the mighty controversy is still undecided. The advocates of the old faith were determined to maintain their creed and to force all to its adoption at whatever price. They deemed heresy the greatest of all crimes and thought, and doubtless many conscientiously thought, that it should be exterminated even by the pains of torture and death. The French Parliament adopted for its motto, one religion, one law, one king. They declared that two religions could no more be endured in a kingdom than two governments. At Paris there was a celebrated theological school called the Sorbonne. It included in its faculty the most distinguished doctors of the Catholic Church. The decisions and the decrees of the Sorbonne were esteemed highly authoritative. The views of the Sorbonne were almost invariably asked, in reference to any measures affecting the Church. In 1525 the court presented the following question to the Sorbonne. How can we suppress and extirpate the damnable doctrine of Luther from this very Christian kingdom and purge it from it entirely? The prompt answer was, the heresy has already been endured too long. It must be pursued with the extremist rigor or it will overthrow the throne. Two years after this Pope Clement VII sent a communication to the Parliament of Paris stating, It is necessary in this great and astounding disorder which arises from the rage of Satan and from the fury and impiety of his instruments that everybody exert himself to guard the common safety, seeing that this madness would not only embroil and destroy religion, but also all principality, nobility, laws, orders, and ranks. The Protestants were pursued by the most unrelenting persecution. The Parliament established a court called the Burning Chamber because all who were convicted of heresy were burned. The estates of those who to save their lives fled from the kingdom were sold and their children who were left behind were pursued with merciless cruelty. The Protestants, with boldness which religious faith alone could inspire, braved all these perils. They resolutely declared that the Bible taught their faith and their faith only, and that no earthly power could compel them to swerve from the truth. Notwithstanding the perils of exile, torture, and death, they persisted in preaching what they considered the pure Gospel of Christ. In 1533 Calvin was driven from Paris. When one said to him, Mass must be true, since it is celebrated in all Christendom, he replied pointing to the Bible. There is my Mass. Then raising his eyes to heaven he solemnly said, O Lord, if in the day of judgment Thou charges me with not having been at Mass, I will say to thee with truth, Lord, Thou hast not commanded it. Behold thy law. In it I have not found any other sacrifice than that which was immolated on the altar of the Cross. In 1535 Calvin celebrated institutes of the Christian religion were published, the great reformer then residing in the city of Baal. This great work became the banner of the Protestants of France. It was read with avidity in the cottage of the peasant, in the workshop of the artisan, and in the chateau of the noble. In reference to this extraordinary man, of whom it has been said, on Calvin some think heaven's own mantle fell, while others deem him instrument of hell, Theodore Beza writes, I do not believe that his equal can be found. Besides preaching every day from week to week, very often and as much as he was able, he preached twice every Sunday. He lectured on theology three times a week. He delivered addresses to the consistory and also instructed at length every Friday before the Bible conference, which we call the congregation. He continued this course so constantly that he never failed a single time except in extreme illness. Moreover, who could recount his other common or extraordinary labors? I know of no man of our age who has had more to hear, to answer, to write, nor things of greater importance. The number and quality of his writings alone is enough to astonish any man who sees them, and still more those who read them. And what renders his labors still more astonishing is that he had a body so feeble by nature, so debilitated by night labors and too great upstemiousness, and what is more subject to so many maladies that no man who saw him could understand how he had lived so long. And yet for all that he never ceased to labor night and day in the work of the Lord. We entreated him to have more regard for himself, but his ordinary reply was that he was doing nothing, and that we should allow God to find him always watching and working as he could to his latest breath. Calvin died in 1564. Eleven years after the birth of Henry of Gnoffar at the age of 55. For several years he had been so upstemious that he had eaten only one meal a day. End of Section 2 Section 4 of History of Henry IV King of France and Gnoffar by John Stevens, Cabot Abbot. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Recording by Pamela Nagami. CHAPTER I. CHILDHOOD AND YOUTH. PART III At this time the overwhelming majority of the inhabitants of France were Catholics. It has generally been estimated a hundred to one. But the doctrines of the Reformers gained ground until toward the close of the century about the time of the massacre of Saint Bartholomew the Protestants composed about one-sixth of the population. The storm of persecution which fell upon them was so terrible that they were compelled to protect themselves by force of arms. Gradually they gained the ascendancy in several cities which they fortified and where they protected refugees from the persecution which had driven them from the cities where the Catholics predominated. Such was the deplorable condition of France at the time of which we write. In the little kingdom of Gnoffar which was but about one-third as large as the State of Massachusetts and which, since its dismemberment, contained less than three hundred thousand inhabitants, nearly every individual was a Protestant. Anthony of Bourbon, who had married the Queen, was a Frenchman. With him as with many others in that day religion was merely a badge of party politics. Anthony spent much of his time in the voluptuous court of France and as he was of course solicitous for popularity there he espoused the Catholic side of the controversy. Jean d'Albray was energetically a Protestant. Apparently her faith was founded in deep religious conviction. When Catherine of Medici advised her to follow her husband into the Catholic Church she replied with firmness, Madam, sooner than ever go to mass, if I had my kingdom and my son both in my hands I would hurl them to the bottom of the sea before they should change my purpose. Jean had been married to Anthony merely as a matter of state policy. There was nothing in his character to win a noble woman's love. With no social or religious sympathies they lived together for a time in a state of respectful indifference but the court of Navarre was too quiet and religious to satisfy the taste of the voluptuous Parisian. He consequently spent most of his time enjoying the gayities of the metropolis of France. A separation mutually and amicably agreed upon was the result. Anthony conveyed with him to Paris his son Henry and there took up his residence. Amidst the changes and the fluctuations of the ever agitated metropolis he eagerly watched for opportunities to advance his own fame and fortune. As Jean took leave of her beloved child she embraced him tenderly and with tears and treated him never to abandon the faith in which he had been educated. Jean d'Albray, with her little daughter, remained in the less splendid but more moral and refined metropolis of her paternal domain. A mother's solicitude and prayers, however, followed her son. Anthony consented to retain as a tutor for Henry the wise and learned la Gaucherie who was himself strongly attached to the reformed religion. The inflexibility of Jean d'Albray and the refuge she ever cheerfully afforded to the persecuted Protestants quite enraged the pope. As a measure of intimidation he at one time summoned her as a heretic to appear before the inquisition within six months under penalty of losing her crown and her possessions, Jean, unawed by the threat, appealed to the monarchs of Europe for protection. None were disposed in that age to encourage such arrogant claims and Pope Pius VI was compelled to moderate his haughty tone. A plot, however, was then formed to seize her and her children and hand them over to the tender mercies of the Spanish inquisition, but this plot also failed. In Paris itself there were many bold Protestant nobles who with arms at their side and stout retainers around them kept personal persecution at bay. They were generally men of commanding character, of intelligence and integrity. The new religion throughout the country was manifestly growing fast in strength, and at times even in the saloons of the palace the rival parties were pretty nearly balanced. Although throughout the Kingdom of France the Catholics were vastly more numerous than the Protestants, yet as England and much of Germany had warmly espoused the cause of the reformers, it was perhaps difficult to decide which party on the whole in Europe was the strongest. Nobles and princes of the highest rank were in all parts of Europe ranged under either banner. In the two factions thus contending for dominion there were of course some who were not much influenced by conscientious considerations, but who were merely struggling for political power. When Henry first arrived in Paris, Catherine kept a constant watch over his words and his actions. She spared no possible efforts to bring him under her entire control. Efforts were made to lead his teacher to check his enthusiasm for lofty exploits and to surrender him to the claims of frivolous amusement. This detestable queen presented before the impassioned young man all the blandishments of female beauty that she might betray him to licentious indulgence. In some of these infamous arts she was but too successful. Catherine in her ambitious projects was often undecided as to which cause she should espouse and which party she should call to her aid. At one time she would favour the Protestants and again the Catholics. At about this time she suddenly turned to the Protestants and courted them so decidedly as greatly to alarm and exasperate the Catholics. Some of the Catholic nobles formed a conspiracy and seized Catherine and her son at the Palace of Fontainebleau and held them both as captives. The proud queen was almost frantic with indignation at the insult. The Protestants, conscious that the conspiracy was aimed against them, rallied for the defence of the queen.  