CHAPTER III

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Reign of Francis I.—Semblançai—The Chancellor Duprat—The Chancellor Poyet—Admiral de Chabot—Fall of Poyet—Reign of Henry II.—Anne du Bourg—Louis du Faur—Reign of Francis II.—Execution of du Bourg—Francis de Vendôme—Reign of Charles IX.—The Duke of Lunebourg—Henry of Navarre and the Prince of Condé in danger of the Bastile—Faction of the Politicians—La Mole—Coconas—Marshal de Montmorenci—Marshal de Cossé—Reign of Henry III.—Bussi d’Amboise.

During the reigns of Charles the eighth and Louis the twelfth, a period of more than thirty years, no prisoners of note appear to have been incarcerated in the Bastile. In the reign of Francis the first, we again find it receiving persons of rank within its gloomy walls. The first who was consigned to it by Francis was James de Beaune, baron of Semblançai. He was the eldest son of John de Beaune, a citizen of Tours, who acquired a large fortune by commerce, and who, after having withdrawn from mercantile pursuits, held the office of steward to Louis the eleventh and to Charles the eighth. Semblançai entered early into the royal service, and, in the reign of Charles the eighth, rose to the high situation of superintendant of the finances, and retained it under Louis the twelfth and Francis the first. It was to his talents he was indebted for preferment; and his conduct, in the difficult and dangerous post which he occupied, justified his elevation, and gained for him the confidence of the three monarchs. Francis was even accustomed to address him with the flattering appellation of father. Keeping aloof from all court intrigues, he displayed, in his official character, an exemplary regularity, economy, and probity; and he crowned the whole by a virtue which is still more rare in a finance minister—that of endeavouring to alleviate the burthens of the people, and prevent them from being despoiled by unprincipled nobles.

The man who acted thus was not likely to be without enemies; all the greedy, who were disappointed of thrusting their hands into the public purse, and all the wasteful and corrupt, to whom his example was a stinging rebuke, would of course abhor him. But Semblançai might have set their malice at defiance, had they not found an invincible ally in a female, whose venomous hatred was rendered fatal to him by her unbounded influence.

This powerful female was Louisa of Savoy, duchess of Angoulême, the mother of Francis the First. She was beautiful in person, a doating mother, and endowed with many intellectual qualities of a superior class; but she was immeasurably ambitious, vindictive, and rapacious. Such was her avidity for riches, and such her success in gratifying it, that, at the time of her death, her coffers contained no less than a million and a half of golden crowns—an enormous, not to say disgraceful hoard, especially when we consider what was the value of the sum at that period. In two instances, her criminal passions were the cause of shame and misfortune to France. Of the first of these we are about to speak; the second was her persecution of the Constable de Bourbon—a base and disastrous measure, which was prompted either by resentment for his rejection of her love, or by her eagerness to seize upon his ample domains, or, perhaps, by a combination of both these unworthy motives.

The regard which was manifested for Semblançai by Francis was, at one period, equally felt by the duchess of Angoulême. There exists, under her hand, the strongest testimony to the rectitude of the superintendant, and of the generous sacrifices which he made, to provide for the wants of the state. It was not till the necessity of vindicating his own character compelled him to criminate her, that she became his enemy.

Jealous of the influence possessed by the countess of Chateaubriant, the mistress of Francis, whose brother, Lautrec, was then governor of the Milanese and commander of the French army in that province, the duchess appears to have formed the plan of aiming a deadly blow at the sister through the side of the brother. If, by disabling him from defending the Milanese, she could bring Lautrec into disgrace, it was not improbable that the disgusted and indignant monarch, who set a high value on his Italian conquest, would extend his anger to the countess. The means which she adopted for bringing her scheme to bear, had also an additional and not trivial merit in her eyes; that of contributing to swell the mass of treasure which she had already accumulated.

In the first part of her project, she completely succeeded. Deprived of the pecuniary resources which he had expected from France, and which were the more needful, as the harshness of his government had rendered him unpopular in Italy, Lautrec was defeated at the battle of the Bicocco, was deserted by his Swiss auxiliaries, and at length was driven from the duchy of Milan.

The disgrace thus cast upon the French arms, and that, too, in a country which he in person had won, could not fail to exasperate a young and warlike sovereign. When Lautrec returned to his native land, the king refused to admit him to his presence; but at last, through the intercession of his sister, and of the Constable de Bourbon, the vanquished general obtained an audience. He was received with a frowning countenance; and he boldly complained of his reception. “Is it possible for me,” said Francis, sternly, “to look favourably on a man who is guilty of having lost my duchy of Milan?”

Nowise daunted by this rebuff, Lautrec firmly replied, “I will dare to assert, that your majesty is the sole cause of that loss. For eighteen months your gendarmes had not a single farthing of pay. The Swiss, with whose disposition as to money you are well acquainted, were also left unpaid. It was solely by my management that they were retained for several months with my army. There would have been no reason for wonder had they quitted it without drawing their swords; their respect for me induced them, however, not to desert me till after a sanguinary combat. They compelled me to give battle, though I foresaw clearly that there was no hope of victory; but, in my circumstances, prudence dictated to risk every thing, however little chance there might appear that our efforts would be successful. The whole of my crime amounts to this.”

The astonishment of Francis was excited by this speech of Lautrec. “What!” exclaimed he, “did you not receive the four hundred thousand crowns, which I ordered to be sent to you soon after your arrival at Milan?” “No, Sire,” answered Lautrec; “your majesty’s letters came to hand, but no money was forwarded to me; nor did it ever pass the Alps.”

