“WOE to thee, O country, that hast a child for king!” exclaimed the Venetian ambassador in France, in 1560, when Charles IX., a child ten years old, ascended the throne; but greater woe to that country because the mother of that child, who held the power of government, as queen-regent, was one of the greatest monsters of crime in the annals of history, and forced that child to become a very fiend of infamy and cruelty.

Catherine de’ Medici was a woman devoid of every womanly instinct, every womanly virtue, every womanly attribute. She was the very incarnation of the terrible Medusa, petrifying all noble impulses, destroying all virtuous aspirations, killing every kindly feeling in the hearts of those around her.

She had been taught the doctrines of Machiavelli, whose ideal of a prince was one who should work by force, fraud, cruelty, and dissimulation to gain his desired ends; but even these dangerous theories of that crafty, though brilliant-minded Florentine, were far out-stripped in unprincipled chicanery by his ambitious follower, Catherine de Medici; so that the term Machiavellian is far too weak a word to apply to her diabolical villanies.

France ran red with blood. The terrible tocsin at midnight tolled forth the death-doom of one hundred thousand lives. The wild shrieks of the dying freighted the air of France with heart-curdling wailings from centre to circumference. French soil was deluged with the blood of her people. The blasphemous curses of the fiendish murderers polluted the very air of heaven, until it seemed as though the furies of hell were let loose upon this realm, to wreck upon the helpless people the infernal hate of the arch-demon himself.

Who was the diabolical instigator of this atrocious work? Alas! a woman! and that woman Catherine de’ Medici.

The innocent soul of a child, naturally moved by good impulses, was tutored in every vice of which human nature is capable. His childish lips were taught to pronounce the most terrible blasphemies, his kind heart was mocked and sneered at, and tempted with every ensnaring device of vile and polluting pleasures offered by the most dissolute and alluring companions, until no wickedness seemed too great to be undertaken, no degrading diversion too low to be indulged in. His constitution was purposely weakened, his mind purposely dwarfed and debased, that his life might be short, and that his will might be broken; that another’s ambitious power might be increased even though it cost the death of body and soul of the helpless victim. Who was this fiend incarnate, who could thus toy with a human soul, hourly dragging it nearer and nearer the yawning jaws of the bottomless pit of perdition? That one was a woman, the mother of her quivering victim; this malevolent Gorgon was Catherine de’ Medici.

Even the horrors of the Inquisition in Spain pale before the horrors of the massacre of St. Bartholomew. Even the bloody “Demon of the South,” as Philip II. was called, seems not such a revolting spectacle of depraved humanity as Catherine de’ Medici; for Philip, at least, fanatically imagined he was aiding the cause of religion, as he believed the infamous Inquisition to be a righteous avenger in behalf of the Catholic Church; whereas Catherine de’ Medici had no belief, no religion, cared neither for Catholics nor Protestants, neither for the Romish Church nor for the Reformed Faith.

She flattered each by turns as it best suited her nefarious schemes; she was actuated by no motive beyond her personal ambition of holding the reins of power; she cared not who or what was sacrificed, whether the life and soul of her own child, or whether the result was the downfall of every religious belief, the blood of her subjects, the ruin of her provinces, and the desolation of the homes of her people.

Not even fanaticism can be offered as a poor excuse for her crimes; her infamous deeds can be cloaked by no paltry plea of religious fervor. Her crimes were instigated by her own diabolical soul, a willing ally of the Prince of Darkness; and were it not for the strong menial abilities she manifested, one would imagine her some grotesque monster of an animal. But her crafty schemes betokened keen intellectual powers, and made her seem some malignant demon in human shape sent forth from the lowest depths of the Inferno to lure men and women to destruction.

Catherine de’ Medici was a daughter of Lorenzo de’ Medici, that ruler of Florence for whom Machiavelli wrote the “Prince.” Having lost both her parents in early childhood, Catherine was sent to a convent to be educated. Her uncle, Pope Clement VII., arranged with Francis I. of France a marriage between Catherine and the Duke of Orleans, afterwards Henry II. of France. This marriage was celebrated in 1533, when Catherine was fourteen years of age.

During the reign of Francis, Catherine exercised no influence in France. She was a thick-set, plain, unprepossessing girl; and being so young, and a foreigner, and a native of a state having no great weight in the world of politics, she was thrown entirely into the shade by more important and attractive personages, having not yet given any proof of her after great but iniquitous ability.

The court life at the time of Francis I. was beginning to assume some of the brilliancy and splendor for which it became so famous in the reign of le Grand Monarque. The fall of Florence and the expulsion of the French from Italy brought many Italians into France. Among these were men of letters, poets, musicians, sculptors, painters, and architects. Italian was generally understood at court, and became a frequent medium of conversation. Many Italian words were thus introduced into French phrases, and the French tongue became thereby materially changed and softened in its pronunciation.

It was at this time that so many old feudal fortresses were torn down to give place to the chÂteaux of the Renaissance. The king lived familiarly with artists, men of letters and celebrities, and patronized all who had made a name in art or literature.

Fontainebleau, which was originally a hunting-seat of Saint Louis IX., began to rise into a stately palace under the direction of Sebastian Serlio and Rosso, a Florentine. This Italian artist, Rosso, or Battista di Jacopo, was named by King Francis, “chief and superintendent over all the buildings, paintings, and other decorations of the palace,” with a large salary, for Rosso lived like en grand seigneur. As a painter his industry was great, and he displayed much ability in his designs for the decoration of the Galerie de FranÇois I., which he constructed over the lower court. During the reign of Louis Philippe some of Rosso’s paintings were discovered under a coating of whitewash, and were restored by that king’s order.