Nearly all Europe was drawn into the conflict. Germany and England came with eager armies to aid the Protestants. Catherine hated the proud and haughty Elizabeth, England's domineering queen, and was very jealous of her fame and power. She resolved that she would not be indebted to her ambitious rival for aid. She therefore most strangely threw herself into the arms of the Catholics and ardently espoused their cause. The Protestants soon found her with all the energy of her powerful mind, heading their foes. France was deluged in blood. A large number of Protestants threw themselves into Rouen. Antony of Bourbon headed an army of the Catholics to besiege the city. A ball struck him and he fell senseless to the ground. His attendants placed him covered with blood in a carriage to convey him to the hospital. While in the carriage and jostling over the rough road, and as the thunders of the candidate were peeling in his ears, the spirit of the bloodstained soldier ascended to the tribunal of the God of Peace. The Sanguinary was now left fatherless and subject entirely to the control of his mother, whom he most tenderly loved, and whose views as one of the most prominent leaders of the Protestant party he was strongly inclined to espouse. The Sanguinary conflict still raged with unabated violence throughout the whole kingdom, arming brother against brother, friend against friend. Churches were sacked and destroyed, vast extents of country were almost depopulated, cities were surrendered to pillage, and atrocities innumerable perpetrated from which it would seem that even fiends would revolt. France was filled with smoldering ruins, and the wailing cry of widows and of orphans, thus made by the wrath of man, ascended from every plain and every hillside to the ear of that God who has said, Thou shalt love thy neighbor as thyself. At last both parties were weary of the horrid strife. The Catholics were struggling to extirpate what they deemed ruinous heresy from the kingdom. The Protestants were repelling the assault and contending, not for general liberty of conscience, but that their doctrines were true and therefore should be sustained. Terms of accommodation were proposed, and the Catholics made the great concession, as they regarded it, of allowing the Protestants to conduct public worship outside the walls of towns. The Protestants accepted these terms and sheathed the sword, but many of the more fanatic Catholics were greatly enraged at this toleration. The Gises, the most arrogant family of nobles the world has ever known, retired from Paris in indignation, declaring that they would not witness such a triumph of heresy. The decree which granted this poor boon was the famous edict of January 1562 issued from Saint-Germain. But such a peace as this could only be a truce caused by exhaustion. Deep seated animosity still rankled in the bosom of both parties, and notwithstanding all the woes which desolating wars had engendered, the spirit of religious intolerance was eager again to grasp the weapons of deadly strife. During the 16th century the doctrine of religious toleration was recognized by no one. That great truth had not then even dawned upon the world. The noble toleration so earnestly advocated by by-and-lock, a century later, was almost a new revelation to the human mind. But in the 16th century it would have been regarded as impious and rebellion against God to have affirmed that error was not to be pursued and punished. The reformers did not advocate the view that a man had a right to believe what he pleased and to disseminate that belief. They only declared that they were bound at all hazards to believe the truth, that the views which they cherished were true, and that therefore they should be protected in them. They appealed to the Bible and challenged their adversaries to meet them there. Our fathers must not be condemned for not being in advance of the age in which they lived. That toleration which allows a man to adopt without any civil disabilities, any mode of worship that does not disturb the peace of society, exists as we believe only in the United States. Even in England dissenters are excluded from many privileges. Throughout the whole of Catholic Europe no religious toleration is recognized. The Emperor Napoleon during his reign established the most perfect freedom of conscience in every government his influence could control. His downfall reestablished throughout Europe the dominion of intolerance. The reformation, in contending for the right of private judgment in contradiction to the claims of councils, maintained a principle which necessarily involved the freedom of conscience. This was not then perceived, but time developed the truth. The reformation became in reality the mother of all religious liberty. CHAPTER II. Civil War, Part I. While France was thus deluged with the blood of a civil war, young Henry was busily pursuing his studies in college. He could have had but little affection for his father, for the stern soldier had passed most of his days in the tented field, and his son had hardly known him. From his mother he had long been separated, but he cherished her memory with affectionate regard, and his predilections strongly inclined him toward the faith which he knew that she so warmly espoused. It was, however, in its political aspects that Henry mainly contemplated the question. He regarded the two sexes merely as two political parties struggling for power. For some time he did not venture to commit himself openly, but availing himself of the privilege of his youth carefully studied the principles and the prospects of the contending factions, patiently waiting for the time to come in which he should introduce his strong arm into the conflict. Each party aware that his parents had espoused opposite sides, and regarding him as an invaluable accession to either cause, adopted all possible allurements to win his favor. Catherine, as unprincipled as she was ambitious, invited him to court, lavished upon him with queenly profusion, caresses and flattery, and enticed him with all those blandishments which might most effectually enthrall the impassioned spirit of youth. Voluptuousness, gilded with its most dazzling and deceitful enchantments, was studiously presented to his eye. The queen was all love and complacence. She received him to her cabinet council. She affected to regard him as her chief confidant. She had already formed the design of perfidiously throwing the Protestants off their guard by professions of friendship, and then by indiscriminate massacre of obliterating from the kingdom every vestige of the reformed faith. The great mass of the people being Catholics, she thought that by a simultaneous uprising all over the kingdom the Protestants might be so generally destroyed that not enough would be left to cause her any serious embarrassments. For many reasons Catherine wished to save Henry from the doom impending over his friends if she could by any means win him to her side. She held many interviews with the highest ecclesiastics upon the subject of the contemplated massacre. At one time when she was urging the expediency of sparing some few Protestant nobles who had been her personal friends, Henry overheard the significant reply from the Duke of Alva. The head of a salmon is worth a hundred frogs. The young prince meditated deeply upon the impact of those words. Surmising their significance and alarmed for the safety of his mother he dispatched a trusty messenger to communicate to her his suspicions. His mind was now thoroughly aroused to vigilance, to careful and hourly scrutiny of the plots and counterplots which were ever forming around him. While others of his age were absorbed in the pleasures of licentiousness and gaming to which that corrupt court was abandoned, Henry, though he had not escaped unspotted from the contamination which surrounded him, displayed by the dignity of his demeanor and the elevation of his character, those extraordinary qualities which so remarkably distinguished him in future life, and which indicated even then that he was born to command. One of the grandees of the Spanish court, the Duke of Medina, after meeting him incidentally but for a few moments remarked, it appears to me that this young prince is either an emperor or is destined soon to become one. Henry was very punctilious in regard to etiquette and would allow no one to treat him without due respect or to deprive him of the position to which he was entitled by his rank. Jean d'Albray, the Queen of Navarre, was now considered the most illustrious leader of the Protestant Party. Catherine, the better to disguise her infamous designs, went with Henry in great splendor to make a friendly visit to his mother in the little Protestant court of Bayonne. Catherine insidiously lavished upon Jean d'Albray, the warmest congratulations and the most winning smiles and omitted no courtly blandishments which could disarm the suspicions and win the confidence of the Protestant Queen. The situation of Jean in her feeble dominion was extremely embarrassing. The pope, in consequence of her alleged heresy, had issued against her the boulevex communication declaring her incapable of reigning, forbidding all good Catholics by the peril of their own salvation from obeying any of her commands. As her own subjects were almost all Protestants she was in no danger of any insurrection on their part, but this decree, in that age of superstition and profligacy, invited each neighboring power to seize upon her territory. The only safety of the Queen consisted in the mutual jealousies of the rival kingdoms of France and Spain, neither of them being willing that the other should receive such an accession to its political importance. The Queen of Navarre was not at all shaken in her faith or influenced to change her measures by the visit of the French Queen to her capital. She regarded, however, with much solicitude, the ascendancy which had appeared to her Catherine was obtaining over the mind of her son. Catherine caressed and flattered the young Prince of Navarre in every possible way. All her blandishments were exerted to obtain a commanding influence over his mind. She endeavored unceasingly to lure him to indulgence and all forbidden pleasure and especially to crowd upon his youthful and ardent passions all the temptations which yielding female beauty could present. After the visit of