Semblançai was immediately summoned into his presence by Francis, to account for such an extraordinary violation of his duty. In his defence, the superintendant stated, that the duchess, vested with authority as regent, had demanded from him the four hundred thousand crowns, and that he held her receipt for the sum.

Irritated by this unexpected discovery, Francis hastened to his mother’s apartment, and reproached her for conduct which had cost him a part of his dominions. The duchess is said to have begun her reply by a denial of the fact. She was, however, ultimately compelled to own that she had indeed obtained four hundred thousand crowns from Semblançai; but she artfully pretended, that she had previously confided the money to his care, and that it was the produce of savings from her income. Semblançai, on the contrary, strenuously protested that she had never entrusted any thing to his keeping, and that, when she drew from him the funds in question, he had told her that they were set apart by the king for the service of the forces in Italy.

Francis was no doubt convinced of her guilt, but he could not bear the idea of openly stigmatizing a mother whom he loved. There was consequently nothing to be done but to bury, as far as was possible, the whole transaction in oblivion. Abruptly putting an end to the altercation between the duchess and the superintendant, he said, “Let us think no more on the subject! we did not deserve to conquer; it was in vain that fortune declared on our side; we threw insuperable obstacles in the way of her favour. Let us cease to be traitors to each other, and let us henceforth endeavour to act for the public good, with more wisdom and union than we have hitherto displayed.”

That Semblançai continued to hold his place is a sufficient proof that his assertion was credited by the king. That the revengeful duchess was eager to ruin him, we might easily have believed, even had the result not afforded evidence of the fact. For a considerable time, however, she silently nursed her wrath. It was not till 1524, when a new expedition was in preparation against the Milanese, that she found an opportunity of striking her blow. Money was wanted; and Semblançai, who had come forward on former occasions, was desired to make an advance from his private fortune. But this he declined to do; pleading, as a reason for his refusal, that a debt of three hundred thousand crowns was already owing to him. He was punished by dismissal from his office—if that can be called a punishment for which he appears to have sought—and, after having given in his accounts, and shown that they were correct, he retired to his estate of Balan, in the neighbourhood of Tours.

On the departure of Francis for Italy, he again appointed his mother to act as regent. She had now unlimited power; and, as far as concerned Semblançai, she exercised it cruelly and basely. She began by instituting against him a suit, to recover a balance which she alleged to be due to her, as part of the pretended deposit. To bolster up her cause, she is accused of having stooped to the most degrading means. Gentil, the confidential clerk of Semblançai, was enamoured of one of her attendants; and this female the regent employed to steal, or obtain by blandishments, the receipt which had been given to the superintendant.

This suit was probably meant to answer the double purpose of narrowing his resources and injuring his character. But this mode of proceeding was “too poor, too weak, for her revenge,” and she soon adopted another, which struck directly at his life. His secretary, John Prévost, who seems himself to have had reason for dreading an inquiry into his official conduct, was tampered with, to cause the ruin of his master. Impunity for his own misdoings was to be the price of his new crime. A charge of peculation was brought against Semblançai, and, towards the close of 1526, he was committed to the Bastile. To render his fate certain, the office of sitting in judgment upon him was entrusted to the Chancellor Duprat, who had been his rival, was still his deadliest foe, and was, besides, a devoted tool of the queen mother. As his colleagues, or rather accomplices, Duprat selected, from the various parliaments, men on whose subserviency he could rely. From a tribunal thus infamously constituted, not even a semblance of justice could be expected. On the 9th of August, 1527, Semblançai, who was then in his sixty-second year, was condemned to be hanged; and this sentence was, shortly after, executed on him, at the gibbet of Montfaucon.

The popular feeling, with respect to Semblançai, may be considered as at least a strong presumptive proof of his innocence. It is not often that the fall of a finance minister is a subject of sorrow to the multitude. In his case we find one of the few exceptions; for the people beheld his melancholy fate with grief, surprise, and indignation, and they long looked with an evil eye on the malignant princess by whom he was judicially murdered.

There is an apparent but not a real discrepancy in the accounts of the behaviour of Semblançai, when his doom was sealed. From the language of Du Bouchet, who represents him as weeping bitterly, and cherishing hopes of pardon till the last moment, a hasty conclusion might be drawn, that the courage of the victim deserted him. But wounded honour and a keen sense of the ingratitude with which a life of services was repaid, might well wring tears from his eyes, though his mind remained unmoved by the fear of death. That his firmness was, in fact, not to be shaken, we have the unexceptionable testimony of Marot, who probably witnessed the calm deportment of Semblançai when going to the scaffold. In his lines, which bear the title of “Du Lieutenant Criminel et de Semblançai,” the poet thus forcibly expresses himself—

“When Maillard, hellish judge, led Semblançai On gallows tree to pass from life away, Say which of them most undisturbed was seen?” “I’ll tell you, friend: so blank was Maillard’s mien, He looked as though he saw the direful dart Of death hang o’er him; but so brave a heart Semblançai showed, you would have sworn that he Was leading Maillard to the gallows tree.”