But the chef-d’oeuvre of the Renaissance was the ChÂteau de Chambord, which, though it was not half completed at the time of the visit of the Emperor Charles V., so greatly excited his wonder and admiration.

One of the marvels of this chÂteau was “its double spiral staircase of two hundred and eighty-six steps, rising in the centre of the edifice from its basement to its highest point,—the lantern, crowned by an enormous fleur-de-lys. It was a sort of puzzle. Eight persons could walk abreast up or down it, the ascending and descending parties never meeting, yet seeing each other.”

The Emperor Charles was also amazed at this time by the gorgeousness and extravagance in dress displayed by the bourgeoisie. “At Poitiers he was received by near five hundred gentlemen, richly attired, and two thousand of the citizens in robes of velvet and satin, bordered with gold and silver lace. From Orleans a still more imposing cavalcade rode out to meet him. The bourgeoisie of this royal city had certain privileges which, like the citizens of Paris, they shared with the nobility. Ninety-two of these privileged merchants of the upper bourgeoisie accompanied the governor and persons of distinction to greet the emperor. All of them were mounted on excellent chargers, and all wore coats or casaques of black velvet, and doublets or vests of white satin fastened with gold buttons. Their boots were of white morocco, slashed, and their spurs either silver-gilt or gold. Their caps or toques were also of velvet, elaborately ornamented with gold embroider and precious stones.”

Orleans was then considered a large, handsome town. Charles V. said it was the finest city he saw in France. “Where, then,” he was asked, “does your majesty place Paris?”

“Oh, Paris,” he replied, “is no city, but rather a little world.”

As Francis I. was ruled by his favorite, the Duchesse d’ Étampes, his wife, Queen Eleanor, was simply a dazzling ornament in his court, where she always appeared in the splendor of the most gorgeous attire, solacing herself with the only privilege left to her, of displaying her rightful rank and prestige. “Near her, as if to seek the protection which her position afforded, if not her influence,—for of that she had none,—the quiet, subtle girl-wife of the youthful Prince Henry was always to be found. Of all that passed around her nothing escaped her vigilant, restless eyes. She was inwardly taking notes to serve for her guidance in the future,—resigned to live, and learn, and bide her time, fully assured—for was it not written in the stars?—that, as time rolled on, her turn would come to sway the destinies of the kingdom.

“No attentions did Catherine de’ Medici receive or look for from her boy-husband. He was a fluttering captive in the chains of first love, and the most brilliant beauty of the court, the famed Diana de Poitiers, was the lady of his heart, at the shrine of whose loveliness he bowed the knee. Prince Henry was then seventeen, and the lady had numbered thirty-seven summers. As to winters, they glided o’er her smooth, fair brow, leaving no trace of their passage, or any snowy signs of age on her luxuriant raven hair. Her husband, the Comte de Dreux-BrezÉ, died in 1531, and she erected a magnificent monument to his memory, and ever after wore the widow’s dress. Nature had made her beautiful forever, and beautiful she remained, unaided by art, we are told, until the end of her threescore years and nine.

“At this early period of Henry’s attachment to her, Diana derived from it no influence at court. The king disliked his second son, whose sentimental worship of an ‘aged siren,’ as envious ladies were pleased to call her, was a subject of jest among his companions, while Diana professed for the royal youth a tender but motherly affection; placid Catherine looking on unmoved.”

But this placid Catherine would not always sheathe her sharp stiletto of Italian craftiness, and then its gleaming point would pierce the quivering hearts of her victims with merciless cruelty.

During the reign of her husband, Henry II., Catherine lived a quiet, unobtrusive life, having little or no influence over the king, who was completely under the fascinating sway of the beautiful widow, Diana of Poitiers, who, possessing keen insight and much quick wit, was in reality the sovereign of France during the reign of Henry II.

Catherine de’ Medici manifested no outward signs of her discomfiture in thus having her place and power usurped by her husband’s fair favorite, but she was silently waiting her turn, and carefully observing the various moves in the political game then being played in Europe. She affected not only tolerance, but even friendship towards Diana; but the crafty Italian was meanwhile watching with tiger-cunning the right moment to spring forth from her hidden lair and seize upon her coveted prize, the imperial power of the throne; this was her only ambition. With wise insight she realized the hopelessness of endeavoring to free her husband from the ensnaring power of Diana, and so she artfully made his favorite her friend, and seemingly acquiesced in the ascendency of her rival.

On the 31st of March, 1547, Francis I. died, and in the following July, Henry II. was crowned, his elder brother having died some time before. On this occasion Diana and Catherine sat together under a “canopied tribune,” beholding the handsome prince in his royal robes, as he knelt before the archbishop and received from his hands the imperial crown.

But another character connected with this court demands attention. Jeanne d’Albret, the daughter of Queen Margaret of Navarre, was brought up at the Court of Francis I. and educated in the Romish faith. But her mother had adopted the principles of the Reformation, and Jeanne d’Albret afterwards became the most ardent defender of the Protestants at a time when such defence required the bravest heart and most unflinching courage.