a few weeks during which the little court of Navarre had witnessed an importation of profligacy unknown before, the Queen of France, with Henry and with her voluptuous train, returned again to Paris. Jean d'Albrey had seen enough of the blandishments of vice to excite her deepest maternal solicitude in view of the peril of her son. She earnestly urged his return to Navarre, but Catherine continually through such chains of influence around him that he could not escape. At last Jean resolved, under the pretense of returning the visit of Catherine, to go herself to the court of France and try to recover Henry. With a small but illustrious retinue, embellished with great elegance of manners and purity of life, she arrived in Paris. The Queen of France received her with every possible mark of respect and affection and lavished upon her entertainments and fets and gorgeous spectacles until the Queen of Navarre was almost bewildered. Whenever Jean proposed to return to her kingdom there was some very special celebration appointed, from which Jean could not without extreme rudeness break away. Thus again and again was Jean frustrated in her endeavours to leave Paris, until she found to her surprise and chagrin that both she and her son were prisoners, detained in captivity by bonds of the most provoking politeness. Catherine managed so adroitly that Jean could not enter any complaints, for the shackles which were thrown around her were those of ostensibly the most excessive kindness and the most unbounding love. It was of no avail to provoke a quarrel, for the Queen of Navarre was powerless in the heart of France. At last she resolved to effect by stratagem that which she could not accomplish openly.  The Queen of Navarre made arrangements with her son and a few of the most energetic and trustworthy gentlemen of her court to separate themselves, as it were accidentally, when in the eagerness of the chase, from the rest of the company, and to meet at an appointed place of Rendezvous. The little band thus assembled turned the heads of their horses toward Navarre. They drove with the utmost speed, day and night, furnishing themselves with fresh relays of horses and rested not till the clatter of iron hoofs of the steeds were heard among the mountains of Navarre. Jean left a very polite note upon her table in the palace of Saint-Clue, thanking Queen Catherine for all her kindness, and praying her to excuse the liberty she had taken in avoiding the pain of words of adieu. Catherine was exceedingly annoyed at their escape, but perceiving that it was not on her power to overtake the fugitives, she submitted with as good a grace as possible. CHAPTER II Henry found himself thus again among his native hills. He was placed under the tuition of a gentleman who had a high appreciation of all that was poetic and beautiful. Henry, under his guidance, devoted himself with great delight to the study of polite literature, and gave free-wing to an ennobled imagination as he clambered up the cliffs and wandered over the ravines familiar to the days of his boyhood. His personal appearance in 1567, when he was thirteen years of age, is thus described by a Roman Catholic gentleman who was accustomed to meet him daily in the court of Catherine. We have here the young Prince of Bayarna. One cannot help acknowledging that he is a beautiful creature. At the age of thirteen he displays all the qualities of a person of eighteen or nineteen. He is agreeable. He is civil. He is obliging. Others might say that as yet he does not know what he is. But for my part, who study him very often, I can assure you that he does know perfectly well. He demeans himself toward all the world with so easy a carriage that people crowd round wherever he is, and he acts so nobly in everything that one sees clearly that he is a great Prince. He enters into conversation as a highly polished man. He speaks always to the purpose and it is remarkable that he is very well informed.  Without this original sin he would be the first after the king, and we should see him in a short time at the head of the armies. He gains new friends every day. He insinuates himself into all hearts with inconceivable skill. He is highly honoured by the men and no less beloved by the ladies. His face is very well formed, the nose neither too large nor too small. His eyes are very soft, his skin brown but very smooth, and his whole features animated with such uncommon vivacity that if he does not make progress with the fair it will be very extraordinary. Henry had not escaped the natural influence of the dissolute society in the midst of which he had been educated and manifested on his first return to his mother a strong passion for balls and masquerades and all the enervating pleasures of fashionable life. His courtly and persuasive manners were so insinuating that without difficulty he borrowed any sums of money he pleased, and with these borrowed treasures he fed his passion for excitement at the gaming table. The firm principles and high intellectual elevation of his mother roused her to the immediate and vigorous endeavor to correct all these radical defects in his character and education. She kept him as much as possible under her own eye. She appointed teachers of the highest mental and moral attainments to instruct him. By her conversation and example she impressed upon his mind the sentiment that it was the most distinguished honor of one born to command others to be their superior in intelligence, judgment, and self-control. The Prince of Navarre, in his mother's court at Bayonne, found himself surrounded by Protestant friends and influences, and he could not but feel and admit the superior dignity and purity of these his new friends. Catherine worshipped no deity but ambition. She was ready to adopt any measures and to plunge into any crimes which would give stability and luster to her power. She had no religious opinions or even preferences. She espoused the cause of the Catholics because on the whole she deemed that party the more powerful, and then she sought the entire destruction of the Protestants that none might be left to dispute her sway. Had the Protestants been in the majority she would with equal zeal have given them the aid of her strong arm and unrelentingly would have striven to crush the whole papal power. Jean d'Aubray, on the contrary, was in principle a Protestant. She was a woman of reflection, of feeling, of highly cultivated intellect, and probably of sincere piety. She had read with deep interest the religious controversies of the day. She had prayed for light and guidance. She had finally and cordially adopted the Protestant faith as the truth of God. Thus guided by her sense of duty she was exceedingly anxious that her son should be a Protestant, a Protestant Christian. In most solemn prayer she dedicated him to God's service to defend the faith of the reformers. In the darkness of that day the bloody and cruel sword was almost universally recognized as the great champion of truth. Both parties appeared to think that the thunders of artillery and musketry must accompany the persuasive influence of eloquence. If it were deemed important that one hand should guide the pen of controversy to establish the truth, it was considered no less important that the other should wield the sword to extirpate heresy. Military heroism was thought as essential as scholarship for the defense of the faith. A truly liberal mind will find its indignation in view of the atrocities of these religious wars mitigated by comparison in view of the ignorance and the frailty of man. The Protestants often needlessly exasperated the Catholics by demolishing in the hour of victory their churches, their paintings, and their statues, and by pouring contempt upon all that was most hallowed in the Catholic heart. There was, however, this marked difference between the two parties. The leaders of the Protestants, as a general rule, did everything in their power to check the fury of their less enlightened followers. The leaders of the Catholics, as a general rule, did everything in their power to stimulate the fanaticism of the frenzied populace. In the first religious war the Protestant soldiers broke open and plundered the Great Church of Orléans. The Prince of Condé and Admiral Colligny hastened to repress the disorder. The Prince pointed a musket at a soldier who had ascended a ladder to break an image, threatening to shoot him if he did not immediately desist. My Lord exclaimed the fanatic Protestant, wait till I have thrown down this idol and then, if it please you, I will die. It is well for men that Omniscience presides at the day of judgment. The Lord God knoweth our frame, he remembereth that we are dust. End of Section 5 Section 6 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 Negami, Chapter II, Civil War, Part III. Europe was manifestly preparing for another dreadful religious conflict, the foreboding cloud blackened the skies. The young Prince of Navarre had not yet taken his side. Both Catholics and Protestants left no exertions untried to win to their cause so important an auxiliary. Henry had warm friends in the Court of Navarre and in the Court of St. Clu. He was bound by many ties to both Catholics and Protestants. Love of pleasure, of self-indulgence, of power urged him to cast in his lot with the Catholics. Reverence for his mother inclined him to adopt the weaker party, who were struggling for purity of morals and of faith. To be popular with his subjects in his own kingdom of Navarre, he must be a Protestant. To be popular in France to whose throne he was already casting a wistful eye, it was necessary for him to be a Catholic. He vacillated between these views of self-interest. His conscience and his heart were untouched. Both parties were aware of the magnitude of the weight he could place in either scale, while each deemed it quite uncertain which cause he would espouse. His father had died contending for the Catholic faith, and all knew that the throne of Catholic France was one of the prices which the young Prince of Navarre had a fair chance of obtaining. His mother was the most illustrious leader of the Protestant forces on the continent, and the crown of Henry's hereditary domain could not repose quietly upon any brow but that of a Protestant. Such was the state of affairs when the clanger of arms again burst upon the ear of Europe. France was the arena of woe upon which the Catholics and the Protestants of England and the continent hurled themselves against each other. Catherine, breathing vengeance, headed the Catholic armies. Jean, calm yet inflexible, was recognized as the head of the Protestant leaders and was alike the idol of the common soldiers and of their generals. The two contending armies after various marchings and counter-marchings met at Rochelle. The whole country around for many leagues was illuminated at night by the campfires of the hostile hosts. The Protestants, inferior in numbers, with hymns and prayers calmly awaited an attack. The Catholics, divided in council, were fearful of hazarding a decisive engagement. Day after day thus passed with occasional skirmishes, when one sunny morning the sound of trumpets was heard and the gleam of the spears and banners of an approaching host was seen on the distant hills. The joyful tidings spread through the ranks of the Protestants that the Queen of Navarre with her son and four thousand troops had arrived.  