We have seen, that the chancellor, Duprat, was the instrument which Louisa of Savoy employed to accomplish the destruction of Semblançai. At an earlier period, he had served her as effectually in a similar case. Her suit against the constable de Bourbon, to strip him of his vast estates, is said to have been suggested by Duprat, and was certainly brought to a favourable issue by the exercise of his influence over the judges. His hatred of the constable was caused, or sharpened, by Bourbon having refused to comply with a request relative to the grant of an estate in Auvergne. Detested by all France, for the fiscal oppressions of which he was the author, and for his having betrayed the liberties of the Gallican church, the chancellor nevertheless retained his power to the last, and died loaded with titles and riches.

Another tool of the duchess of Angoulême, who closely imitated the conduct of Duprat, was not equally fortunate. William Poyet, a native of Angers, born about 1474, had acquired a high reputation at the bar before he was chosen the queen-mother’s advocate against the constable de Bourbon. The manner in which he performed his new task ensured his promotion. He became successively advocate-general, and president à mortier, and was employed in various negotiations; and, at length, in 1538, his ambition was gratified by his appointment to the high office of chancellor. If servility to the monarch, and an utter disregard of the rights and happiness of the people, are qualifications for that office, his fitness cannot be denied. He was undoubtedly worthy of succeeding to Duprat.

The profligate readiness with which Poyet encouraged Francis the first to load his subjects with heavy taxes, drew upon him a severe reproof from Duchatel, the virtuous and benevolent bishop of Orleans. Hearing the chancellor tell the king that his majesty was the master of all that his subjects possessed, the bishop indignantly exclaimed, “Carry such tyrannical maxims to the Caligulas and Neros, and, if you have no respect for yourself, at least respect a monarch who is the friend of humanity, and who knows that to hold its rights sacred is the first of his duties.” This speech did honour to the prelate, but there is no ground for believing that it produced any good effect upon either the sovereign or the minister.

It was by female influence that Poyet was raised to his lofty station; it was by the same influence that he was precipitated from it. Two parties existed at court, those of the dauphin and the duke of Alençon, the heads of which were the constable de Montmorenci and the admiral de Chabot. Besides the hatred which he felt against Chabot as a political rival, the haughty Montmorenci found, in the unceremonious tone of equality with which he was addressed by the admiral, another reason for hating him. To ruin an enemy by underhand measures was the natural proceeding of a courtier. He insinuated to the king that Chabot had acquired his riches by iniquitous practices; and, by holding out the lure of a cardinal’s hat, he induced Poyet to assist in Chabot’s destruction. The chancellor exerted himself so strenuously, in raking up matter of accusation against the intended victim, that he at length produced five-and-twenty charges, each of which, he declared, would subject the delinquent to capital punishment. The alleged criminality of Chabot was soon made known to the king.

It is probable, nevertheless, that remembering the services of Chabot, and the friendship which had existed ever since their youthful days, Francis would have overlooked the supposed crimes, had he not been provoked by a speech which sounded like defiance. Some trifling dispute occurring between them, he threatened to bring him to trial; to which Chabot boldly replied, that a trial had no terrors for him, his conduct having always been so irreproachable, that neither his life nor his honour could be put in danger. Francis was weak enough to take offence at this implied challenge; he committed the offender to the castle of Melun, and directed the chancellor to prosecute him.

Poyet rushed upon his prey with the ferocity of a hungry tiger. He began by selecting the commissioners who were to sit in judgment on Chabot; and, to ensure their obedience, he himself, contrary to established custom, presided over them. Yet, with such instruments, and in spite of all his unprincipled efforts to spur them on, he was not able fully to accomplish his purpose. So groundless were the articles of impeachment, there being only two of them which at all, and those but slightly, affected the prisoner, that, instead of voting for death, the judges were disposed either to acquit him, or, at most, to pass a lenient sentence. By dint, however, of threats, the chancellor compelled them to go far beyond their intention; they consequently condemned Chabot to a fine of fifteen thousand livres, confiscation of property, and perpetual exile. One of them is said to have added to his signature the Latin word _vi_, in almost imperceptible characters; thus signifying that force had been used to extort his consent. Not content with the daring contempt of justice which he had already displayed, Poyet, in drawing up the judgment of the court, did not hesitate to falsify it, by inserting additional crimes, and aggravating the penalty.

Though Francis was irritated by the honourable boldness of Chabot, he had never intended to carry matters to extremity against him. He could not now avoid being astonished that the charges had dwindled into such utter insignificance, and that, nevertheless, a sentence of such undue severity was pronounced; and he appears to have been also warmly solicited in his behalf by a prevailing advocate, the duchess of Etampes, the royal mistress, who was a relation of Chabot. Yet though the king designed to receive the admiral again into favour, he could not deny himself the mean gratification of taunting him. “Well,” said he to him, “will you again boast of your innocence?” “Sire,” replied Chabot, “I have but too well learned, that before God and his sovereign no man must call himself innocent; but I have one consolation, that all the malice of my enemies has failed to convict me of having ever been unfaithful to your majesty.” Chabot was pardoned, and reinstated in his offices. This tardy justice came too late; though his enemies had been unable to drag him to the scaffold, they had succeeded in shortening his days. In little more than twelve months, his existence was terminated by a disease, seemingly of the heart, which was brought on by the grief and anxiety that he had suffered.