Soon after the coronation of Henry II. the marriage of Jeanne d’Albret, heiress of the kingdom of Navarre, was celebrated in the ChÂteau de Moulins. The bridegroom was Antoine de Bourbon, Duc de VendÔme and first prince of the blood after the sons of Henry II. King Henry and his brilliant court repaired to Moulins to celebrate these nuptials. Upon this occasion Catherine de’ Medici was attired with gorgeous splendor. She was very fond of dress, and with the richly-robed Italian ladies in her suite presented a magnificent spectacle. Amidst all the brilliant costumes, one lady was distinguished by her widow’s garb. But Madame Diana well understood her charms, and in her costly robe of white and black velvet, with veil of silver tissue and coiffe of netted velvet, bordered with pearls, she became at once distinguÉ and enchanting; and though Catherine de’ Medici might flash in gorgeous colors and royal jewels, her ugly, heavy features and ungraceful form only appeared more unattractive by the side of her beautiful rival. King Henry, who always wore black and white in compliment to Diana, was attired on this occasion “in a pourpoint, or vest of black velvet, slashed with white satin, with short skirts or basques, and a cloak of the same material, embroidered in broad stripes of gold. Trunk-hose of white silk, very large, and rounded with horse-hair or wool, a band of gold braiding attaching them to the long white silk stockings, and white silk shoes with black rosettes. A black velvet toque, with a white plume of two or three feathers placed on the right side, and bordered with four rows of black and white pearls. His cravat was of fine lace, and an escarcelle or pocket was fastened on his right side by gold chains to an embroidered waist-belt.”

“The princes and other persons of distinction were similarly dressed, the bridegroom wearing blue and white velvet and satin, many jewels in his plumed hat, many rings on his fingers, a jewelled pouch at his side, and a massive gold chain passing twice round his neck.”

But a lovely vision was presented by the bride of nineteen, Jeanne d’Albret, as she stood at the altar of the chapel of Moulins. “She was arrayed in white and silver satin brocade, her hair flowing loosely over her shoulders, but confined at the forehead by a circlet of pearls with diamond clasp, as was usual at that time for brides of high degree. Her long, heavy train, embroidered in silver and seed-pearls, was borne by four young pages in costumes of blue velvet and silver, white satin shoes with blue rosettes, and blue velvet toques with small white plumes. The great width of the deeply pendent sleeves (another distinguishing mark of the toilettes of ladies of rank, women of inferior station being permitted far less latitude in this respect) heavily embroidered to match the train, seemed from their weight almost to need the services of two more pages to support them. A stomacher of pearls and diamonds, a cordeliÈre of the same, silver-embroidered satin shoes, and veil of Italian silver tissue falling very low on the back of the dress, completed this artistic and becoming bridal costume.”

But a sketch of Catherine de’ Medici has little to do with such fascinating scenes. With the death of her husband, King Henry, began the terrible spectacles of bloodshed and vice and cruelties which have made her name a synonyme of revolting wickedness. Not that Henry II. was not also cruel and guilty of many crimes, for he even celebrated his first appearance in Paris after his coronation by the public burning on the Place de GrÈve of half a dozen heretics; and he had established a special chamber in the Parliament called significantly the “Chambre Ardente”; and he would sit at the window of the HÔtel-de-la-Roche-Pot, which commanded a full view of the place of execution in the Rue Saint-Antoine, and watch the writhings of the burning heretics; but notwithstanding these atrocious instances, the cruelties of Catherine de’ Medici were on so much larger scale, and planned with such diabolical butchery, that in contrast Henry II. seems almost humane.

The reign of Francis I. had left France in a mournful condition. The peace of Crespy had hurt the feelings both of royalty and of the nation. It had left England in possession of Calais and Boulogne, and confirmed the ascendency of Charles V. in Germany, Italy, and Spain on the French frontiers. But Charles V. met his match as a general, in the brave defender of Metz, the valiant Duke of Guise, who commanded Henry II.’s forces at that memorable siege. This successful defence against the besieging army of the Emperor Charles V. gave Guise vast renown, and weakened materially the power of Charles.

France had been for nearly six years free from actual war with the emperor, when the German princes sought the aid of Henry II. in an alliance against Charles V., who was threatening to become as despotic in Germany as he was in Spain. The German princes had proposed to give Henry II. possession of the three cities, Metz, Toul, and Verdun, or at least allow him to conquer them, as these cities were not Germanic in language. As a further inducement to the French king to make an alliance with them, they promised to aid him in endeavoring to recover from Charles, Henry’s heritage of Milan. This had been the constant ambition of Francis I., to obtain possession of this ancestral heritage. Henry accordingly entered into negotiations with the German Princes; and to the declaration of war of Maurice of Saxony against the Emperor Charles, was appended a manifesto from the king of France. “Therein Henry announced himself the ‘Defender of the liberties of Germany, and protector of her captive princes,’ further stating, ‘that broken-hearted (le coeur navrÉ) at the condition of Germany, he could not refuse to aid her, but had determined to do so to the utmost of his power and ability, even to personally engaging in this war, undertaken for liberty, and not for his personal benefit.’ This document, written in French, was headed by the representation of a cap between two poniards, and around it the inscription, ‘The emblem of liberty.’ It is said to have been copied from some ancient coins, and to have been appropriated as the symbol of freedom by CÆsar’s assassins. Thus singularly was brought to light by a king of the French Renaissance that terrible cap of liberty, before which the ancient crown of France was one day destined to fall.”