As the Queen and her son entered the plain, an exultant shout from the whole Protestant host seemed to rend the skies. These enthusiastic plaudits, loud, long, reiterated, sent dismay to the hearts of the Catholics. Jean presented her son to the Protestant army and solemnly dedicated him to the defense of the Protestant faith. At the same time she published a declaration to the world that she deplored the horrors of war, that she was not contending for the oppression of others, but to secure for herself and her friends the right to worship God according to the teachings of the Bible. The young Prince was placed under the charge of the most experienced generals to guard his person from danger and to instruct him in military science. The Prince of Condé was his teacher in that terrible accomplishment in which both master and pupil have obtained such worldwide renown. Long files of English troops with trumpet tones and waving banners and heavy artillery were seen winding their way along the streams of France, hastening to the scene of conflict. The heavy battalions of the Pope were marshalling upon all the sunny plains of Italy, and the banners of the rushing squadrons glittered from the pinnacles of the Alps as Europe rose in arms, desolating ten thousand homes with conflagrations and blood and woe. Could the pen record the smoldering ruins, the desolate hearthstones, the shrieks of mortal agony, the wailings of the widow, the cry of the orphan, which thus resulted from man's inhumanity to man, the heart would sicken at the recital. The summer passed away in marches and counter-marches in assassinations and skirmishes and battles. The fields of the husbandmen were trampled under the hoofs of horses. Villages were burned to the ground in their wretched inhabitants driven out in nakedness and starvation to meet the storms of merciless winter. Noble ladies and refined and beautiful maidens fled shrieking from the pursuit of brutal and licentious soldiers. Still neither party gained any decisive victory. The storms of winter came and beat heavily with frost and drifting snow upon the worn and weary hosts. In three months ten thousand Protestants had perished. At Orléans two hundred Protestants were thrown into prison. The populace set the prison on fire and they were all consumed. At length the Catholic armies having become far more numerous than the Protestants ventured upon a general engagement. They met upon the field of Jarnak. The battle was conducted by the Reformers with a degree of fearlessness bordering on desperation. The Prince of Kondé plunged into the thickest ranks of the enemy with his unfurled banner bearing the motto, Danger is sweet for Christ and my country. Just as he commenced his desperate charge, a kick from a wounded horse fractured his legs so severely that the fragments of the bone protruded through his boot. Pointing to the mangled and helpless limb he said to those around him, remember the state in which Louis of Bourbon enters the fight for Christ and his country. Immediately sounding the charge like a whirlwind his little band plunged into the midst of their foes. For a moment the shock was irresistible and the assailed fell like grass before the scythe of the mower. Soon, however, the undaunted band was entirely surrounded by their powerful adversaries. The Prince of Kondé with but about two hundred and fifty men, with indomitable determination, sustained himself against the serried ranks of five thousand men closing up around him on every side. This was the last earthly conflict of the Prince of Kondé. With his leg broken and his arm nearly severed from his body his horse fell dead beneath him and the Prince deluged with blood was precipitated into the dust under the trampling hooks of wounded and frantic chargers. His men still fought with desperation around their wounded chieftain. Of twenty-five nephews who accompanied him, fifteen were slain by his side. Soon after his defenders were cut down or dispersed. The wounded Prince, an invaluable prize, was taken prisoner. Montesquieu, captain of the guards of the Duke of Anjou, came riding up and as he saw the prisoner attracting much attention besmeared with blood and dirt, whom have we here he inquired. The Prince of Kondé was the exultant reply.  The ball passed through his brain and the Prince fell lifeless upon the ground. The corpse was left where it fell and the Catholic troops pursued their foes now flying in every direction. The Protestants retreated across a river, blew up the bridge, and protected themselves from farther assault. The next day the Duke of Anjou, the younger brother of Charles IX, and who afterwards became Henry III, who was one of the leaders of the Catholic army, rode over the field of battle to find if possible the body of his illustrious enemy. We had not rode far, says one who accompanied him, when we perceived a great number of the dead bodies piled up in a heap, which led us to judge that this was the spot where the body of the Prince was to be found. In fact, we found it there. Baron de Mognac took the corpse by the hair to lift up the face which was turned toward the ground and asked me if I recognized him. But as one eye was torn out and his face was covered with blood and dirt, I could only reply that it was certainly his height and his complexion, but farther I could not say.   Several illustrious prisoners were brought to the spot and butchered in cold blood, and their corpses thrown upon that of the Prince, while the soldiers passed a night of drunkenness and revelry exalting over the remains of their dead enemies. Such was the terrible battle of Jarnac, the first conflict which Henry witnessed. The tidings of this great victory and the death of the illustrious Condé excited transports of joy among the Catholics. Charles IX sent to Pope Pius V the standards taken from the Protestants. The Pope, who affirmed that Luther was a ravenous beast and that his doctrines were the sum of all crimes, wrote to the King a letter of congratulation. He urged him to extirpate every fiber of heresy, regardless of all entreaty, and of every tie of blood and affection. To encourage him he cited the example of Saul exterminating the Amalekites and assured him that all tendency to clemency was a snare of the devil. The Catholics now considered the condition of the Protestants as desperate. The pulpits resounded with imprecations and anathemas. The Catholic priests earnestly advocated the sentiment that no faith was to be kept with heretics, that to massacre them was an action essential to the safety of the State and which would secure the approbation of God. But the Protestants, though defeated, were still unsubdued. The noble Admiral Colliniste remained to them, and after the disaster Jean d'Aubray presented herself before the troops, holding her son Henry, then fourteen years of age by one hand, and Henry, son of the Pas de Condé by the other, and devoted them both to the cause. The young Henry of Navarre was then proclaimed a generalissimo of the army and protector of the churches. He took the following oath. I swear to defend the Protestant religion, and to persevere in the common cause till death or till victory has secured for all the liberty which we desire. End of Section 6 Section 7 of History of Henry IV King of France and Navarre by John Stevens Cabot Abbott. This Lubrivox recording is in the public domain, recording by Pamela Nagami. Chapter 3 The Marriage, Part 1 The young Henry of Navarre was but about fourteen years of age when from one of the hills in the vicinity he looked upon the terrible battle of Jarnak. It is reported that young as he was, he pointed out the fatal errors which were committed by the Protestants in all the arrangements which preceded the battle. It is folly, he said, to think of fighting with forces so divided, a united army making an attack at one point. For the security of his person deemed so precious to the Protestants, his friends notwithstanding his entreaties and even tears would not allow him to expose himself to any of the perils of the conflict. As he stood upon an eminence which overlooked the field of battle, surrounded by a few faithful guards, he gazed with intense anguish upon the sanguinary scenes brought out before him. He saw his friends utterly defeated and their squadrons trampled in the dust beneath the hooks of the Catholic cavalry. The Protestants without loss of time rallied and knew their forces. The Queen of Navarre soon saw thousands of strong arms and brave hearts collecting again around her banner. Accompanied by her son, she rode through their ranks and addressed them in words of feminine yet heroic eloquence which roused their utmost enthusiasm. But few instances have been recorded in which human hearts have been more deeply moved than these martial hosts by the brief sentences which dropped from the lips of this extraordinary woman. Henry in the most solemn manner pledged himself to consecrate all his energies to the defense of the Protestant religion. To each of the chiefs of the army, the Queen also presented a gold medal, suspended from a golden chain with her own name and that of her son impressed upon one side and on the other the words, certain peace, complete victory or honorable death. The enthusiasm of the army was raised to the highest pitch and the heroic Queen became the object almost of the adoration of her soldiers. Catherine seeing the wonderful enthusiasm with which the Protestant troops were inspired by the presence of the Queen of Navarre visited the headquarters of her own army, hoping that she might also incandle similar ardor. Accompanied by a magnificent