belonged to the Duke’s tutor. The King of Navarre and Condé were overcome at the news. Charles IX., along with the Queen-mother, visited the Admiral next day, and stayed an hour with him. Before leaving, Charles folded him in his arms and wept. “You, my father,” he said, “have the wound, but I suffer the pain. By the light of God, I will so avenge this act that it shall be a warning as long as the world lasts.”
A few hours after the shot was fired, the Huguenot chiefs assembled in Navarre’s apartments to deliberate what means should be taken to punish the assassin. About the same time a secret council was called by the Queen-mother, to decide whether or no Navarre and Condé should be massacred. Charles IX., the Duc de Guise—who, however hostile otherwise, join issue to destroy Navarre and Condé—Anjou, Nevers, and D’Angoulême were present. It was resolved that the King of Navarre and the Prince de Condé should die, and that the massacre should take place that very night, before the Huguenots—alarmed by the attempt on Coligni—had time to concert measures of defence. Under pretence of protecting them from further violence, all hotels and lodging-houses were diligently searched, and a list made of the name, age, and condition of every Protestant in Paris. Orders were also given for the troops to be under arms, during the coming night, throughout the city. Every outlet and portal of the Louvre were closed and guarded by Swiss Guards, commanded by Cossein. The Hôtel de Saint-Pierre, in the Rue Béthisy, where Coligni lay, was also surrounded by troops, “for his safety,” it was said. No one could go in or out. At a given signal, the tocsin was to sound from all places where a bell was hung. Chains were to be drawn across the streets and bonfires lighted. White cockades, stitched on a narrow white band to be bound round the right arm, were distributed, in order that the Catholics might be recognised in the darkness. The secret, known to hundreds, was well kept; the Huguenots were utterly unprepared. “No one told me anything,” said Marguerite.[13] “They knew that I was too humane. But the evening before, being present at the coucher of my mother the Queen, and sitting on a coffer near my sister Claude, who seemed very sad, the Queen, who was talking to some one, turned round and saw I was not gone. She desired me to retire to bed. As I was making my obeisance to her, my sister took me by the arm and stopped me. Then, sobbing violently, she said, ‘Good God, sister, do not go!’ This alarmed me exceedingly. The Queen, my mother, was watching us, and, looking very angry, called my sister to her and scolded her severely. She peremptorily desired her to say no more to me. Claude replied that it was not fair to sacrifice me like that, and that danger might come to me.
“ ‘Never mind,’ said the Queen. ‘Please God, no danger will come to her; but she must go to bed at once in order to raise no suspicions.’ But Claude still disputed with her, although I did not hear their words. The Queen again turned to me angrily and commanded me to go. My sister, continuing her sobs, bade me ‘good-night.’ I dared ask no questions. So, cold and trembling, without the least idea of what was the matter, I went to my rooms and to my closet, where I prayed to God to save me from I knew not what. The King, my husband, who had not come to bed, sent word to me to do so.” (They occupied the same room, she tells us, but separate beds.) “I could not close my eyes all night,” she adds; “thinking of my sister’s agitation, and sure that something dreadful was coming. Before daylight my husband got up. He came to my bed-side, kissed me, and said that he was going to play a game of rackets before the King was awake. He said he would have justice in the matter of the attempt on the Admiral’s life. Then he left the room. I, seeing the daylight, and overcome by sleep, told my nurse to shut the door, that I might rest longer.”
This took place on Saturday evening, the 23d of August, being the eve of St. Bartholomew.
CHAPTER XX.
ST. BARTHOLOMEW.
A SIGNAL sounded from the belfry of Saint-Germain l’Auxerrois. It was answered by the great bell of the Palace of Justice on the opposite bank of the Seine. Catherine and her two sons, Charles IX. and the Duc d’Anjou, had risen long before daylight. Catherine dared not leave Charles to himself. He was suddenly grown nervous and irresolute. He might yet countermand everything. Within a small closet over the gate of the Louvre, facing the quays, the mother and her two sons stood huddled together. Charles was tallest of the three. The window was open; it was still dark; the streets were empty; not a sound was heard save the crashing of the bells. They listened to the wild clamour without; but not a word was spoken. Catherine felt Charles tremble. She clutched him tightly, and, dreading to hear the echo of her own voice, she whispered in his ear, “My son, God has given your enemies into your hands. Let them not escape you.”
“Mort de Dieu, mother, do you take me for a coward?” whispered back Charles, still trembling.
Suddenly a shot was fired on the Quays. The three conspirators started as if the weapon had been levelled against themselves.
“Whence this pistol shot came, who fired it, or if it wounded any one, I know not,” writes the Duc d’Anjou, who as well as his sister has left an account of the massacre; “but this I know, that the report struck terror into our very souls. We were seized with such sudden dread at the horrors we had ourselves invoked, that even the Queen-mother was dismayed. She despatched one of the King’s gentlemen who waited without, to command the Duc de Guise to stay all proceedings and not to attack Admiral Coligni.” This counter order came too late. The Duke had already left his house.
All the bells in Paris were now ringing furiously; the quays and streets were rapidly filling with citizens bearing flambeaux. Multitudes came pouring in from every opening, every window was filled with persons holding lights, and the crackling of firearms, loud curses, piercing screams, and wild laughter were heard on every side. In the midst of this uproar, Henri de Guise, thirsting for revenge upon the supposed murderer of his father, accompanied by Nevers and D’Angoulême, and a company of Catholic nobles, made his way to the Hôtel Saint-Pierre, in the Rue Béthisy, where Coligni lodged.