Chabot, however, lived long enough to witness the downfall of his adversaries. To Montmorenci the king intimated, that he had no longer occasion for his services; and the dismissed courtier in consequence retired to Chantilly, whence he did not emerge during the remainder of Francis’s reign. A heavier misfortune awaited Poyet, and it speedily fell upon him. Two females, the duchess of Etampes and the queen of Navarre, were the foes who overthrew him. The duchess, who was already offended by his persecution of her relative, he exasperated beyond measure, by refusing to perform an illegal act in favour of one of her friends; the queen of Navarre he alienated in a similar manner; and he rendered both of them more inveterate, by some bitter remarks on the influence which females possessed over the mind of the sovereign. They combined together for his ruin, and they effected it. In August, 1542, he was dragged from his bed, and carried to the Bastile. Thus, after having been allowed to be unjust with impunity, he was punished for recollecting at last that he had duties to perform. In this emergency, he had the mingled audacity and meanness to write to Chabot, imploring his forgiveness and protection. After having been three years in prison, he was declared incapable of ever holding office, and was sentenced to five years’ imprisonment, and to pay a fine of a hundred thousand livres. The king himself, with a strange want of decorum, came forward as a witness against him on the trial. Poyet died in 1548, an object of general contempt.

The captives, to whom our attention is now to be directed, were of a very different character from the chancellor Poyet; they were sufferers for conscience’ sake; men who, when the question related to religious interests, deemed it a duty not to submit in silence to arbitrary power. Their names were Anne du Bourg, and Louis du Faur, and they were counsellors of the parliament at Paris. The uncle of du Bourg was chancellor in the reign of Francis I. Du Faur was of a family which had produced many eminent characters, among whom is to be numbered Guy du Faur, lord of Pibrac, author of the well-known Quatrains.

Pressed, it is said, by the Guises, and by the duchess of Valentinois, his mistress, the latter of whom was looking forward to the benefit she might expect from confiscations, Henry the second unwisely resolved to carry to the full extent the persecution of the protestants. Hitherto, only the humbler classes had been marked out for punishment; but, as nothing more than the mere pleasure of tormenting could be derived from pursuing them, it was now determined that men of higher rank should suffer in their turn. This was at least impartial injustice. It was believed that the reformed doctrines had many partisans among the magistracy; and the members of the parliament of Paris were therefore selected, as the subjects upon whom the new experiment of rigour should be first tried. This step was taken at the suggestion of le Maître, the chief president, who had the baseness to deliver privately to the king a list of his protestant colleagues, and also a tempting statement of the property which they possessed.

It was a custom of the heads of the parliament to meet at stated periods, for the purpose, among other things, of inquiring into any alleged neglect or violation of duty on the part of the members. These meetings, which were established by an edict of Charles VIII., were called the Mercuriales, from the circumstance of their taking place on a Wednesday. To one of these assemblies, while it was in the midst of a debate, on the measures which ought to be adopted with respect to heretics, the king suddenly came, without any previous notice, accompanied by the Guises, and other rigidly catholic nobles, and guarded by a formidable escort.

Previously to his arrival, the balance of opinion had inclined to the side of a lenient administration of the law, until the discipline of the church had been reformed by a new œcumenical council. Though the monarch affected to be calm, it was easy to perceive that he was under the influence of passion. He made a vehement harangue, in which he dwelt on the disturbances caused by sectaries, and on the necessity of defending the church, and then ordered the members to resume the debate, and promised them freedom of speech.

The promise was meant only as a snare. The manner in which the king had come to the sitting, in open contempt of usage and even of decorum, plainly showed that his intention was to intimidate. But, by pretending to guarantee the privilege of freely speaking, he hoped to do away the impression which his abrupt coming had made, and delude the speakers into a disclosure of their real sentiments. There were some, perhaps, who confided in his word; there were others who, doubtless, were aware that no reliance was to be placed on it, but who, nevertheless, thought they were called upon to maintain, at all hazards, what they deemed to be the cause of religion and truth. Of the latter class were Anne du Bourg and Louis du Faur.

Du Faur admitted that troubles arose in the state from the difference of religions, but he contended that it ought to be inquired who was really the author of those troubles; and, with a manifest allusion to the king, he added, that if this were done, the same reply might perhaps be made as was given, on a similar occasion, by the prophet Elijah to Ahab, “I have not troubled Israel, but thou and thy father’s house, in that ye have, forsaken, the commandments of the Lord, and thou hast followed Baalim.”

The speech of du Bourg, though it seemed to be less directly personal to the monarch, was as well calculated as that of du Faur to excite angry feelings in Henry and in many of the hearers, on whose vices it made a rude attack. There were men, he said, whose blasphemies, adulteries, horrible debaucheries, and repeated perjuries, crimes worthy of the worst death, were not merely overlooked, but shamefully encouraged, while every day new punishments were invented for men who were irreproachable. “For of what crime can they be accused?” exclaimed he. “Can they be charged with high treason, they who never mention the sovereign but in the prayers which they offer up for him? Who can say that they violate the laws of the state, endeavour to shake the fidelity of the towns, or incite the provinces to revolt? With all the pains that have been taken, not even with witnesses picked out for the purpose, has it been possible to convict them of having so much as thought of these things. No! All their fault and misfortune is that, by means of the light of the Holy Scriptures, they have discovered and revealed the shameless turpitude of the Papal power, and have demanded a salutary reformation. This is their sedition.”

When all the members had delivered their opinions, some of which were favourable to mild measures, the king called for the register, in which were inscribed the opinions of those who had spoken before his arrival, and also on a previous day. He then addressed to the assembly another speech of censure and menace, and ended by ordering the arrest of du Bourg and du Faur, who were present, and likewise of six absent members. The two former were conveyed to the Bastile, where du Bourg, and probably du Faur also, was shut up in a cage. Three of the others escaped; the rest were sent to other places of confinement.

