Then last of all there followed
The king with head all bare;
The taper in his hand was wrapped
In velvet rich and rare.

The different guilds, supreme courts, bishops, ambassadors, high officers of the crown, and princes of the blood, were all present. They walked to the sound of hautboys, clarions, and trumpets, playing with great state. When the procession arrived at the ill-omened spot, the king devoutly went up to it, and fell on his knees and prayed. On rising, he received from the hands of his grand almoner a small silver-gilt statue of the Virgin, which he piously set up in the room of the former one, and placed his taper before the image as a testimony of his faith. All the members of the procession did the same, as they marched past to the sound of the trumpets. The people manifested their joy by acclamations:

Long live the king of fleur-de-lys
And all his noble family!

Erelong the mutilated image, removed to the church of St. Germain, began to work miracles. Four days afterwards, a child having been brought into the world still-born, The mother writhed and wept,
And bitterly groaned she;
And loudly prayed that death
Would take her suddenly.
She tossed and tumbled so,
That all the gossips there
Shed floods of bitter tears
And wildly tore their hair.
Then one who counselled wisely,
Said: ‘Take the child that’s dead,
And bear him to the Queen of Heaven!’ ...
Which they devoutly did.
The infant changed colour, adds the chronicle; it was baptised, and, after it had returned its soul to God, was buried. The miracle, it is clear, did not last long.

Notwithstanding all these tapers, miracles, and trumpet sounds, the king was still excited. Neither he nor the fanatics were satisfied. The flush which some fancied they saw on the cheeks of the poor little still-born child, was not sufficient; they wanted a deeper red—red blood. Duprat, the Sorbonne, and the parliament said that their master had at last come to his senses, and that they must take advantage of the change. Francis, who held the reins firmly, had hitherto restrained the coursers bound to his chariot. But now, irritated and inflamed, he leant forward, slackened the bit, and even urged them on with his voice. These fiery wild horses were about to trample under foot all who came in their way, and the wheels of his chariot, crushing the unhappy victims, would sprinkle their blood even upon the garments of the prince.

The persecution began.

CHAPTER XII.
PRISONERS AND MARTYRS AT PARIS AND IN THE PROVINCES.
(1528.)

There lived in Paris one of those poor christians of Meaux known as christaudins, or disciples of Christ. This man, full of admiration for the Son of God and of horror for images, had been driven from his native city by persecution, and had become a waterman on the Seine. One day a stranger entered his boat, and as the Virgin was everywhere the subject of conversation, since the affair of the Rue des Rosiers, the passenger began to extol the power of the ‘mother of God,’ and pulling out a picture of Mary, offered it to his conductor. The boatman, who was rowing vigorously, stopped; he could not contain himself, and, taking the picture, said sharply: ‘The Virgin Mary has no more power than this bit of paper,’ which he tore in pieces and threw into the river. The exasperated catholic did not say a word; but as soon as he landed, he ran off to denounce the heretic. This time at least they knew the author of the sacrilege. Who could tell but it was he who committed the outrage in the Rue des Rosiers? The poor christaudin was burnt on the Grève at Paris.[660]

All the evangelical christians of Meaux had not, like him, quitted La Brie. In the fields around that city might often be seen a pious man named Denis, a native of Rieux. He had heard the divine summons one day, and, filled with desire to know God, he had come to Jesus. Deeply impressed with the pangs which the Saviour had endured in order to save sinners, he had from that hour turned his eyes unceasingly upon the Crucified One. Denis was filled with astonishment when he saw christians putting their trust in ceremonies, instead of placing it wholly in Christ. When, in the course of his many journeys, he passed near a church at the time they were saying mass, it seemed to him that he was witnessing a theatrical representation[661] and not a religious act. His tortured soul uttered a cry of anguish. ‘To desire to be reconciled with God by means of a mass,’ he said one day, ‘is to deny my Saviour’s passion.’[662] The parliament gave orders to confine Denis in the prison at Meaux.

As Briçonnet was still at the head of the diocese, the judges requested him to do all in his power to bring back Denis to the fold. One day the doors of the prison opened, and the bishop, at the summit of honour but a backslider from the faith, stood in the presence of the christian under the cross, but still faithful. Embarrassed at the part he had to play, Briçonnet hung his head, hesitated, and blushed; this visit was a punishment imposed upon his cowardice. ‘If you retract,’ he said to Denis at last, ‘we will set you at liberty, and you shall receive a yearly pension.’ But Denis had marvellously engraven in his heart, says the chronicler, that sentence delivered by Jesus Christ: ‘Whosoever shall deny me before men, him will I also deny before my Father which is in heaven.’ Turning therefore an indignant look upon Briçonnet, he exclaimed: ‘Would you be so base as to urge me to deny my God?’ The unhappy prelate, terrified at this address, fancied he heard his own condemnation, and without saying a word fled hastily from the dungeon. Denis was condemned to be burnt alive.