Chapter II: Henry II (2)

The Parliament of France was originally, like the Parliament of England, a national council with functions both legislative and judicial.[69] In the course of time a separation of classes and powers took place: in England the judicial power fell into disuse, and the Parliament became a mere legislative body; in France, the Parliament lost its legislative authority, and subsided into a high court of justice of last resort, and a court of revenue. It consisted of a fixed number of churchmen, lay peers, and councillors--all equal in voice and authority. Each province had its independent Parliament, over which that of Paris asserted, but was rarely able to enforce, its authority. In the early days of the new religious movement, the Parliament of Paris was hardly less hostile than the Sorbonne to the new doctrines; but as time rolled on and the principles of the Reform were better known, the Parliament became divided in opinion. As in all similar bodies, there were three parties: those who sympathized with the religious reform movement, those who were opposed to it, and those who, either from policy or coldness of temper, floated between the two. To this party belonged the elder De Thou, Harlay, and Seguier, all members of the Tournelle. On the last Wednesday in April, 1559, Bourdin, the king’s proctor-general, made a proposition that as the laws were enforced so irregularly--the Grand Chamber burning heretics implacably, the Tournelle only banishing them, to the great scandal of justice--the two courts should come to some arrangement by which uniformity of action would be insured. Each judge gave his opinion, and there was naturally great diversity of sentiment. Arnauld du Ferrier proposed the convocation of a general council for the settlement of all religious controversies, and that in the mean time all measures against the Reformed should be suspended. This learned lawyer, like many others of his day, not only did not appear to contemplate the possibility of the Romish and the Reformed religions existing quietly side by side in France, but thought the differences between the two were so trifling that union might be restored by a few mutual concessions. Arnauld’s proposal was supported by a majority of the meeting,[70] and, among others, by Anthony Fumée, whose father and grandfather had filled the highest judicial offices. He not only vindicated the Calvinistic interpretation of the doctrine of the Lord’s-supper, but advised an address to the king, praying him to summon a general council, in which all erroneous doctrines should be exposed, and all heresies condemned; and that the persecution of those who held heterodox opinions upon secondary points should cease. The matter began to look so serious that the Duchess of Valentinois urged Henry II. “to hang half a dozen at least of the councillors as heretics,” and show Spain (with whom the marriage-treaty between Philip II. and Isabella was going on) that he was firm in the faith, and would not tolerate heresy. The Cardinal of Lorraine strongly advised a similar course; while Marshal Vieilleville tried to dissuade the king: “Sire,” he said, “if you think of going to play the theologian or inquisitor, we must get the cardinal to come and teach us how to hold our lances in the tournament.”[71] But the churchman prevailed; not, however, until the king was threatened with the anger of God if he refused a _Mercurial_ against those free-thinking lawyers. These Mercurials were assemblies of the Parliament held on Wednesday (_dies Mercurii_), at which the members of that body were censured for any thing they might have done contrary to their dignity or duty. The word was afterward extended to the censure or judgment itself. On the 15th June, 1559, “after dinner” (about noon) Henry, attended by the Cardinals of Lorraine and Guise, unexpectedly entered the great hall of the Augustines’ convent, where the sittings of Parliament were temporarily held, just as the councillors were discussing the means of settling a uniform jurisprudence in heretical matters.[72] After taking his seat, the king said: “I desire to secure the repose of my kingdom, and the maintenance of religion. Having concluded a peace abroad, I will not have it disturbed at home by religious disorders. For this reason I am come among you, that I may hear what is your opinion about the present religious differences, and know why you have not carried out my edicts constraining the judges to condemn all Lutherans to death.” Undismayed by the king’s presence, the moderate party defended what they had done. Louis du Faur acknowledged that the present troubles were caused by religion, but he added: “We must trace them back to their source, lest we be exposed to the reproach the prophet Elijah made to King Ahab: ‘I have not troubled Israel, but thou and thy father’s house.’” Anne du Bourg was equally bold in his language: “There are certain crimes,” he said, “that deserve to be punished without mercy; such are adultery, blasphemy, and perjury, which are countenanced daily by men of disorderly life and infamous amours. But of what do men accuse those who are handed over to the executioner? of treason?... They never omit the name of the king from their prayers. What revolt have they headed? what sedition have they stirred up? What! because they have discovered, by the light of Holy Scripture, the great vices and the scandalous offenses of the Roman Church--because they have petitioned for a reform: is that an offense worthy of the stake?” The king trembled with anger, but listened with pleasure to the first president, Gilles le Maistre, who advised him to treat the new sectarians as the Albigenses had been treated by Philip Augustus, who burned six hundred of them in one day; and the Vaudois by Francis I., who killed them in their own houses, or stifled them in the caverns to which they had fled for refuge.[73] Henry closed the sitting by reprimanding the judges for their laxness in administering the laws against heresy, and ordered Du Faur and Du Bourg to be arrested--the first for having spoken of Ahab, the second for condemning adultery, both of which the king applied to himself. Montgomery, captain of the royal archers, seized the two lawyers and conveyed them to the Bastille. This was the same Montgomery who was shortly to be the innocent cause of Henry’s death, and some years later to die on the scaffold as a heretic and traitor. The two prisoners were put into separate dungeons, and denied the use of paper, ink, and books, or communication with their friends. The king, unwilling to leave them to be tried before an ordinary tribunal, appointed a commission to hear and condemn them, unless they retracted, and swore he would have them burned before his eyes.