This arbitrary act was the last which Henry had the power of committing. On that day fortnight, at a tournament, he was mortally wounded by a splinter from the lance of the count de Montgomery. The scene of the tournament was near the Bastile; and it is said that as the wounded monarch was carried past the prison, his conscience smote him, and he more than once expressed his fears that he had behaved unjustly to men who were innocent. The cardinal of Lorraine, who was with him, is also said to have assured him, that such an idea could have been inspired only by the arch fiend, and admonished him to reject it, and adhere firmly to his faith. This story, however, has no other foundation than popular report.

The reign of Francis II. opened under no favourable auspices for the protestants. The minor king was wholly under the influence of the Guises, and of his mother Catherine of Medicis, all of whom had vowed a deadly hostility to them. The persecution was accordingly resumed with an increase of vigour. The trial of the members of the parliament was pushed on; but it was against du Bourg that the hatred of the court was peculiarly directed—the sweeping crimination, which was contained in his speech before the deceased Henry, had wounded many great personages too deeply to be forgiven.

Before the death of Henry, a commission had been appointed, which had interrogated du Bourg on the subject of his religious tenets. He having candidly avowed them, they were pronounced heretical by the bishop of Paris, and he was delivered over to the secular authority. Du Bourg appealed to the archbishop of Sens, and to the parliament, but without effect. The trial was proceeded with, and, while it was pending, an event occurred, which contributed to render his enemies still more inveterate. One of his judges was a counsellor named Minard, a man of profligate life, who had given violent advice to the late king. Du Bourg, therefore, repeatedly challenged him as incompetent to sit upon the trial, and, on Minard refusing to withdraw, the prisoner is said to have exclaimed, “God will know how to compel thee!” It unfortunately happened that, returning one evening to his home from the trial, Minard was assassinated, by a pistol being fired at him. Du Bourg was suspected, and not without an appearance of reason, of being implicated in the murder, and this hastened his fate. There is no ground whatever to believe that he was concerned in the foul deed; but it must be owned, that such prophecies as he ventured upon are dangerous, because they have a tendency to bring about their own fulfilment. It is not improbable, that the act was suggested to the mind of some fanatical protestant by the words of the prisoner.

It was in vain that the Elector Palatine wrote to the French monarch, to entreat him to spare the life of du Bourg, and that numerous eminent persons, even catholics, solicited to the same effect. Neither their intercession, nor his acknowledged integrity and pure morals, availed to save him. He was condemned to be hanged and his body burnt, at the Place de Grêve. He died, at the age of thirty-eight, with a calm heroism, and Christian spirit of forgiveness, which excited general admiration. His death, far from being beneficial to the catholic cause, was exceedingly injurious to it. The protestants regarded him as a martyr, gloried in him as an honour to their party and faith, and were not slow in taking a heavy vengeance for his untimely doom.

The blood of du Bourg seems to have deadened the fire of persecution, as far as related to the other parliamentary prisoners. Some were subjected to little more than nominal punishments; and even du Faur, the most obnoxious of them, was only condemned to pay a fine, ask pardon, and be suspended from his judicial functions for five years. But, comparatively light as this sentence was, du Faur refused to acquiesce in it; he boldly protested against it, and after a hard struggle, he was fortunate enough to obtain its revocation, and to be re-established in his magisterial capacity. Nor does it appear that this victory was purchased by any sacrifice of principle.

Among those who, during the new crusade against protestants, had to lament the loss of liberty, was Francis de Vendôme, Vidame of Chartres, allied to the princes of the blood and the potent house of Montmorenci. Vendôme had served in Italy, as a volunteer, under the duke of Aumale, and, subsequently, held a command there, under the duke of Guise; after which he was appointed governor of Calais. Closely connected with the house of Montmorenci, he was irritated beyond measure by the dismissal of the constable, and cherished a deadly animosity against the Guises, who were the authors of that measure. It is not wonderful that, under the influence of these feelings, he should make common cause with the prince of Condé and the king of Navarre, who were preparing for resistance to the court. Vendôme took an active part in rousing the protestants to arms in various parts of the kingdom. But some of his letters, to the prince of Condé, having been found upon la Sague, an emissary of the protestant party, he was arrested and sent to the Bastile. There he was treated with extreme rigour, and was refused permission to see his wife, though she offered to become a prisoner with him. The letters were in appearance merely complimentary, but the dread of the torture induced la Sague to disclose that important secrets were written, with sympathetic ink, on the cover that contained them. The death of Francis II. and the pretended reconcilement of the hostile parties on the accession of Charles IX., would have saved Vendôme from the scaffold, but he did not live to recover his freedom. Worn out by a life of dissipation, he died, in his thirty-eighth year, at the Tournelles, to which prison he had been removed from the Bastile.

The decease of Vendôme took place in 1560, and, for several years, with the exception of a duke of Lunebourg, who was imprisoned for a quarrel with the duke of Guise, no prisoner, at least none whose fate history has thought worthy of recording, appears to have found an abode within the walls of the Bastile. After the horrible massacre of St. Bartholomew, there was a moment when the fortress seemed about to receive a princely captive. The king of Navarre (afterwards Henry IV.) had yielded to the threats of the royal murderer, and had changed his religion; but the Prince of Condé was made of sterner stuff. He resisted so firmly all attempts to induce him to apostatize, that Charles IX. ordered him to be brought before him, and, in a furious tone, addressed to him three ominous words; “The mass, death, or the Bastile.” Condé held out a little longer, but he yielded when he found that du Rosier, a famous protestant minister, had been converted to the Catholic faith.