retinue of her brilliantly acuter generals, she swept like a gorgeous vision before her troops. She lavished presence upon her officers and in high-sounding phrase rang the soldiers. But there was not a private in the ranks who did not know that she was a wicked and polluted woman. She had talent but no soul. All her efforts were unavailing to evoke one single electric spark of emotion. She had sensing up to perceive her signal failure and to feel its mortification. No one either loved or respected Catherine. Thousands hated her, yet conscious of her power, either courting her smiles or dreading her frown, they often bowed before her in adulation. The two armies were soon facing each other upon the field of battle. It was the third of October, 1569. More than fifty thousand combatants met upon the plains of Moncantour. All generalship seemed to be ignored, as the exasperated adversaries rushed upon each other in a headlong fight. The Protestants, outnumbered, were awfully defeated. Out of twenty-five thousand combatants whom they led into the field, but eight thousand could be rallied around their retreating banner after a fight of but three quarters of an hour. All their cannon, baggage, and munitions of war were lost. No mercy was granted to the vanquished. Collinier, at the very commencement of the battle, was struck by a bullet which shattered his jaw. The gushing blood under his helmet choked him, and they bore him upon a litter from the field. As they were carrying the wounded admiral along, they overtook another litter upon which was stretched Les Tanges, the bosom friend of the admiral, also desperately wounded. Les Tanges, forgetting himself, gazed for a moment, with tearful eyes upon the noble Collinier, and then gently said, It is sweet to trust in God. Collinier, unable to speak, could only look a reply. Thus the two wounded friends parted. Collinier afterwards remarked that these few words were a cordial to his spirit, inspiring him with resolution and hope. Henry of Navarre and his cousin Henry of Condé, son of the Prince who fell at the battle of Jarnak, from a neighboring eminence witnessed this scene of defeat and of awful carnage. The admiral, unwilling to expose to danger life so precious to their cause, had stationed them there with a reserve of four thousand men under the command of Louis of Nassau. When Henry saw the Protestants giving way, he implored Louis that they should hasten with the reserve to the protection of their friends. But Louis with military rigor awaited the commands of the admiral. We lose our advantage then exclaimed the Prince, and consequently the battle. The most awful of earthly calamity seemed now to fall like an avalanche upon Collinier, the noble Eugenot Chieftain. His beloved brother was slain. Bands of wretches had burned down his castle and laid waste his estates. The Parliament of Paris, composed of zealous Catholics, had declared him guilty of high treason and offered fifty thousand crowns to whoever would deliver him up, dead or alive. The Pope declared to all Europe that he was a detestable, infamous, execrable man, if indeed he even merited the name of man. His army was defeated, his friends cut to pieces, and he himself was grievously wounded and was lying upon a couch in great anguish. Under these circumstances, thirteen days after receiving his wound, he thus wrote to his children, We should not repose on earthly possessions. Let us place our hope beyond the earth and acquire other treasures than those which we see with our eyes and touch with our hands. We must follow Jesus, our leader, who has gone before us. Men have ravished us of what they could. If such is the will of God we shall be happy and our condition good, since we endure this loss from no wrong you have done those who have brought it upon you, but solely for the hate they have borne me because God was pleased to direct me to assist his church. For the present it is enough to admonish and conjure you in the name of God to persevere courageously in the study of virtue. In the course of a few weeks, Coligny rose from his bed, and the Catholics were amazed to find him at the head of a third army. The indomitable Queen of Navarre, with the calm energy which ever signalized her character, had rallied the fugitives around her, and had reanimated their waning courage by her own invincible spirit. Nobles and peasants from all the mountains of Bayarn, and from every province in France, thronged to the Protestant camp. Conflict after conflict ensued, the tide of victory now turned in favor of the reformers. Henry, absolutely refusing any longer to retire from the perils of the field, engaged with utmost coolness, judgment, and yet impetuosity in all the toils and dangers of the battle. The Protestant cause gained strength. The Catholics were disheartened. Even Catherine became convinced that the extermination of the Protestants by force was no longer possible. So once more they offered conditions of peace which were promptly accepted. These terms, which were signed at Saint-Germain-en-Laye, the 8th of August 1570, were more favorable than the preceding. The Protestants were allowed liberty of worship in all the places then in their possession. They were also allowed public worship in two towns in each province of the kingdom. They were permitted to reside anywhere without molestation, and were declared eligible to any public office. Colligny, mourning over the untold evils and miseries of war, with alacrity accepted these conditions.  The Queen, however, and her advisors were guilty of the most extreme perfidy in this truce. It was merely their object to induce the foreign troops who had come to the aid of the Allies to leave the kingdom that they might then exterminate the Protestants by a general massacre. Catherine decided to accomplish by the dagger of the assassin, that which she had in vain attempted to accomplish on the field of battle. This piece was but the first act in the awful tragedy of Saint Bartholomew. End of Section 7 Section 8 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 3 The Marriage, Part 2 Peace being thus apparently restored, the young Prince of Navarre now returned to his hereditary domains and visited its various provinces where he was received with the most lively demonstrations of affection. Various circumstances however indicated to the Protestant leaders that some mysterious and treacherous plot was forming for their destruction. The Protestant gentlemen absented themselves consequently from the Court of Charles IX. The King and his mother were mortified by these evidences that their perfidy was suspected. Jean with her son, after visiting her subjects in all parts of her own dominions, went to Rochelle where they were joined by many of the most illustrious of their friends. Large numbers gathered around them and the Court of the Queen of Navarre was virtually transferred to that place. Thus there were two rival courts side by side in the same kingdom. Catherine with her courtiers exhibited boundless luxury and voluptuousness at Paris. Jean d'Albray at Rochelle embellished her court with all that was noble and intellect, elegant in manners and pure in morals. Catherine and her submissive son Charles IX left nothing untried to lure the Protestants into a false security. Jean scrupulously requited the courtesies she received from Catherine, though she regarded with much suspicion the adulation and sycophancy of her proud hostess. The young King of France, Charles IX, who was of about the same age with Henry and who had been his companion and playmate in childhood, was now married to Elizabeth, the daughter of the Emperor Maximilian II of Austria. Their nuptials were celebrated with all the ostentatious pomp which the luxury of the times and the opulence of the French monarchy could furnish. In these rejoicings the courts of France and Navarre participated with the semblance of the most heartfelt cordiality. Protestants and Catholics pretending to forget that they had recently encountered each other with fiend-like fury and fields of blood mingled gaily in these festivities and vied with each other in the exchange of courtly greetings and polished flatteries. Catherine and Charles IX lavished with the utmost profusion their commendations and attentions upon the young Prince of Navarre and left no arts of dissimulation unassayed which might disarm the fears and win the confidence of their victims. The Queen Mother with caressing fondness declared that Henry must be her son. She would confer upon him Margaret, her youngest daughter. This Princess had now become a young lady, beautiful in the extreme and highly accomplished in all those graces which can kindle the fires and feed the flames of passion, but she was also as devoid of principle as any male libertine who contaminated by his presence a court whose very atmosphere was corruption. Many persons of royal blood had most earnestly sought the hand of this Princess for an alliance with the royal family of France was an honour which the proudest sovereigns might covet. Such a connection, in its political aspects, was everything Henry could desire. It would vastly augment the consideration and the power of the young Prince, and would bring him a long step nearer to the throne of France. The Protestants were all intensely interested in this match, as it would invest one, destined soon to become their most prominent leader, with a new ability to defend their rights and to advocate their cause. It is a singular illustration of the hopeless corruption of the times that the notorious profligacy of Margaret seems to have been considered, even by Henry himself, as no obstacle to the Union. A royal marriage is ordinarily but a matter of state policy. Upon the cold and icy eminence of kingly life, the flowers of sympathy and affection rarely bloom. Henry without hesitation acquiesced in the expediency of this nuptial alliance. He regarded it as manifestly a very politic partnership, and did not concern himself in the least about the agreeable or disagreeable qualities of his contemplated spouse. He had no idea of making her his companion, much less his friend, she was to be merely his wife. Jean d'Albre, however, a woman of sincere piety, and in whose bosom all noble thoughts were nurtured, cherished many misgivings. Her Protestant principles caused her to shrink from the espousals of her son with a Roman Catholic. Her religious scruples and the spotless purity of her character aroused the most lively emotions of repugnance in view of