Henry II., thereupon leaving Catherine de’ Medici as regent in France, much to her profound surprise at such unusual attention from her indifferent husband,—who took good care, however, to tie her hands by such restrictions that she was regent only in name, while Diana held the real power,—departed with his army, and with ease took possession of the cities of Metz, Toul, and Verdun.

It was in endeavoring to reconquer Metz that Charles V. met his disastrous repulse in the brave defence of the Duke of Guise, who was then governor of Metz.

After the fatigues and horrors of war, the French court turned again to balls and tournaments, and the building of chÂteaux, and the patronage of art. It was at this time that Bernard Palissy was much patronized by the fair Diana, whom Henry had made Duchesse de Valentinois, presenting her with the ChÂteau de Chenonceaux, which seemed to be the only attention from the king which caused Catherine de’ Medici to vow vengeance, as she had desired to possess the chÂteau herself.

Notwithstanding desolating wars, the French court of Henry II. far outshone that of Francis I. in extravagance of dress and living.

“Never had any queen of France, except, perhaps, Queen Eleanor, and her court been arrayed in brocades so costly, or bedecked with gems more precious than Catherine de’ Medici and her ladies, though the crown jewels were worn by Madame Diana. At least they were transferred to her when the reign of Madame d’Etampes ended. Diana wore pearls only, black and white, which harmonized with her mourning dress. She may, however, have sometimes condescended to wear the crown diamonds, though they were not of great value.

“Never had the chefs-d’oeuvre of Italian cookery been served at any state banquets on gold and silver plate in greater profusion or of more artistic workmanship, or the table ornamented with such magnificent productions of the glass manufactories of Venice. Carriages sufficiently capacious, luxuriously furnished, and ornamented with thousands of gilt nails, now took the place of the litter for travelling,—the gentlemen, when not aged or gouty, still preferring horses.”

Jeromio Lippomano, writing to the senate, says:—

“The novelties or changes in the fashion of dress succeed each other from day to day, I might almost say from hour to hour. The French spend without measure on their wardrobes and their table. As the profession of the French noble is that of arms, he wears a short coat. But it would be difficult to send you a model, so often is it varied in color and form. To-day the brim of his hat will extend beyond his shoulders; to-morrow his hat or cap will scarce cover the top of his head. His mantle sometimes reaches to his ankles; at others no lower than his loins. His shoes are either in the Greek fashion, or that of Savoy,—so wide and so high that they reach the middle of the leg, or so short and so narrow that they resemble tubes. If the form of the garments is frequently changed, no less so is the ridiculous manner of wearing them, as buttoning one sleeve and leaving the other open. When on horseback, these young warriors carry the sword in the hand, and gallop through the city as if in pursuit of an enemy, after the manner of the Polish cavaliers.”

“Twenty-five to thirty dresses of different form, and all elaborately embroidered, with an ample stock of fine laces, feathers, and jewels, scarcely sufficed to make a decent appearance at this luxurious and extravagant court. The ladies cared not to bestow their smiles on a cavalier who proclaimed his poverty by the scantiness of his wardrobe.” So great was the cost of living at the court that the courtiers took turns of three months each in the court service, and then retired to their chÂteaux, that they might retrench in their expenses, and so save enough money to again make a brilliant appearance when attendance at court was imposed upon them.

Meanwhile Charles V. had retired to a monastery and abdicated in favor of his son, Philip II. of Spain. Philip had married Mary Tudor of England. Mary Stuart of Scotland, a niece of the powerful House of Guise, had been married to Francis, the Dauphin of France. Philip II. had continued his father’s hostility to France, and the desperate battle of Saint Quentin had not only defeated the French, but had placed Montmorency, King Henry’s favorite “good gossip,” a prisoner in the hands of Philip.

It was at this time that Catherine de’ Medici first displayed her political tact and courage. Henry had gone to CompiÈgne, to raise troops, when the news reached Paris of the capture of Saint Quentin. A great panic ensued. Many fled from the city in fear, thinking the enemy were approaching.

Catherine de’ Medici went to the parliament in full state, accompanied by the cardinals, princes, and princesses, and made such a stirring appeal to the authorities, showing them the urgent necessity for an immediate levy of troops, that parliament granted her 100,000 crowns for that purpose.

From that day the position of Catherine de’ Medici was changed. King Henry returning and learning of her prudent measures, for the first time showed her some attention, and thenceforward she assumed her place in the court. The Duke of Guise was now put at the head of an army by Henry, and Calais was speedily captured, to the surprise and chagrin of Queen Mary of England and her husband Philip II. of Spain.

But Philip’s army was now required elsewhere. The inquisition gave him much work in Spain. His wife Mary had died, and Elizabeth had ascended the English throne. As she would not listen to his suit, he turned his eyes towards France, and as Henry II. also desired peace, that his “good gossip” might be liberated, the peace of Cateau-CambrÉsis was concluded, and Philip II. of Spain married for his third wife Elizabeth, the daughter of Henry II. and Catherine de’ Medici, then in her thirteenth year. At the marriage tournament, the queens of France, Spain, and Scotland were seated in the royal pavilion. In another, no less gorgeous, sat Diana, still fair and fascinating, though surrounded by daughters and granddaughters.