Du Bourg’s arrest was not a solitary act of persecution. By the treaty of Cateau-Cambresis, Henry and Philip had bound themselves to maintain the Catholic worship inviolate, to assemble a general council, and to extinguish heresy in their respective dominions.[74] To William of Orange, rightly surnamed the Taciturn, then a hostage for the due execution of the treaty, the king imparted the secret of these negotiations with the King of Spain.[75] William listened, but held his peace, and it was probably his knowledge of this projected massacre--delayed for thirteen years--that converted him into the liberator of the Netherlands.

The violence with which the storm of persecution raged may be conceived from a few isolated examples. The edicts were enforced with such vigor that the Reformed feared to meet in groups of more than twenty or thirty at a time. In some places they ceased altogether to assemble, or else they met in the woods and fields, in caves and quarries. Great mystery was used in summoning the faithful together. On the evenings when there was to be a sermon, a man would go through the streets and whistle the signal. If there was reason to fear the watch or patrol, the summoner carried a lantern of a peculiar form, and passed along without uttering a word. The worshipers crept muffled up to the place assigned, where they sang in a suppressed voice one of Marot’s Psalms, prayed, and then separated, often without any sermon. It was this meeting by night which gave a substance to the licentious and calumnious stories told of the Reformed.[76]

The Parliament of Bordeaux received instructions to hold the “grand jours,” or special assize, at Saintes, not that they might listen to the grievances of the people, as was the ancient custom, but to operate on a large scale against heresy. When all the prisons in Saintonge were crammed, the rest of the heretics were sent to Bordeaux. In order to remove the odium under which they labored, the Reformers of France resolved to draw up a confession of their faith, and lay it before the king, begging Anthony of Navarre, Governor of Guienne, to present it, adding that they were prepared, if necessary, “one and all to seal their faith with their blood.” But Anthony objected, and like a true man of the world as he always was, advised them to keep quiet and let the storm blow over. It was in circumstances such as these--in the “midst of burning piles, and gibbets erected in every corner of the city”--that the first Protestant synod met in Paris (May, 1559), and continued sitting four days. Francis Morel, sire of Collonges, a gentleman by birth, and now pastor of the metropolitan church, was their president. Not more than a dozen provincial churches--there is a slight discrepancy in the numbers--sent deputies; but, being earnest men, they soon succeeded in giving French Protestantism the organization which it has preserved, with few trifling exceptions, until the present day. The church in Paris had been the first to organize itself with pastor, elders, and deacons,[77] and the example was speedily followed by many provincial cities; but these churches were all isolated, and it was felt that by uniting into one body, they would be stronger against their enemies, as well as richer in the divine graces.