her son's connection with one who had not even the modesty to conceal her vices. State considerations, however, finally prevailed, and Jean, waving her objections, consented to the marriage. She yielded, however, with the greatest reluctance to the unceasing importunities of her friends. They urged that this marriage would unite the two parties in a solid peace, and thus protect the Protestants from persecution and rescue France from unutterable woe. Even the admiral Colligny was deceived. But the result proved in this case as in every other, that it is never safe to do evil that good may come. If any fact is established under the government of God it is this. The Queen of Navarre and her extreme repugnance to this match remarked, I would choose to descend to the condition of the poorest damsel in France rather than sacrifice to the grandeur of my family my own soul and that of my son. With consummate perjury Charles the Ninth declared, I give my sister in marriage not only to the Prince of Navarre but as it were to the whole Protestant Party. This will be the strongest and closest bond for the maintenance of peace between my subjects and assure evidence of my goodwill toward the Protestants. Thus influenced this noble woman consented to the Union. She then went to Blois to meet Catherine and the King. They received her with exuberant displays of love. The foolish King quite overacted his part calling her his great aunt, his all, his best beloved. As the Queen of Navarre retired for the night, Charles said to Catherine, laughing, Well, mother, what do you think of it? Do I play my little part well? Yes, said Catherine, encouragingly, very well, but it is of no use unless it continues. Allow me to go on, said the King, and you will see that I shall ensnare them. The young Princess Margaret, heartless, proud and petulant, received the cold addresses of Henry with still more chilling indifference. She refused to make even the slightest concessions to his religious views, and though she made no objections to the decidedly political partnership, she very ostentatiously displayed her utter disregard for Henry and his friends. The haughty and dissolute beauty was peaked by the reluctance which Jean had manifested to an alliance which Margaret thought should have been regarded as the very highest of all earthly honors. Preparations were, however, made for the marriage ceremony which was to be performed in the French capital with unexampled splendor. The most distinguished gentleman of the Protestant party, nobles, statesmen, warriors from all parts of the realm were invited to the metropolis to add luster to the festivities by their presence. Many, however, of the wisest counselors of the Queen of Navarre, deeply impressed with the conviction of the utter perfidy of Catherine and apprehending some deep-laid plot, remonstrated against the acceptance of the invitations, presaging that, if the wedding were celebrated in Paris, the liveries would be very crimson. Jean solicited by the most pressing letters from Catherine and her son Charles IX, and urged by her courtiers who were eager to share the renowned pleasures of the French metropolis, proceeded to Paris. She had hardly entered the sumptuous lodgings provided for her on the court of Catherine when she was seized with a violent fever which raged in her veins nine days, and then she died. In death she manifested the same faith and fortitude which had embellished her life. Not a murmur or a groan escaped her lips in the most violent paroxysms of pain. She had no desire to live except from maternal solicitude for her children, Henry and Catherine. But God said she will be their father and protector as he has been mine in my greatest afflictions. I confide them to his providence. She died in June 1572 in the forty-fourth year of her age. Catherine exhibited the most ostentatious and extravagant demonstrations of grief. Charles gave utterance to loud and poignant lamentations and ordered a surgeon to examine the body that the cause of her death might be ascertained. Notwithstanding these efforts to allay suspicion the report spread like wildfire through all the departments of France and all the Protestant countries of Europe that the Queen had been perfidiously poisoned by Catherine. The Protestant writers of the time asserted that she fell a victim to poison communicated by a pair of perfumed gloves. The Catholics as confidently affirm that she died of a natural disease. The truth can now never be known till the secrets of all hearts shall be revealed at the judgment day. CHAPTER III Henry with his retinue was slowly traveling toward Paris unconscious of his mother's sickness when the unexpected tidings arrived of her death. It is difficult to imagine what must have been the precise nature of the emotions of an ambitious young man in such an event who ardently loved both his mother and the crown which he wore as by the loss of the one he gained the other. The cloud of his grief was embellished with the gilded edgings of joy. The Prince of Bayarn now assumed the title and the style of the King of Navarre and honored the memory of his noble mother with every manifestation of regret and veneration. This melancholy event caused the postponement of the marriage ceremony for a short time as it was not deemed decorous that epithelamiums should be shouted and requiems chanted from the same lips in the same hour. The knell tolling the burial of the dead would not blend harmoniously with the joyous peals of the marriage bell. Henry was not at all annoyed by this delay, for no impatient ardor urged him to his nuptials. Marguerite, annoyed by the opposition which Henry's mother had expressed in regard to the alliance and vexed by the utter indifference which her betrothed manifested toward her person, indulged in all the wayward humours of a worse-than-spoiled child. She studiously displayed her utter disregard for Henry, which manifestations with the most provoking indifference he did not seem even to notice. During this short interval the Protestant nobles continued to flock to Paris that they might honor with their presence the marriage of the young chief. The admiral Colligny was by very special exertions on the part of Catherine and Charles lured to the metropolis. He had received anonymous letters warning him of his danger. Many of his more prudent friends openly remonstrated against his placing himself in the power of the perfidious queen. Colligny, however, was strongly attached to Henry and in defiance of all these warnings he resolved to attend his nuptials. I confide, said he, in the sacred word of his majesty. Upon his arrival in the metropolis Catherine and Charles lavished upon him the most unbounded manifestations of regard. The king embracing the admiral exclaimed, This is the happiest day of my life. Very soon one of the admiral's friends called upon him to take leave, saying that he was immediately about to retire into the country. When asked by the admiral the cause of his unexpected departure he replied, I go because they caress you too much and I would rather save myself with fools than perish with sages. At length the nuptial day arrived. It was the seventeenth of August, 1572. Paris had laid aside its morning weeds and a gay and brilliant carnival succeeded its dismal days of gloom. Protestants and Catholics of highest name and note from every part of Europe, who had met in the dreadful encounters of a hundred fields of blood, now mingled in apparent fraternity with the glittering throng, all interchanging smiles and congratulations. The unimpassioned bridegroom led his scornful bride to the Church of Notre-Dame. Before the massive portals of this renowned edifice and under the shadow of its venerable towers, a magnificent platform had been reared, canopied with the most gorgeous tapestry. Hundreds of thousands thronged the surrounding amphitheater, swarming at the windows, crowding the balconies, and clustered upon the housetops to witness the imposing ceremony. The gentle breeze breathing over the multitude was laden with a perfume of flowers. Banners and penance and ribbons of every varied hue waved in the air or hung in gay festoons from window to window and from roof to roof. Upon that conspicuous platform, in the presence of all the highest nobility of France and of the most illustrious representatives of every court of Europe, Henry received the hand of the haughty princess and the nuptial oath was administered. Marguerite, however, even in that hour and in the presence of all those spectators, gave a ludicrous exhibition of her girlish petulance and ungoverned willfulness. When in the progress of the ceremony she was asked if she willingly received Henry of Bourbon for her husband, she pouted, coquettishly tossing her proud head and was silent. The question was repeated. The spirit of Marguerite was now roused and all the powers of Europe could not tame the shrew. She fixed her eyes defiantly upon the officiating bishop and refusing, by look or word or gesture, to express the slightest ascent remained as immovable as a statue. Embarrassment and delay ensued.  