King Henry still wore Diana’s colors in the mock combats. The king then invited Montgomery to break a lance with him; Montgomery endeavored to excuse himself, but Henry insisted. It was a fatal encounter. The two combatants coming violently together, broke their lances, and that of Montgomery pierced King Henry’s eye. He was taken wounded to his palace, but the wound was mortal. In eleven days Henry II. was dead.

The young prince ascended the throne as Francis II.; but in less than a year he died, and his brother Charles was proclaimed king as Charles IX. Over Francis II., Catherine de’ Medici did not have much power, for he was absorbed in his love for his beautiful young wife, Mary, Queen of Scots. But with the ascension of Charles, then ten years old, Catherine de’ Medici as regent held in her hands the reins of government, and soon unmasked her true character.

At the close of the sixteenth century all Europe was agitated by the controversy between the Catholics and Protestants. The writings of Luther and Calvin and other reformers had aroused the Christian world. Scotland and England had established the reformed faith, and in France the Protestant Huguenots had become quite numerous. Their leaders were the Prince of CondÉ, Admiral Coligni, and the House of Navarre. They were opposed by the crown and many of the French nobles, the foremost being the powerful House of Guise.

At this time Jeanne d’Albret comes prominently to the front. This Jeanne d’Albret, now queen of Navarre, married to a husband pitiably weak and vacillating, utterly incapable of comprehending her nobility of soul, was forced to take into her own hands the reins of government. Surrounded by enemies on every side, she made no mistakes in political measures, sustained her ancestral rights, battled for the cause of Protestantism, and was at this time its most powerful protector. Catherine de’ Medici worshipped no deity but ambition. Jeanne d’Albret was ready to sacrifice her throne and her life in the support of the glorious cause of the Reformation.

Catherine espoused the cause of the Catholics because she deemed them the stronger party, but she treacherously endeavored to win to her side the young Prince Henry, the son of Jeanne d’Albret, who had been taken to Catherine’s court by his father, who was a Catholic. After the death of her husband, Antoine de Bourbon, Jeanne succeeded in bringing her son back to Navarre, where his mother watched his character carefully, endeavoring to uproot the evil tendencies which had been planted by the corruption at the court of Catherine de’ Medici.

The first of the religious wars during the reign of Charles IX. began in 1562. During this campaign the Duke of Guise, who was the chief leader in the Catholic party, was waylaid and killed by a young Protestant noble, who had been persecuted, and therefore believed he was justified in assassinating the leader of the Catholics, who was considered the most formidable foe of the reformed religion.

“France was the arena of woe upon which the Catholics and Protestants of Europe hurled themselves against each other. Catherine, breathing vengeance, headed the Catholic army. Jeanne, calm yet inflexible, was recognized as the head of the Protestant leaders.”

There were frequent skirmishes and battles. Many thousand Protestants had perished. The Catholics now waxing stronger, prepared for a decisive engagement. The two forces met upon the field of Jarnac, in 1568. In this dreadful contest the Protestants were defeated, and their brave leader, Prince of CondÉ, was slain.

But at this critical moment, the heroic courage of Jeanne d’Albret was undaunted. Presenting herself before the terror-stricken Huguenots, she personally encouraged the panic-stricken soldiers. This masterly address of a woman to the soldiers of the Reformation has something truly Napoleonic in its clear ringing cadences, and something vastly grander than Napoleon’s aim, for it was inspired by a desire to uphold and advance God’s kingdom, rather than an ambitious thirst for increased power. Whatever we may think of upholding any cause by the use of the sword, we must admire these soul-stirring words of this great and dauntless woman.

“Soldiers, you weep! But does the memory of CondÉ demand nothing more than tears? Will you be satisfied with profitless regrets? No! Let us unite and summon back our courage to defend a cause which can never perish. Does despair overpower you? Despair! that shameful failing of weak natures! Can it be known to you, noble warriors and Christian men? When I, the queen, hope still, is it for you to fear? Because CondÉ is dead, is all therefore lost? Does our cause cease to be just and holy? No! God, who placed arms in his hand for our defence, and who has already rescued you from perils innumerable, has raised us up brothers in arms worthy to succeed him, and to fight for the cause of our country and the truth!... To these brave warriors I add my son; make proof of his valor. Soldiers, I offer you everything in my power to bestow,—my dominions, my treasures, my life, and that which is dearer to me than all—my children! I make here solemn oath before you all, and you know me too well to doubt my word; I swear to defend to my last sigh the holy cause which now unites us, which is that of honor and of truth.”

Around this brave queen of Navarre the Protestants rallied their forces anew. Her son, Prince Henry, pledged himself to consecrate all his energies to the defence of the Reformation. Jeanne d’Albret presented a gold medal to each of the chiefs of the army, with her own name, together with that of her son, upon one side, while on the other were inscribed the words, “Certain peace, complete victory, or honorable death.” The heroic queen became almost an object of adoration in the enthusiastic hearts of her soldiers.

Catherine de’ Medici, noting the effect of the presence of the queen of Navarre upon the Protestant troops, also visited her army; and though she lavished presents and harangued the soldiers, none admired and all secretly despised her, even though they courted her through fear.

Again the opposing forces met upon the field of battle. The Protestants were defeated with awful carnage. Coligni, who led the soldiers of the Reformation, was severely wounded, and carried off the field as dying, having received a bullet wound in the jaw. The Catholics were jubilant, but much to their surprise, in a few weeks Coligni, whom they supposed to be dead, headed another force against them. The brave queen of Navarre had rallied a third army, and this time the tide turned in favor of the reformers. Prince Henry of Navarre himself took part in this battle, which was so greatly to the advantage of the Protestants that Catherine offered them peace, which was gladly accepted. This perfidious peace on Catherine’s side “was but the first act in the awful tragedy of St. Bartholomew.”