In thus assembling together the deputies carried their lives in their hands, for, by an edict then in force, all preachers found in the kingdom were to be put to death. But, undeterred by peril, they drew up a Confession of Faith and a Book of Discipline, each consisting of forty articles. In the former the doctrine of non-resistance was laid down with a thoroughness somewhat startling. Thus the fortieth article says: “We must obey the laws and ordinances, pay tribute, tax, and other dues, and bear the yoke of subjection with good and hearty will, even should the magistrates be infidels.... Furthermore, we detest those who would reject superiorities, set up a community of goods, and overthrow the order of justice.” The synod clenched these doctrines by reference to Matthew xvii. 24, and Acts vi. 17–19. Calvin’s opinions on this point are briefly shown in one of his sermons delivered three or four years later: “All principalities are types of the kingdom of Jesus Christ; we must hold them precious, and pray God to make them prosper.”[78] Yet the ecclesiastical constitution which he drafted was entirely republican in form, every thing being made to depend upon the votes of the people, who elected a consistory (or kirk-session), which chose the pastor, whose final appointment rested on the decision of the congregation. A certain number of churches formed a conference or presbytery which met twice a year, and in which each church was represented by the pastor and one elder. These presbyteries united into provincial synods, and above them all presided a general assembly, the supreme court of legislation and appeal, composed of two pastors and two elders from each provincial synod.

There can be little doubt that this organization of the Reformed churches added another element of strife to the contest between the two religions. The Romish clergy naturally abhorred it, as a sign of the increasing power and boldness of the Reformed party; while the statesmen of the day could not but look upon it with suspicion as a sort of _imperium in imperio_--a dangerous rival to the civil power, and savoring of rebellion, inasmuch as it ignored the headship alike of pope and king, acknowledging that of God alone. Men did not take the trouble to examine closely into the causes of their dislike: they felt instinctively that such an organization proclaimed the sovereignty of the people, and that the doctrine might easily be extended from spiritual to temporal matters. The subsequent history of the chief Calvinistic churches shows that this instinctive hatred was not altogether unreasonable. In Switzerland and Holland, in England and in North America, wherever this organization has been able to control the political power, a republic has followed. These are indeed the parts of the world where liberty flourishes most, and for this noble fruit we may well love the tree that bore it; but in the sixteenth century, the tendency of society was toward despotism, not toward self-government; and the statesmen of Europe must be excused if they were not clear-sighted enough to see that the new movement must inevitably succeed, or wise enough to become the leaders and controllers of the popular feelings. And so far it may be doubted whether Calvin’s influence in France was altogether for good, and whether the Reformed Church would not have struck deeper root in that country, if its organization had been less antagonistic. By separating itself entirely from antiquity, it risked a doubtful good for a certain evil. As church-government is not a matter of faith but of discipline, those have much to answer for who array Christians in hostile ranks on a secondary matter.

The news of this synod and the merciful tendency of the Parliament inflamed Henry’s orthodoxy to such an extent that he issued an edict (June, 1559) more terrible even than those which had gone before. It was dated from Ecouen, a castle belonging to the constable, and situated about four leagues north of Paris. By that decree all convicted Lutherans were to be punished with death--instant and without the chance of remission. It was registered by all the Parliaments without any limitation or modification whatsoever, and the judges were forbidden, under severe penalties, to diminish the pains of the edict, as they had lately been in the habit of doing. Such terrible powers could scarcely have failed completely to eradicate heresy, if they had been carried out as Henry II. intended they should be. But there was a providence watching over France, by which the religionists were unexpectedly saved from the jaws of the lion.

One of the regulations of the treaty of Cateau-Cambresis was that Philip II.--now a widower through the death of Mary of England in the preceding November--should marry Henry’s sister, Elizabeth of Valois, then just turned of thirteen. The betrothal was to take place at Paris, and thither came the Duke of Alva, attended by a numerous suite of nobles and gentlemen. Even at such a time, when we might suppose the king entirely occupied with nuptial festivities--for his sister Margaret was also to be married--he proposed a crusade against Geneva, “that sink of all corruption,”[79] and, but a few hours before his death, he had given Montgomery instructions about an expedition on a grand scale into the Pays de Caux for the extermination of the Reformed. But the finger of God was upon him.