The bishop smiled and bowed and acting upon the principal that small favors were gratefully received, proceeded with the ceremony. Such were the vows with which Henry and Marguerite were united. Such is too often, love in the palace. The Roman Catholic wife, unaccompanied by her protestant husband, who waited at the door with his retinue, now entered the Church of Notre Dame to participate in the solemnities of the Mass. The young king of Navarre then submissively received his bride and conducted her to a very magnificent dinner. Catherine and Charles IX, that this entertainment were very specially attentive to the protestant nobles. The weak and despicable king leaned affectionately upon the arm of the Admiral Colligny, and for a long time conversed with him with every appearance of friendship and esteem. Balls, illuminations, and pageants ensued in the evening. For many days these unnatural and chilling nuptials were celebrated with all the splendor of national festivities. Among these entertainments there was a tournament, singularly characteristic of the times, and which certainly sheds peculiar luster either upon the humility or upon the good nature of the Protestants. A large area was prepared for the display of one of those barbaric passes of arms in which the rude chivalry of that day delighted. The enclosure was surrounded by all the polished intellect, rank, and beauty of France. Charles IX, with his two brothers and several of the Catholic nobility, then appeared upon one side of the arena on noble war horses gorgeously comparisoned and threw down the gauntlet of defiance to Henry of Navarre and his Protestant retinue, who similarly mounted and accoutered, awaited the challenge upon the opposite side. The portion of the enclosure in which the Catholics appeared was decorated to represent heaven. Birds of Paradise displayed their gorgeous plumage, and the air was vocal with the melody of trilling songsters. Beauty displayed its charms arrayed in celestial robes, and ambrosial odors loved the senses in luxurious indulgence. All the resources of wealth and art were lavished to create a vision of the home of the Blessed. The Protestants, in the opposite extreme of the arena, were seen emerging from the desolation, the gloom, and the sulfurous canopy of hell. The two parties from their antagonistic realms rushed to the encounter, the fiends of darkness battling with the angels of light. Gradually the Catholics in accordance with previous arrangements drove back the Protestants toward their grim abodes, when suddenly numerous demons appeared rushing from the dungeons of the infernal regions, who with cloven hoofs and satanic weapons and chains forged in penal fires seized upon the Protestants, and dragged them to the blackness of darkness from whence they had emerged. Plottets loud and long greeted this discomforture of the Protestants by the infernal powers. But suddenly the scene is changed. A winged cupid appears, the representative of the pious and amiable bride Marguerite. The demons fly in dismay before the irresistible boy. Fearlessly this emissary of love penetrates the realms of despair. The Protestants by this agency are liberated from their thralldom and conducted in triumph to the Elysium of the Catholics. A more curious display of regal courtesy history has not recorded, and this was in Paris. Immediately after the marriage the Admiral Colligny was anxious to obtain permission to leave the city. His devout spirit found no enjoyment in the gaiities of the Metropolis, and he was deeply disgusted with the unveiled licentiousness which he witnessed everywhere around him. Day after day, however, impediments were placed in the way of his departure, and it was not until three days after the marriage festivities that he succeeded in obtaining an audience with Charles. He accompanied Charles to the racquet court where the young monarch was accustomed to spend much of his time, and their bidding immadia left him to his amusements and took his way on foot toward his lodgings. The Pope, not aware of the treachery which was contemplated, was much displeased in view of the apparently friendly relations which thus suddenly sprung up between the Catholics and the Protestants. He was exceedingly perplexed by the marriage, and at last sent a legate to expatulate with the French king. Charles the Ninth was exceedingly embarrassed how to frame a reply. He wished to convince the legate of his entire devotion to the papal church, and at the same time he did not dare to betray his intentions, for the detection of the conspiracy would not only frustrate all his plans, but would load him with ignominy and vastly augment the power of his enemies. I do devoutly wish, Charles replied, that I could tell you all, but you and the Pope shall soon know how beneficial this marriage shall prove to the interests of religion. Take my word for it. In a little time the Holy Father shall have reason to praise my designs, my piety, and my zeal in behalf of the faith. CHAPTER IV Preparations for Massacre As Admiral Colligny was quietly passing through the streets from his interview with Charles at the Louvre to his residence, in preparation for his departure, accompanied by twelve or fifteen of his personal friends, a letter was placed in his hands. He opened it and began to read as he walked slowly along.  One cut off a finger of his right hand, and the other entered his left arm. The Admiral, in near to scenes of danger, manifested not the slightest agitation or alarm. He calmly pointed out to his friends the house from which the gun had been discharged, and his attendants rushed forward and broke open the door. The assassin, however, escaped through a back window and mounting a fleet horse stationed there and which was subsequently proved to have belonged to a nephew of the king, avoided arrest. It was clearly proved in the investigations which immediately ensued that the assassin was in connivance with some of the most prominent Catholics of the realm. The Duke of Guise and Catherine were clearly implicated. Messengers were immediately dispatched to inform the king of the crime which had been perpetrated. Charles was still playing in the tennis court. Casting away his racket he exclaimed, with every appearance of indignation, shall I never be at peace. The wounded Admiral was conveyed to his lodgings. The surgeons of the court, the ministers of the Protestant Church, and the most illustrious princes and nobles of the Admiral's party hastened to the couch of the sufferer. Henry of Navarre was one of the first that arrived, and he was deeply moved as he bent over his revered and much-loved friend. The intrepid and noble old man seemed perfectly calm and composed, reposing unfailing trust in God. My friends said he, Why do you weep? For myself I deem it an honour to have received these wounds for the name of God. Pray him to strengthen me. Henry proceeded from the bedside of the Admiral to the Louvre. He found Charles and Catherine there, surrounded by many of the nobles of their court. In indignant terms Henry reproached both mother and son with the atrocity of the crime which had been committed, and demanded immediate permission to retire from Paris, asserting that neither he nor his friends could any longer remain in the capital in safety.  But all the oaths of Charles and all the vociferations of Catherine did but strengthen the conviction of the Protestants that they both were implicated in this plot of assassination. Even in Charles, feigning the deepest interest in the fate of their wounded guest, hastened to his sick chamber with every possible assurance of their distress and sympathy. Charles expressed the utmost indignation at the murderous attempt, and declared with those oaths, which are common to vulgar minds, that he would take the most terrible vengeance upon the perpetrators as soon as he could discover them. To discover them cannot be difficult, coolly replied the admiral. Henry of Navarre, overwhelmed with indignation and sorrow, was greatly alarmed in view of the toils in which he found himself and his friends hopelessly involved. The Protestants, who had been thus lured to Paris, unarmed and helpless, were panicked stricken by these indications of relentless perfidy. They immediately made preparations to escape from the city. Henry, bewildered by rumors of plots and perils, hesitated whether to retire from the capital with his friends in a body, taking the admiral with them, or more secretly to endeavor to effect an escape. But Catherine and Charles, the moment for action having not quite arrived, were unwearyed in their exertions to allay this excitement and soothe these alarms. They became renewably clamorous in their expressions of grief and indignation in view of the assault upon the admiral. The king placed a strong guard around the house where the wounded nobleman lay, ostensibly for the purpose of protecting him from any popular outbreaks, but in reality as it subsequently appeared, to guard against his escape through the intervention of his friends. He also, with consummate perfidy, urged the Protestants in the city to occupy quarters near together, that in case of trouble they might more easily be protected by him and might more effectually aid one another. His real object, however, was to assemble them in more convenient proximity for the slaughter to which they were doomed. The Protestants were in the deepest perplexity. They were not sure, but that all their apprehensions were groundless, and yet they knew not, but in the next hour some fearful battery would be unmasked for their destruction. They were unarmed, unorganized, and unable to make any preparation to meet an unknown danger. Catherine, whose depraved yet imperious spirit was guiding with such consummate duplicity all this engineering of intrigue, hourly administered the stimulus of her own stern will to sustain the faltering purpose of her equally depraved but fickle-minded and imbecile son. Some circumstances seem to indicate that Charles was not an accomplice with his mother in the attempt upon the life of the admiral. She said to her son, Notwithstanding all your protestations, the deed will certainly be laid to your charge. Civil war will again be enkindled. The chiefs of the Protestants are now all in Paris. You had better gain the victory at once here that incur the hazard of a new campaign. Well then, said Charles petulantly, since you approve the murder of the admiral, I am content. But let all the Eugenot also fall, that there may not be one left to reproach me. It was on Friday the twenty-second of August that the bullets of the assassin wounded Coligny. The next day Henry called again with his bride to visit his friend whose finger had been amputated and who was suffering extreme pain from the wound in his arm. Marguerite had but few sympathies with the scenes which are to be witnessed in the Chamber of Sickness. She did not conceal her impatience, but after a few commonplace phrases of condolence with her husband's bosom friend, she hastened away, leaving Henry to perform alone the offices of friendly sympathy. While the young king of Navarre was thus sitting at the bedside of the admiral, recounting to him the assurances of faith and honor given by Catherine and her son, the question was then under discussion in secret counsel at the palace. By this very Catherine and Charles, whether Henry, the husband of the daughter of the one and of the sister of the other, should be included with the rest of the Protestants in the massacre which they were plotting. Charles manifested some reluctance, thus treacherously to take the life of his early playmate and friend, his brother-in-law, and his invited guest. It was after much deliberation decided to protect him from the general slaughter to which his friends were destined. The king sent for some of the leading officers of his troops and commanded them immediately but secretly to send his agents through every