And now Catherine de’ Medici entered upon the second act of this bloody drama. Death and a marriage were to be her weapons in this scene. With flattering caresses she lavished attentions upon the young prince of Navarre, inviting him to her court, where she and her son Charles, whom by this time she had so corrupted in mind and morals that he was a submissive dupe in her Mephistophelian plans, concocted their criminal schemes to entrap him. About this time Charles was married to Elizabeth, daughter of the Emperor Maximilian II. of Austria; and Catherine improved the opportunity of the nuptial festivities to lure Prince Henry and Jeanne d’Albret into her power. Having secured this marriage for Charles, Catherine now declared that Henry must be her son, and offered him the hand of her daughter Marguerite. This princess was beautiful, but was as devoid of principle as her unrighteous mother.

Jeanne d’Albret was much opposed to this match, but state considerations prevailed at last to gain her consent. It was urged upon her that this marriage would protect the Protestants from persecution, and save France from further bloodshed. Thus did the malevolent but cunning Catherine lure Jeanne to her doom, and entangle Henry in the strong net of her evil designs, which should so long imprison him.

Even the Admiral Coligni was deceived by the friendly protestations of Catherine de’ Medici, and her son, Charles IX., who by this time had become almost evil enough in nature to suit the satanic desires of his atrocious mother.

Though Catherine and Charles IX. were plotting the entire destruction of the Protestants, using this marriage but as a cloak to cover their sinister plans, Charles IX. with consummate perjury declared:—

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

At this very time he and his mother had planned to lure the leaders of the Protestants to Paris as their guests for the celebration of the wedding festivities; when at the dire signal they were to be butchered in cold blood. After receiving the queen of Navarre with every manifestation of love, when the French king quite overacted his part, calling Jeanne d’Albret, “his great aunt, his all, his best beloved,” the following dialogue is said to have occurred between Catherine and Charles, after the queen of Navarre had retired.

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

“Yes,” replied Catherine, “well; but it is of no use unless it continues.”

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

And ensnare them they did truly. Hardly had the queen of Navarre entered the sumptuous apartments provided for her in the court of Catherine, ere she was seized with a violent fever which continued nine days, when she died.

Henry, her son, had not yet arrived in Paris, but was travelling there more slowly with his retinue. Catherine exhibited the most ostentatious demonstrations of grief. Charles IX. uttered the loudest lamentations, and displayed the most poignant sorrow. Notwithstanding these efforts to allay suspicions, the report spread through France and Europe that the queen of Navarre had been perfidiously poisoned by Catherine de’ Medici. The Protestant writers assert that Jeanne d’Albret fell a victim to poison, communicated by a pair of perfumed gloves. The Catholics as firmly declare that she died from natural causes. The truth cannot be ascertained.

But after events make the supposition very strong that Jeanne d’Albret was the first victim in the massacre of St. Bartholomew. Her death necessarily delayed the marriage for a short time, but at length the nuptial day arrived. The Admiral Coligni was with other prominent Protestants lured to Paris. When friends urged him to remain at home and not trust the protestations of the perfidious queen, Coligni, who was much attached to Henry, now the king of Navarre, replied:—

“I confide in the sacred word of his majesty.”

But poor Henry was as great a dupe as any, and he was completely deceived by the cunning wiles of this diabolical mother and son.

Protestants and Catholics of the highest rank, from all parts of Europe, gathered in Paris to celebrate this marriage, which was looked upon as a great stroke of policy for the furtherance of peace between the conflicting parties. But the haughty spirit of the Princess Margaret had well-nigh defeated the nefarious schemes of her unprincipled mother and brother. Piqued that Henry of Navarre should show so little admiration for his betrothed, whom he married only for state reasons, she vowed vengeance, and took a peculiar time to display her unconquerable pride. In the midst of the imposing nuptial ceremony, when the officiating bishop asked her if she willingly received Henry of Bourbon for her husband, she pouted coquettishly, threw back her proud head in defiance, and remained silent. Again the question was repeated; but not all the powers of Europe could break her will. Her brother, Charles IX., knowing well his sister’s obstinacy, relieved this embarrassing situation by coolly walking up behind the haughty beauty, and placing his hand upon the back of her head, compelled an involuntary nod. The confused bishop quickly took the hint, and smilingly proceeded with the ceremony. And thus this fatal marriage was completed.

The Pope, not aware of the treachery which had been planned, was aghast at such friendly relations between the Catholics and the hated Protestants, and he sent a legate to remonstrate with the French king. As the moment had not arrived to reveal the hellish plot, Charles replied: “I do wish 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 to praise my designs, my piety, and my zeal in behalf of the faith.”

Thus did Catherine de’ Medici and Charles dare to mask their infernal schemes under the sacred name of religion. But the end was not yet. Admiral Coligni was the next victim. As he was passing through the streets of Paris, a musket was discharged from the window of a house, and two balls struck Coligni, one entering his left arm and the other cutting off a finger of his right hand. The assassin escaped. The wounded admiral was conveyed to his apartments, and Henry of Navarre and his Protestant friends gathered around the suffering Coligni. Again Catherine and Charles declared their utter abhorrence of the deed, and were even blasphemous in their noisy protestations of sorrow.

