We shall pass briefly over the last three years of Condé’s eventful life.
In September 1567, civil war broke out again. The Protestants, alarmed and exasperated by the refusal of the Government to disband a force of 6000 Swiss mercenaries, which had been raised to protect the eastern frontier from any aggression on the part of the Spanish troops marching from Italy to the Netherlands, and by the rumour that this force was to be used against them, rose in arms. An attempt was made by Condé and Coligny, at the head of a body of cavalry, to seize the person of the King, as he was on his way from Monceaux, where he had intended to pass the autumn, to Paris. But Charles IX. had had time to summon the Swiss to his aid, and, the Huguenots not being in sufficient force to risk an engagement with these valiant mercenaries, who, “lowering their pikes, ran at them like mad dogs, at full speed,” he reached his capital in safety.
Condé followed, and, having been reinforced, occupied Saint-Denis and proceeded, with astonishing daring, to blockade Paris, although his army does not seem to have exceeded 6000 men and he was without a single piece of artillery; while the Constable, with a vastly superior force, lay within the city. Montmorency, however, who always carried caution to excess, was disinclined to take the offensive, and it was not until the Huguenots had committed the mistake of detaching a considerable part of their slender forces, under Andelot and Montgomery, to occupy Poissy and Pontoise that he ventured to offer battle. The royal army was 19,000 strong, that of Condé certainly did not exceed 3000 men; but the prince had no thought of declining an engagement, and ranged his little force in the plain near Saint-Denis. The Catholic attack was repulsed all along the line, and then, while Coligny fell upon the Parisian militia, who, arrayed in all their martial finery—“gilded like chalices,” as a Huguenot historian puts it[80]—formed the left wing of the Royalists, and drove them in headlong rout towards the city, Condé, with the bulk of the Huguenot horse, burst suddenly upon the centre, where the Constable commanded in person. So furious was his charge that the Catholic cavalry were broken and hurled back, and the Constable himself fell mortally wounded. “If the Grand Signior,” exclaimed the Turkish Ambassador, who, from the heights of Montmartre, had witnessed the prince’s onslaught, “if the Grand Signior had only two thousand men like those in white”—the Huguenots wore white surcoats—“to place at the head of each of his armies, in two years the world would be his!”
But a complete victory against such overwhelming odds would have been in the nature of a miracle. The main body of the Catholics was unbroken; the Maréchal de Montmorency, the Constable’s eldest son, assumed the command and rallied the shattered squadrons; and the Huguenots were being hard pressed on all sides, when the failing light came to their assistance and enabled them to fall back in tolerable order on Saint-Denis. The Royalists, disheartened by the fall of their leader, did not attempt to pursue, and, after occupying the field of battle for a few hours, in sign of victory, re-entered Paris.
Condé’s position being no longer tenable, he decided to lead his little army towards Lorraine, to join John Casimir, son of the Elector Palatine, who was advancing to his assistance with a strong force of German mercenaries. After a hazardous march, he crossed the Meuse in safety, and at Pont-à-Mousson effected his junction with the Germans. Having now once more a considerable army at his disposal, he turned again towards Paris, and, at the end of February 1658, laid siege to Chartres. Negotiations for peace had, however, already begun; and a month later (23 March) the Peace of Longjumeau, which reaffirmed the Amboise Edict, put an end to the second war.
It was merely a respite, for the Court had determined on the ruin of the Huguenots, and, at the end of August, orders were issued for the arrest of Condé and Coligny, who were at the former’s château of Noyers, in Burgundy. Warned in time, they succeeded in effecting their escape with their families, traversed the whole breadth of France, and gained the sheltering walls of La Rochelle, where they were joined by Jeanne d’Albret, and her young son, Henri of Navarre.[81]
The third War of Religion began forthwith, and was conducted with pitiless cruelty on both sides. The results of the autumn campaign of 1568 were favourable to the Protestants, who mastered almost all the South and West. But, with the new year, their fortunes changed. In February, Condé and Coligny with the main Huguenot army marched eastwards to meet their German allies, who were advancing from the Rhine. Finding, however, that Tavannes, who directed the Catholics, under the name of the Duc d’Anjou (afterwards Henri III.), had divined this movement and was preparing to oppose it, they turned to the South-West, with the intention of effecting their junction with the Huguenot forces from Quercy. Tavannes, however, outmarched them and barred their way, upon which they decided to turn to the North, seize one of the passages of the Loire, and join hands with the Germans. But Tavannes followed close on their heels, crossed the Charente by a stratagem, and fell upon the rearguard of the Huguenots, under Coligny, near Jarnac (13 March).
On learning that the Admiral was attacked, Condé, who had left Jarnac with the main body of the army that morning, turned back at once, and, after sending orders to the rest of his troops to follow him with all speed, hastened to his assistance, at the head of three hundred horse. “For,” says Le Noue, “he had the heart of a lion, and, whenever he heard that there was fighting, he longed to be in the thick of it.” On the way, he was met by a messenger from Coligny, who had sent to beg him not to make a useless effort, and to retreat. “God forbid,” he replied, “that Louis de Bourbon should turn his back to the enemy!” And he hastened on.
On his arrival on the field, he found Coligny struggling against almost the entire Catholic army, and in danger of being surrounded. An immediate retreat would have been the wisest course, but to this the prince refused to consent, and drawing up the cavalry in a long line, with himself and his little band in the centre, he prepared to charge the dense columns of the enemy. A day or two before, his left arm had been badly crushed by a fall from his horse, and, now, as his helmet was being adjusted, his right leg was broken by a kick from the charger of his brother-in-law, the Comte de la Rochefoucauld. “You see,” said he, mastering the pain, “that mettlesome horses are of more harm than use in an army.”
Those about him urged him to dismount, but he refused to leave the saddle, and, pointing first to his injured limbs and then to his standard, which bore the device: “Pro Christo et patriâ dulce periculum,” he cried: “Nobles of France, behold the moment so long desired! Remember in what plight Louis de Bourbon goes into battle for Christ and country!”[82]