section of the city, to arm the Roman Catholic citizens, and to assemble them at midnight in front of the Hotel de Ville. The energetic Duke of Guise, who had acquired much notoriety by the Sanguinary spirit with which he had persecuted the Protestants, was to take the lead of the carnage. To prevent mistakes in the confusion of the night he had issued secret orders for all the Catholics to wear a white cross on the hat and to bind a piece of white cloth around the arm. In the darkest hour of the night, when all the sentinels of vigilance and all the powers of resistance should be most effectually disarmed by sleep, the alarm bell from the Tower of the Palace of Justice was to toll the signal for the indiscriminate massacre of the Protestants. The bullet and the dagger were to be everywhere employed, and men, women and children were to be cut down without mercy. With a very few individual exceptions, none were to be left to avenge the dead. Large bodies of troops who hated the Protestants with that implacable bitterness which the most Sanguinary wars of many years had engendered had been called into the city, and they, familiar with deeds of blood, were to commence the slaughter. All good citizens were enjoined as they loved their Savior to aid in the extermination of the enemies of the Church of Rome. Thus it was declared God would be glorified, and the best interests of man promoted. The spirit of the age was in harmony with the act, and it cannot be doubted that there were those who had been so instructed by their spiritual guides that they truly believed that by this sacrifice they were doing God's service. The conspiracy extended throughout all the provinces of France. The storm was to burst at the same moment upon the unsuspecting victims in every city and village of the kingdom. Beacon fires with their lurid midnight glare were to flash the tidings from mountain to mountain. The peel of alarm was to ring along from steeple to steeple, from city to hamlet, from valley to hillside, till the whole Catholic population should be aroused to obliterate every vestige of Protestantism from the land. While Catherine and Charles were arranging all the details of this deed of infamy, even to the very last moment, they maintained with the Protestants the appearance of the most cordial friendship. They lavished caresses upon the Protestant generals and nobles. The very day preceding the night when the massacre commenced, the King entertained at a sumptuous feast in the Louvre many of the most illustrious of the doomed guests. Many of the Protestant nobles were that night by the most pressing invitations detained in the palace to sleep. Charles appeared in a glow of amiable spirits and amused them till a late hour with his pleasantries. Henry of Navarre, however, had his suspicions very strongly aroused. Though he did not, and could not imagine anything so dreadful as a general massacre, he clearly foresaw that preparations were making for some very extraordinary event. The entire depravity of both Catherine and Charles he fully understood. But he knew not where the blow would fall, and he was extremely perplexed in deciding as to the course he ought to pursue. The apartments assigned to him and his bride were in the palace of the Louvre. It would be so manifestly for his worldly interest for him to unite with the Catholic Party, especially when he should see the Protestant cause hopelessly ruined, that the mother and the brother of his wife had hesitatingly concluded that it would be safe to spare his life. Many of the most conspicuous members of the court of Navarre lodged also in the Capaceous Palace, in chambers contiguous to those which were occupied by their sovereign. Marguerite's oldest sister had married the Duke of Lorraine, and her son, the Duke of Guise, an energetic, ambitious, unprincipled profligate, was one of the most active agents in this conspiracy. His illustrious rank, his near relationship with the King, rendering it not improbable that he might yet inherit the throne, his restless activity and his implacable hatred of the Protestants gave him the most prominent position as the leader of the Catholic Party. He had often encountered the admiral Collignier upon fields of battle where all the malignity of the human heart had been aroused, and he had often been compelled to fly before the strong arm of his powerful adversary. He felt that now the hour of revenge had come and with an assassin's despicable heart he thirsted for the blood of his noble foe. It was one of his paid agents who fired upon the admiral from the window, and mounted upon one of the flitest chargers of the Duke of Guise the wretch made his escape. The conspiracy had been kept a profound secret from Marguerite, lest she should divulge it to her husband. The Duchess of Lorraine, however, was in all their deliberations and fully aware of the dreadful carnage which the night was to witness, she began to feel, as the hour of midnight approached, very considerable anxiety in reference to the safety of her sister. Conscious guilt magnified her fears and she was apprehensive lest the Protestants, when they should first awake to the treachery which surrounded them, would rush to the chamber of their king to protect him and would wreck their vengeance upon his Catholic spouse. She did not dare to communicate to her sister the cause of her alarm, and yet when Marguerite about eleven o'clock arose to retire she importuned her sister even with tears, not to occupy the same apartment with her husband that night but to sleep in her own private chamber. Then sharply reproved the Duchess of Lorraine for her imprudent remonstrances and bidding the Queen of Navarre good night with maternal authority directed her to repair to the room of her husband. She departed to the nuptial chamber, wondering what could be the cause of such an unwonted display of sisterly solicitude and affection. When she entered her room, to her great surprise, she found thirty or forty gentlemen assembled there. They were the friends and the supporters of Henry, who had become alarmed by the mysterious rumours which were floating from ear to ear, and by the signs of agitation and secrecy and strange preparations which everywhere met the eye. No one could imagine what danger was impending. No one knew from what quarter the storm would burst. But that some very extraordinary event was about to transpire was evident to all. It was too late to adopt any precautions for safety. The Protestants, unarmed, unorganized, and widely dispersed, could now only practice the virtue of heroic fortitude in meeting their doom whatever that doom might be. The gentlemen in Henry's room did not venture to separate, and not an eye was closed in sleep. They sat together in the deepest perplexity and consternation as the hours of the night lingered slowly along, anxiously awaiting the developments with which the moments seemed to be fraught. In the meantime, aided by the gloom of a starless night, in every street of Paris preparations were going on for the enormous perpetration. Soldiers were assembling in different places of rendezvous. Guards were stationed at important points in the city that their victims might not escape. Armed citizens with loaded muskets and sabres gleaming in the lamp-light began to emerge through the darkness from their dwellings, and to gather in motley and interminable assemblage around the Hotel de Ville. A regiment of guards were stationed at the gates of the royal palace to protect Charles and Catherine from any possibility of danger. Many of the houses were illuminated, that by the light blazing from the windows the bullet might be thrown with precision, and that the dagger might strike an unnering blow. Agitation and alarm pervaded the vast metropolis, the Catholics were rejoicing that the hour of vengeance had arrived, the Protestants gazed upon the portentous gatherings of this storm in utter bewilderment. All the arrangements of the Enterprise were left to the Duke of Guise, and a more efficient and fitting agent could not have been found. He had ordered that the toxin, the signal for the massacre, should be told at two o'clock in the morning. Catherine and Charles in one of the apartments of the Palace of the Louvre were impatiently awaiting the lingering flight of the hours till the alarm bell should toll forth the death warrant of their Protestant subjects. Catherine, a near to treachery and hardened advice, was apparently a stranger to all compunctious visitings. A life of crime had sealed her soul against every merciful impression. But she was very apprehensive, lest her son, less obdurate in purpose might relent. Though impotent in character he was at times petulant and self-willed, and in paroxysms of stubbornness spurned his mother's counsels and exerted his own despotic power. Charles was now in a state of the most feverish excitement. He hastily paced the room, peering out of the window, and almost every moment looking at his clock, wishing that the hour would come, and again half regretting that the plot had been formed. The companions and the friends of his childhood, the invited guests who for many weeks had been his associates in gay festivities and in the interchange of all kindly words and deeds, were at his command, before the morning should dawn, to fall before the bullet and the punyard of the midnight murderer.  She therefore urged him no longer to delay, but to anticipate the hour and to send a servant immediately to sound the alarm. Charles hesitated while a cold sweat ran from his forehead.  This is the charge which will always make the paltrune scormer. The young king nervously exclaimed, Well then, begin. There were in the chamber at the time only the king, his mother, and his brother, the Duke of Anjou. A messenger was immediately dispatched to strike the bell. It was two hours after midnight. A few moments of terrible suspense ensued. There was a dead silence. Neither of the three uttering a word. They all stood at the windows looking out into the rayless night. Suddenly, through the still air, the ponderous tones of the alarm bell fell upon the ear and rolled the knell of death over the city. Its vibrations awakened the demon in ten thousand hearts. It was the morning of the Sabbath, August 24, 1572. It was the anniversary of a festival in honor of St. Bartholomew which had long been celebrated. At the sound of the toxin, the signal for the massacre, armed men rushed from every door into the streets shouting, Vive Dieu et le Roi! Live God and the King.