Meanwhile this guilty pair thus consulted together. Some circumstances seem to indicate that Charles was not a party to the attempt on the life of the admiral; but Catherine is said to have thus moved him to enter into her brutal plots:—

“Notwithstanding all your protestations, the deed will certainly be laid to your charge. Civil war will be again enkindled. The chiefs of the Protestants are now all in Paris. You had better gain the victory at once here than incur the hazard of a new campaign.”

“Well, then,” replied Charles, petulantly, “since you approve the murder of the admiral, I am content. But let all the Huguenots also fall, that there may not be one left to reproach me.”

While the young king of Navarre was by the bedside of his wounded friend, the Admiral Coligni, recounting to him the assurances of faith and honor given by Catherine and Charles IX., these two were in secret council, debating whether this Henry, the newly-made husband of the daughter of one and the sister of the other, should be included in the dreadful doom appointed for the Protestants. It was at length decided that his life should be spared, but that he should be kept in a kind of imprisonment, and that he should be forced to abjure his Protestant faith.

The young Duke of Guise was to take the lead of this terrible carnage. As he believed that Coligni was a party to the murder of his father, some years before, he determined that he should be the first victim of this awful 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,” that they might be thus distinguished in the darkness of the night. The alarm-bell in the tower of the Palace of Justice was to toll the dire signal for the indiscriminate massacre of the Protestants. The conspiracy extended throughout the provinces of France. Men, women, and children were to be cut down without mercy.

“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 peal 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 every detail of this monstrous crime, they lavished the warmest and most flattering attention upon the Protestant generals and nobles, whom they had lured within their insidious power. The very day before that dreadful night Charles entertained many of the most illustrious of the doomed guests at a sumptuous feast in the Louvre, and detained them in the palace all night by the most courteous and pressing invitations to accept his hospitality.

Henry of Navarre had his suspicions aroused; but though he was well aware of the utter depravity of Catherine and Charles, he knew not where the blow would fall. The young bride of Henry had not been informed of this vile plot, and when about to retire to her apartments in the palace, her sister Claude, who knew of the coming danger, tried to detain her lest she might suffer harm. Catherine sternly rebuked her daughter, and bade her be silent. But Claude still held Margaret by the arm, and said to Catherine, “It is a shame to send her to be sacrificed, for if anything is discovered, they (meaning the Catholics) will be sure to avenge themselves upon her.” But the fiend-like Catherine, preferring that her own child should risk danger and perhaps death, rather than that her hellish work should be thwarted, replied:—

“No harm will befall the queen of Navarre, and it is my pleasure that she retire to her own apartments, lest her absence should create suspicion.” Henry, Prince of Joinville, who now held the title of the Duke of Guise, was to be the chief leader of this infernal massacre.

He had ordered the tocsin, the signal for the massacre, to be tolled at two o’clock in the morning. Meanwhile Catherine and Charles watched in one of the apartments of the Louvre for the fatal knell. Charles was wildly excited. And at last, his mother fearing that his determination to carry out this night’s hellish work was wavering, she urged him to send a servant at once to sound the alarm. Charles hesitated, and a cold sweat covered his forehead. For with all his depravity he had still remaining a slight spark of humanity; but the fiend incarnate, his shameful mother, tauntingly exclaimed: “Are you a coward?” Whereupon the tortured king cried, “Well, then begin.”

And so upon the early morning air of a calm Sabbath, Aug. 24, 1572, the direful tocsin pealed forth its death-doom; and at this signal armed men rushed forth into the streets shouting, “Vive Dieu et le roi!”

The awful carnage which followed is known in history as the Massacre of St. Bartholomew, because it occurred upon the anniversary of a festival in honor of St. Bartholomew, which had long been celebrated.

As the solemn dirge from the steeple rang out upon the air, the king stood at the window of the palace trembling in every limb, but the demoniacal Catherine was aroused to a frenzy of delight. The first victim was the wounded Coligni. The Duke of Guise with three hundred soldiers hastened to the lodgings of the admiral, and the gates were forced and the assassins entered the sick man’s chamber. Helpless, and abandoned by his frightened servants, he was brutally butchered, and his bleeding body was thrown out of the window at the command of the Duke of Guise, who desired to look upon his dead enemy. Giving the mangled corpse a kick in the face, the duke exclaimed: “Courage, comrades, we have happily begun. Let us now go for others. The king commands it.”

Sixteen years from that time the Duke of Guise was himself assassinated, and received a kick in the face from Henry III., the brother of Charles IX., in whose service he was performing these diabolical deeds.

The streets everywhere resounded with the cries of “Kill! kill!”

At the commencement of the carnage, the queen of Navarre was awakened by a cry at her door: “Navarre! Navarre!” Supposing it was her husband, she ordered her attendants to open the door, whereupon a bleeding Huguenot rushed to her bedside and clasped the queen’s arm, begging for his life. He was followed by Catholic soldiers; but at the entreaty of the princess his life was spared. Words are weak to describe the horrors of that direful night. Gory bodies were suspended from the windows; the dead were piled in heaps in the streets; the pavements were slippery with the streaming blood; human heads were kicked as footballs along the boulevards, by the bestial fiends who had become frenzied with the sight of blood. And in the midst of this awful scene of terror, priests paraded in their sacerdotal robes, bearing aloft the crucifixes, and shouting their blasphemous hymns of rejoicing, and inciting the demoniacal murderers to fresh deeds of hellish hate. Catholic nobles and generals rode through the streets with gorgeous retinues, and called upon the people to wreak their vengeance upon the helpless Protestants. For a whole week the massacre continued, and it is estimated that one hundred thousand Protestants perished throughout the kingdom.