On the 26th June,[80] the Spanish marriage was celebrated, the Duke of Alva acting as proxy for Philip II. Magnificent rejoicings followed the ceremony, and a tournament was held in the lists erected at the end of the Rue St. Antoine. It must have been a grand sight, that old historic street. In front of the palace of the Tournelles stood a gallery in which sat the youthful Queen of Spain under a canopy of blue silk, ornamented with the device of her husband whom she had not yet seen. Around her were grouped men destined to become famous in history: Alva, the Prince of Orange, and Count Egmont. Catherine sat in a gallery apart, with Mary Stuart on her right, and Margaret, affianced to the Duke of Savoy, on her left. The king had declared his intention of entering the lists, in order to display his skill before the Spanish grandees. As if foreseeing evil, the queen besought him to forego the dangerous pastime; but, confident in himself, he only laughed at her fears. After two successful encounters with the Dukes of Savoy and Guise, he challenged Gabriel de Lorges, Count of Montgomery. De Lorges was captain of Henry’s Scotch guard, and had been sent to Scotland by Francis I. in 1545, in command of the troops dispatched to the assistance of the queen-regent Mary of Guise. In the first course the advantage lay with the count, and the king, chafed by such a partial discomfiture, challenged him to try another turn. The queen and Marshal de Vieilleville entreated him to be satisfied, and Montgomery declined a second encounter. But Henry would take no refusal. Once more they met; their lances were shivered, but both retained their seats. Again the trumpets sounded, again they spurred their horses, when Montgomery’s lance struck the king’s helmet, knocked off the plume, and snapped in two, a splinter from the lower portion of the shaft entering his right eye. There was a loud shriek from the royal gallery, which for a moment distracted the attention of the spectators from the king, who had lost all command over his horse, and was reeling in his saddle. The attendants were hardly quick enough to save him from falling to the ground. His helmet was loosed and the splinter pulled out. It was “of a good bigness,” says the English embassador, who was an eye-witness.[81] “Nothing else was done to him upon the field; but I noted him to be very weak, and to have the feeling of all his limbs almost benumbed; for being carried away as he lay along, nothing covered but his face, he moved neither hand nor foot, but lay as one amazed. There was marvelous great lamentation made for him, and weeping of all sorts, both men and women.” The wound proved more serious than Throckmorton had imagined: Henry never left his bed again. Twice he received the last sacraments of the Church, and calling for his son Francis, “commended the Church and the people to his care.” After an interval of repose--for the exertion of uttering these few words was almost too great for him--he added: “Above all things, remain steadfast in the true faith.”[82] Henry II. died on the 10th of July, leaving behind him four sons, three of whom wore the crown of France. He also left three daughters and a bastard son, Henry of Angoulême, who cruelly distinguished himself at the massacre of St. Bartholomew.

The Protestants were accused of rejoicing at Henry’s death: they not only made songs upon it, but “offered thanks, or rather blasphemies, to God, daring to say that the Almighty had struck him under the walls of the Bastille, where he detained the innocent in prison.”[83] It is possible that there may be some foundation for this charge, for it requires a great amount of true Christian feeling to make the victims forbear from exulting at the removal of their persecutor by what seems to them the judgment of God. In his dedicatory epistle of the _Psalms done into French Verse_, Beza thus paints the second Henry:

Je vois un masque avec sa maigre mine
Qui fait trembler les lieux où il chemine.

But the “Lutherans” did not tremble: they bore their testimony with Christian resolution, and acted up to the noble lines in the same poem:

S’il faut servir au Seigneur de témoins,
Mourons, mourons, louans Dieu pour le moins.
Au départir de ces lieux misérables,
Pour traverser aux cieux tant désirables.
_Que les tyrans soient de nous martyrer
Plutôt lassés, que nous de l’endurer._

The sincerity of Catherine’s grief for the loss of her husband has been much doubted, but without sufficient cause. To a woman of her temper the change wrought in her position by widowhood must at first have been hard to bear. She certainly felt as much for her husband while living, as such selfish natures can feel, and commemorated her bereavement and regret in the ornaments of her palace of the Tuileries, where the broken mirrors, plumes reversed, and scattered jewelry carved on certain columns have been regarded as emblems of her sorrow.[84] A garrulous contemporary (whom we shall have frequent occasion to quote), lamenting the death of Henry II., praises him particularly for the discipline he introduced into the army,[85] which was such “that the peasants hardly deigned to shut the doors of their cellars, granaries, chests, or other lock-up places for fear of the soldiers, who conducted themselves most becomingly. When billeted in the villages, they would not venture to touch the hens or other poultry without first asking their host’s leave and paying for them.”[86] It is a pity to spoil so Arcadian a story; but if it is true, there must have been a sad falling off in the military discipline in a few months, for Francis II. writes in 1560 to the Duke of Aumale, then in Burgundy, “to punish the men-at-arms and archers who had lived without paying.”[87]