It was not till towards the close of the reign of Charles IX. that the Bastile was again tenanted. That monarch was then sinking rapidly into the grave, under the pressure of bodily disease, and the perpetual stings of his conscience. Haunted by appalling dreams, and by direful spectres and dismal sounds, which his fancy incessantly conjured up, he had fallen into a state which scarcely the remembrance of his crimes can prevent us from pitying. It was at this period that the party was formed which adopted the appellations of Politicians and Malecontents. The first of these names was chosen to show that the persons assuming it were not actuated, like the protestants, by religious motives. The oppressive weight of the taxes, the insolent licentiousness of the soldiery, and the cruelty and flagrant incapacity of those who managed the public affairs, were their grounds of complaint. At the head of this party, which soon became considerable, were William de Montmorenci and his nephew, the Viscount de Turenne. Though this party consisted of catholics, yet, as among the objects which it sought to obtain there were many which the protestants no less eagerly desired, it was not long before a coalition was formed between them.

To give greater weight and consistence to the party, it was thought advisable to provide for it a chief of a more elevated rank than Montmorenci and Turenne. The duke of Alençon, one of the king’s brothers, who is known in English history as the duke of Anjou, was the chosen individual. With many defects, and a scanty share of virtues, he had some qualifications for being head of the party. To the protestants he was recommended by his being far less hostile than the rest of his family, and by his having been an unalterable friend of the murdered admiral Coligni. Alençon was irritated by the restraint, little short of imprisonment, under which he was kept at court, and by the refusal to confer on him the lieutenant generalship of the kingdom, which had been held by his brother Henry; and was consequently not averse from joining those who could contribute to gratify his ambition. It has, indeed, been supposed, and the supposition is by no means improbable, that the party, or at least the protestant branch of it, would have been willing to raise him to the throne, to the exclusion of Henry, his elder brother.

Two of the principal agents in forwarding the design of the malecontents were la Mole, and the count de Coconas, the favourites of the duke of Alençon. La Mole was an officer, a native of Provence. Among the ladies of the court he was much admired for his liveliness and companionable qualities. His time was divided, not quite equally, between sinning and hearing mass; the latter of which he attended three or four times a day. It was said of him by the king, that whoever wished to keep a register of la Mole’s debaucheries, need only reckon up his masses. He was notoriously one of the gallants of Margaret of Valois, as Coconas was of the duchess of Nevers, the eldest of three sisters, who were called the Graces. Coconas was one of the many Italians who were attracted into France by the hope of receiving patronage from Catherine of Medicis. One anecdote will suffice to demonstrate the fiendishness of his nature. During the massacre of St. Bartholomew, he bought from the populace thirty hugonot prisoners, that he might gratify himself, by subjecting them to torture both of body and mind. After having, by a promise of saving their lives, induced them to renounce their faith, he put them slowly to death by numerous superficial dagger wounds. Of this act he was accustomed to boast. The fate of such a man can excite no pity.

All was arranged for the flight of the duke of Alençon, the king of Navarre, and the prince of Condé, from the court, in order to join the malecontents, and hoist the standard of opposition. Bands of troops were hovering round the palace of St. Germain, to protect their retreat. But the plot was disconcerted by the vigilance of Catherine of Medicis, the imprudence of some of the plotters, and the hesitation of the feeble-minded duke. At two in the morning, Catherine hurried the dying Charles from St. Germain to Paris in a litter, and placed guards over the duke and the king of Navarre; Condé, more prudent than his associates, had embraced the first opportunity to escape. There were some ludicrous circumstances connected with the hasty retreat to Paris. “The cardinals of Bourbon, Lorraine, and Guise,” says d’Aubigné, “the chancellor Birague, and Morvilliers and Bellièvre, were all mounted on Italian coursers, grasping with both hands their saddle bows, and as thoroughly frightened at their horses as at the enemy.” Contrasting strongly with this was the pitiable state of the monarch, with his frame debilitated, and all the weight of the St. Bartholomew on his soul, groaning, and mournfully exclaiming, “At least they might have waited till I was dead!”

Indignant at what he called a foul conspiracy, the king ordered that a rigid enquiry should instantly be commenced. La Mole denied every thing; Coconas, on the contrary, disclosed all that he knew, and perhaps more. But the fate of the conspirators was sealed by the duke of Alençon, who made an ample confession, without even having attempted to stipulate for the lives of his confederates. Coconas and la Mole, who had been sent to the Bastile, were now brought to trial; and, by dint of legal sophistry, the project of bringing about the flight of the princes was construed into a design against the person of the king.

Coconas and la Mole were condemned to be put to the torture, and then beheaded. “Poor la Mole!” exclaimed the latter, while he was suffering the first part of his sentence, “is there no way to obtain a pardon? The duke, my master, to whom I owe innumerable obligations, commanded me on my life to say nothing of what he was about to do. I answered, yes, sir, if you do nothing against the king.” The unfortunate man, like vast numbers at that period, had faith in magic arts. A waxen image, of which the heart was pierced through with a needle, had been found among his effects. On being questioned whether this was not meant to represent the king, and to be an instrument of tormenting his majesty, he replied that its only purpose was to inspire love in a lady, of whom he was deeply enamoured.