When the morning was well advanced, Catherine, Charles, and a profligate band of lords and ladies walked through the reeking streets, and gazed with calmness and satisfaction upon the heaps of dead piled up before the Louvre; and they even indulged in ribald jest and merriment.

The Catholic pulpits resounded with exultant harangues after this hellish work was ended, and in honor of the event a medallion was struck off, with the inscription, “La PiÉtÉ a reveillÉ la Justice.”

From every part of Protestant Europe arose a cry of horror. Queen Elizabeth shrouded her court in mourning, and refused to give audience to the French ambassador, who exclaimed in mortification and chagrin, “I am ashamed to acknowledge myself a Frenchman.”

But Philip of Spain, the “Demon of the South,” wrote to the infamous Catherine de’ Medici:—

“These tidings are the greatest and the most glorious I could have received.”

Amid all the fiend-like deeds of men on earth, the awful Massacre of St. Bartholomew stands without a parallel.

The massacre of the priests of France during the dreadful tragedy of the Revolution was human retaliation. In the mysterious providence of God, the “iniquities of the fathers are visited upon the children.” “The 24th of August, 1572, and the 2d of September, 1792, though far apart in the records of time, are consecutive days in the government of God.”

Upon the morning of St. Bartholomew’s day a band of armed men entered the apartments of the king of Navarre, and conveyed him to the presence of the king of France. Frenzied with the scenes of blood he had already witnessed, Charles with curses and blasphemous imprecations commanded the king of Navarre, as he valued his life, to abjure the Protestant faith. Charles gave him three days to consider the question, and declared that at the end of that time if he did not obey he should be strangled. Henry yielded, and this blot upon his name was only removed when, in 1598, as Henry IV. of France, he issued his famous Edict of Nantes, which granted the Protestants full liberty of conscience.

Two years after the Massacre of St. Bartholomew, Charles IX. lay upon his death-bed. Not one hour of peace had he known since that fatal event. His nights had been filled with spectres of blood and murder, his troubled sleep had been haunted with visions of horror. His old nurse, though a Huguenot, had been saved by the king’s order, and she now watched with him in these last moments. One night, hearing the king moaning, weeping, and sighing, she went gently up to his bed and drew aside the curtains. “Ah, nurse, nurse,” cried the king, “what bloodshed and what murders! Ah, what evil counsel have I followed! O, my God! forgive me them, and have mercy upon me! What shall I do? I am lost; I see it well!” And with this hopeless wail of remorse, Charles IX. expired.

But no emotions of regret or sorrow moved the stony heart of Catherine de’ Medici. Having debased this son to her foul designs, she now spurned him in contempt for his exhibitions of remorse. When her third and favorite son, Henry, departed for Poland, of which kingdom he had been elected king, she said to him: “Go, you will not be long away.” For even before Charles was dead she was looking forward with satisfaction to that probable event, as a means of giving the throne of France to her favorite child. But when, in 1574, Henry ascended the French throne as Henry III., Catherine’s power was already weakened, and she found that her son would not be a pliant tool in her wicked hands. Not that he was aught but worthless and vicious, but their evil plans no longer harmonized. Their government for fifteen years served only to make them lose their reputation for ability. The tact of this utterly corrupted woman, and the weakness of this irresolute prince, were feeble instruments in taming the Catholics and Protestants who were now both rising in rebellion around them.

The Catholics formed a League under the brave but infamous Duke of Guise.

There were now three Henrys. Henry III., king of France, Henry, king of Navarre, and Henry, duke of Guise. The war which followed between those parties is called the War of the Three Henrys.

We cannot give details, but during these contests, which became religious wars, Henry of Guise was assassinated and the corpse was kicked in the face by Henry III., who afterwards repaired to the sick-bed of Catherine de’ Medici, and exclaimed:—

“I have made myself this morning king of France by putting to death the king of Paris,” which was the title given to the Duke of Guise.

“Take care,” replied his heartless mother, “that you do not soon find yourself king of nothing!”

And king of nothing he soon was, though Catherine de’ Medici did not live to see his downfall. In twelve days after she had thus heard, without the slightest emotion, of the assassination of the duke who had been her most zealous worker in the infamous Massacre of St. Bartholomew, this iniquitous queen,—the personification of every vice, who had lured all around her to destruction, who had been always accompanied by bands of the most profligate but beautiful women, known as her infamous Flying Squadron, who by their fascinating wiles should secure the victims her own cunning could not reach; this woman,—without a single redeeming virtue, despised by the Catholics, and hated by the Protestants, and execrated by the world,—this fiendish spirit was at length the prey of the grim conqueror, Death.

Seven months after the death of Catherine de’ Medici, Henry III. was assassinated by a monk, and Henry of Navarre was proclaimed king of France as Henry IV. Thus had all Catherine de’ Medici’s vile scheming come to naught. She and her sons died with the curses of the nation on their heads, while the son of the illustrious and faithful Huguenot, Jeanne d’Albret, sat upon the throne of France.