Never had the internal condition of France been more critical, never had she stood more in need of a strong and wise government, than at the moment when the imaginary majority of François II. was succeeded by the real minority of Charles IX. The danger which threatened her was no longer, as in the time of the last Sovereign of that name, a struggle between individual ambitions; private ambitions had now identified themselves with the living forces of the nation; the whole of the nobility and gentry were already engaged in the quarrel of the great factions which divided France, and the mass of the people only awaited the signal to follow their example.
And the person who was called upon to deal with this critical situation was Catherine de’ Medici, a woman, a foreigner. During the reign of her husband, Catherine had perforce remained in the background, Henri II. being completely under the influence of his mistress, Diane de Poitiers; under François II., the government, as we have seen, had fallen into the hands of the Guises, and she had been, politically speaking, a mere cipher. But the early death of her eldest son had given her the opportunity which she so ardently desired—for all her life she had hungered for power and influence as a starving man hungers for bread—and having persuaded the King of Navarre to resign his claims to the Regency, in consideration of receiving the title of Lieutenant-General of the Kingdom, she at once assumed a quasi-absolute authority. She brought to the task a remarkable knowledge of men and affairs—the fruit of long years of quiet study and observation—a boundless activity, an untiring vigilance, a charm of manner which few who came into contact with her could resist, and a soul depraved by a life of subjection and dissimulation. Her master-passion was to govern through her sons, and she dreaded every influence which might weaken by one iota her personal authority.
To a certain extent, she succeeded in preserving this, but, though sincerely anxious to maintain peace, she was powerless to save France from the anarchy which menaced her. For she was timid, shifty, and irresolute, and incapable of any noble aim; while it is also probable that she failed to recognize, at any rate until matters had gone too far to be remedied, the gravity of the situation. “To divide in order to reign” was the principle upon which she acted; to give a little encouragement to the Huguenots, to instil a little apprehension into the Catholics, and to accustom both parties to regard her as the dominating factor in the situation. The result was that she was distrusted by both alike, and hastened the very calamity she desired to avert.
And this calamity was rapidly approaching. Calvinism was not, as certain Protestant historians would have us believe, a sect which demanded nothing but the liberty to worship God in its own way; it was violent, intolerant, propagandist, and, under the influence of the exiles who had tasted democracy in Switzerland, and of the discontented nobles who exploited it for their own ends, was becoming as much a political as a religious organisation. Thus, it deliberately provoked persecution and played into the hands of its most implacable enemies. The coalition which had been formed to check the ambition of the Guises was dissolved; while Condé and Coligny turned openly to Protestantism, the Constable, a rigid Catholic and a fervent absolutist, joined hands with those who had formerly plotted his ruin, and formed with the Duc de Guise and the Maréchal de Saint-André a new Catholic league, the ill-omened Triumvirate. Shortly afterwards, the vain and fickle Antoine de Bourbon, allured by what de Thou calls “the entertainment of hopes” dangled before his eyes by Philip II. of Spain, renounced both his family ties and his Protestant convictions and joined the Triumvirs.
Nevertheless, during the latter part of the year 1561 the Court was certainly rallying to the side of the Reformers, for the King of Navarre’s accession to the Triumvirate had given the latter such a predominance that Catherine was obliged to seek a counterpoise. It was with her warm approval that the Colloquy of Poissy took place, in the hope of arriving at some settlement of the chief differences between the two religions. The latitudinarian Prince de la Roche-sur-Yon was appointed the young King’s gouverneur; Coligny’s brother Andelot, most stalwart of Huguenots, was admitted to the Council. The celebrated Théodore de Bèze was invited to Paris; the King and Queen-Mother went to hear him preach, and he and other eminent divines expounded Calvinistic doctrines daily in the lodgings of Condé and Coligny to the ladies and gentlemen of the Court. The Huguenots in the provinces as well as in the capital were accorded a covert toleration, and the authorities recommended “to close their eyes to what only concerned the practice of their religion.”
But a much stronger hand than Catherine’s was required to persuade the two religions to dwell together in even a pretence of harmony. The Huguenots were determined to be treated no longer as legal outcasts; the High Catholic party, represented by the Triumvirate, was equally resolute to allow of no equality. After three months of argument and recrimination, and, at the last, of mere invective and abuse, the Colloquy of Poissy was dissolved; daily disturbances broke out; partisan feeling became more and more embittered; the Regent was powerless to stem the fast rising tide of hatred.
One last despairing effort for peace Catherine made. In the middle of January 1562, on the urgent advice of Condé, Coligny, and l’Hôpital, she promulgated the celebrated edict, known as the “Edict of January,” which recognized the legality of Protestant worship outside the walls of towns. The Huguenots were exultant; the Catholics correspondingly exasperated; disturbances, attended in several instances with bloodshed, occurred in the capital and in other towns; and on March 1, the Massacre of Vassy by Guise’s followers kindled the long-expected conflagration.
No effort had been spared by the Triumvirate to detach Condé from the Reformers; and the means which had proved so efficacious in the case of the King of Navarre had not been omitted. But the prince was made of sterner stuff than his brother; beneath a somewhat frivolous exterior he concealed a haughty and resolute spirit, and this, joined to the influence of his noble wife, kept him true to the cause which he had espoused. When the news of the massacre reached him, he was in Paris, where every Sunday he might have been seen, pistol in hand and accompanied by several hundred gentlemen on horseback, escorting Huguenot pastors through the howling mob to their meeting-place at Charenton. Furious with indignation, he lost not a moment in sending Bèze to the Court, which was then at Fontainebleau, to demand that the massacreur of Vassy should not be permitted to enter Paris. “I speak,” cried the divine, when the King of Navarre endeavoured to defend Guise, “for a Faith which is better in suffering than in avenging wrong; but remember, Sire, that it is an anvil which has worn out many a hammer.”
Catherine, without declaring her intentions, wrote to the duke ordering him to join her “peu accompagné” at Monceaux, in Brie, whither she proceeded with the young King, and, at the same time, sent orders to the Maréchal de Saint-André, who was in Paris, to repair to his government. Both declined to obey, and on March 16 Guise entered the capital at the head of 2000 horse, and was hailed by the populace “comme envoyé de Dieu.”
There were now in Paris two hostile camps, as in the time of the Bourguignons and Armagnacs; and Catherine, fearing a collision, sent orders to Condé to leave Paris. Recognizing the impossibility of disputing the capital with the Catholics, he obeyed, and proceeded to Meaux, where, after some hesitation, Coligny joined him. Catherine and the young King had returned to Fontainebleau, and the former wrote to Condé entreating him “to save the children, the mother and the kingdom.” If he and Coligny had acted with energy and decision, they might have secured the person of the young Sovereign; but they waited for reinforcements, and when at length they advanced towards Paris, they found that the Triumvirs had forestalled them, and that the King was in the hands of the enemy.