On the scaffold, before he laid down his head on the block, he significantly said to the by-standers, “You see, sirs, that the little ones are caught, and that the great ones, who have been guilty of the fault, are allowed to escape.” La Mole displayed his ruling passion strong in death. His last words, after having prayed to God and the Virgin, were, “commend me to the kind remembrance of the queen of Navarre and the ladies.” He was not forgotten by his lady-love; neither was his companion. Queen Margaret and the duchess of Nevers are said by some to have embalmed the heads of their admirers, that they might always preserve them for contemplation; while by others they are asserted to have taken them in a carriage to a chapel, at the foot of Montmartre, and buried them with their own hands. Two years afterwards, the sentences against la Mole and Coconas were annulled by Henry III.

The abortive plot in favour of the duke of Alençon proved a source of trouble to two individuals, more eminent in rank, and far more estimable in character, than were la Mole and Coconas. The marshals Francis de Montmorenci, and Arthur de Cossé, the former of whom was the eldest son of the celebrated constable, were suspected, or pretended to be so, by the queen mother; Montmorenci was also well known to feel that hatred of the Guises which was characteristic of his family. At her suggestion, therefore, they were committed to the Bastile, by Charles IX. This was nearly the last exercise of his authority. He died about a fortnight after, leaving his mother to hold the office of regent, till his successor, the third Henry, could return from Poland.

Montmorenci was the husband of Diana, the natural daughter of Henry II., and had been employed on numerous occasions, civil and military, in all of which he had honourably acquitted himself. Of his martial exploits the most prominent was the brave though unsuccessful defence of Terouane. He was liberal, high-minded, learned, firm, and of invariable rectitude. Cossé was still more illustrious in arms than his fellow prisoner. He had distinguished himself at various sieges, particularly those of Sens and Metz, and in the battle of St. Denis, and many other encounters. Nor was he a mere enterprising soldier. It is said of him, by contemporary historians, and it is no light praise, “that his head was as good as his arm.”

The party which had hitherto been known as that of the Politicians now took the name of the Third Party. It received a large increase, by the junction of catholics, whose indignation was excited by the constraint put upon the duke of Alençon and the king of Navarre, at Vincennes, and the close imprisonment of two such eminent men as de Montmorenci and de Cossé. Condé, too, was busy in Germany, stirring up the protestant princes to succour his friends, and keeping up a continual correspondence with the French calvinists.

On his taking possession of the throne, Henry set at liberty the king of Navarre and the duke of Alençon. The marshals, however, were still retained in confinement. Diana, the wife of Montmorenci, had adopted a singular mode of moving in her husband’s behalf the feelings of the monarch. Dressed in deep mourning, and followed by all her female attendants in the same garb, she met Henry as he was passing through the street, fell at his feet, and entreated him to take compassion on her husband, whose health was declining in a prison, into which he had been thrown without being convicted, or so much as accused, of any crime. She likewise forcibly urged that, even if his majesty supposed him to be guilty, he ought to grant him a fair trial. The king seemed to be affected by her appeal, which was backed by some of the nobles who were present, and he promised to enquire into the business with as little delay as possible.

The promise of the king, however, if sincere at the moment, was soon disregarded. Cossé, who, like his fellow captive, was suffering from bad health, was, indeed, allowed to take up his abode in his own house, under a guard; but the only deliverance which was destined for Montmorenci was deliverance from all the troubles of this world. It appears, in fact, that his life would not have been safe for a moment, but for the salutary fear that his death would drive into open hostility his brother Damville, who held the government of Languedoc. A report having been spread that Damville was dead, the king resolved to have the marshal strangled in prison, and, as a preliminary step, it was industriously given out that he was subject to apoplectic attacks. This barbarous and cowardly scheme would have been carried into effect, had not an obstacle occurred. Giles de Souvré, who had been mistakenly selected to perform the assassin’s part, chanced to be a more honest man than his royal master, and he purposely interposed so many delays, that time was afforded to ascertain the falsehood of the report which had announced the death of Damville.

It was neither to the clemency nor the justice of his sovereign that Montmorenci was ultimately indebted for the recovery of his freedom. Endangered by the betrayal of a plot into which he had entered against his brother, Alençon mustered up courage enough to run away. His flight took place on the 16th of September 1575. As soon as he was in safety, at Dreux, he issued a manifesto, not unartfully contrived, to gain partisans in various quarters. Reform in every department was the tempting burden of its song. It worked its intended effect; the protestants were in raptures, the Third Party was satisfied with it, and he speedily found himself in a situation to set the court at defiance.

William, one of the brothers of Montmorenci, whom we have seen one of the original chiefs of the Politicians, was now about to enter the French territory at the head of a division of troops, designed to herald the way to the army which the prince of Condé had succeeded in obtaining from the Elector Palatine. In the first outbreak of her anger, on hearing this news, the queen mother sent him word, that, if he dared to advance, she would despatch to him the heads of the two marshals. His reply was, “Should the queen do as she threatens, there is nothing of hers in France on which I will not leave the marks of my revenge.”

Menace having failed, the wily Catherine resorted to an opposite mode of proceeding. Aware that the liberation of the two marshals would be imperatively demanded by their armed friends, and that the king was too weak to refuse it, she determined to try whether she could not secure their gratitude, by appearing to have the merit of voluntarily releasing them. They were accordingly restored to liberty. By a declaration, under the royal seal, Montmorenci was pronounced to be “absolutely innocent of the crime which had been laid to his charge,” When a similar exculpatory document was offered to Cossé by the king, he chivalrously replied, “Excuse me, sire, for declining it; a Cossé ought to think that no one can believe him to be guilty.”

Though they could not be ignorant of the motive which had induced Catherine to throw open their prison doors, the marshals acted as if a favour had really been granted to them. Montmorenci had the largest share in bringing about the truce, and the subsequent treaty, between the king and the duke of Alençon; and the loyalty of Cossé was considered to be so unimpeachable that, in 1578, he received the order of the Holy Ghost. Montmorenci died in 1579; Cossé in 1582.

The principal favourite of the duke of Alençon, after the death of la Mole and Coconas, was Louis de Clermont, better known by the appellation of Bussy d’Amboise. In profligacy he went beyond his predecessors. He seems to have been a compound of vices, without a single virtue; unless, indeed, we may give the name of virtue to mere brutal courage. Full of pride and insolence, eager to involve others in deadly quarrels, a libertine, a professed duellist, and a cold-blooded assassin, his being tolerated at the French court, and even admired by many persons, is an unrefutable evidence of the wretched state of morals among the nobility of France. Bravery must have been held in a sort of idolatrous estimation, when respect for it could induce such a man as Crillon to be the friend of d’Amboise.

The first achievement which Bussy is known to have performed stamps his name with infamy. He was engaged in a lawsuit against the marquis of Renel, one of his relations, to recover from him the marquisate, which Bussy claimed as his right. The marquis had come to Paris, with the king of Navarre, and was there when the massacre of St. Bartholomew took place. In the midst of the carnage, Bussy sought him out, and stabbed him to the heart. The parliament, soon after, passed a decree, admitting the murderer’s claim; but it is consolatory to find that the decree was subsequently annulled.

Having attached himself to the duke of Alençon, he was entrusted with the government of the castle of Angers, and he soon made himself universally hated, by his extortion and tyranny. When he visited the court with his master, his arrogance and audacity rose to such a height, that the king’s favourites, whom he had often insulted, at length formed a scheme to assassinate him. The attack was made at night, and with superior numbers; but it was foiled by the skill and resolution of Bussy and his followers.

The monarch himself was not safe from the contemptuous sarcasms of Bussy. In their dress, Henry and his minions carried to the most extravagant length the costly and absurd fashions of that period. Bussy one day attended his patron to court. He himself was simply dressed, but he was followed by six pages, clad in cloth of gold, and tricked out in the most approved style of finery. That the point of this silent satire might not be lost, he insultingly proclaimed aloud, that “the time was come when ragamuffins would make the most show!” The king was so irritated by this language, that, for a while, the duke was obliged to forbid Bussy from appearing in his train.

About the same time, Bussy gave fresh cause of offence to the king. Ever seeking an opportunity to indulge his passion for duelling, he had wantonly quarrelled with a gentleman named St. Phal. Looking at some embroidery, St. Phal remarked that the letter X was worked on it; Bussy, from sheer contradiction, asserted that the letter was a Y. A duel of six against six in consequence took place, and Bussy was slightly wounded. As, however, Bussy sent his antagonist a second challenge, and expressed a stubborn determination to follow up the quarrel to the last extremity, the king interposed to put an end to it. Bussy reluctantly consented to meet St. Phal, in the king’s presence, for the purpose of reconcilement, and when, with that intent, he went to the Louvre, he was accompanied into the palace by a band of two hundred determined partisans. The anger of the king was excited by this irruption of bravos, but for the present he restrained it.

In one of those fits of suspecting his brother, with which Henry was occasionally seized, he went by night to put him under arrest, and, at the same time, he sent Bussy to the Bastile. On the following morning, a council was held, at which, prompted by the queen mother, the ministers declared that the step which the king had taken was impolitic, and advised him to be reconciled with the duke. Henry consented. The only stipulation which he made was, that Bussy, on being liberated, should be reconciled to Caylus, the king’s favourite, with whom he was at enmity. Bussy complied, and, in complying, contrived to throw ridicule on the weak monarch. “Sire,” said he, “if you wish me to kiss him, I am quite ready to do it;” then, suiting the action to the word, he embraced Caylus in such a thoroughly farcical style, that the spectators were unable to repress their laughter.

It was not long before the libertinism of Bussy supplied Henry with the means of destroying him. It is probable that, in his amours, the pleasure of betraying the women who confided in him formed one of the greatest inducements to pursue them—a base feeling, which is still prevalent. In a letter to the duke of Anjou, he boasted that he had been spreading his nets for the Great Huntsman’s beast, and that he held her fast in them. The Great Huntsman was the count de Montsoreau, who held that office; the beast, as she was politely called, was the count’s wife, whom the profligate writer had seduced. This letter Anjou put into the king’s hands, as a good jest. Henry kept it, and communicated it to the count, whom he urged to revenge himself on the offender. Montsoreau was not backward to follow the king’s advice. He hurried home, and compelled his wife to write to Bussy, to make an assignation with him. Bussy was true to the appointment. Instead, however, of meeting the countess, he was attacked by Montsoreau and several men, all of whom wore coats of mail. In spite of the odds against him, he fought for some time with determined spirit; but, finding that he must eventually be overpowered, he tried to escape through the window, and was slain by a stab in the back. “The whole province,” says de Thou, “was delighted at his fall, and even the duke of Anjou was not very sorry to be rid of a man who began to be a burthen to him.”

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