1558.

THE STATES-GENERAL.

225 would have considered it their highest privilege to be confounded with the commons, and they would have defended it with the stubbornness which they could display on more trivial points. But vanity led them astray. It was for their vanity that the court baited the hook, at which they leaped: they considered themselves honored by being separated from the commons, and brought nearer to the noblesse, with whom they afterwards succeeded in getting themselves confounded. It was not, however, with any profound views of undermining the parliament's authority that they were now nominally elevated in grade; it was for a purpose that will soon appear. The assembly, replying to the king's message by its four estates, thanked him in humble language: the address of the judicial body was conveyed in the most high-flown terms of gratitude; they made a grant of 3,000,000 of crowns, a tax to be raised under the name of a loan. The sum was partitioned among the different communal districts, each mayor and municipality levying their portion. Notwithstanding an express prayer of the commons, the most rich and powerful, otherwise the nobles, found means to be relieved from their share, thus throwing the extraordinary supply, as they did the ordinary taille, upon the shoulders of the people.

When this assembly of states-general, as the historians of the time call it, or of notables, as modern writers will have it, was dissolved, the reason for flattering the parliament became obvious. The king held a bed of justice in that court, and proposed an edict for establishing an inquisition, after the manner of Rone; the cardinals of Lorraine, Bourbon, and Châtillon being the inquisitors, with full power to arrest, try, and condemn heretics. The parliament were here taken by surprise. It was ungracious to make resistance after the boon they had received. Nevertheless they did demur, and so far inodified the edict, as to abandon ecclesiastics altogether to the jurisdiction of the inquisition, but to reserve still to laymen the ancient and sacred privilege of appeal.

If schism could have been crushed, or put an end to by violence, there was every cause for these severe edicts; for it soon appeared that the most powerful men of the kingdom had embraced the principles of Calvin. Great jealousy rankled in the minds of the princes of the blood, or rather of the house of Bourbon, to which the name was confined. They were kept in a kind of disgrace, without influence, and eclipsed by the Guises. The eldest of the family had become king of Navarre, by right of his wife. He resided in his dominions, and there, in a provincial court, the emissaries of the reformation had insinuated themselves, unwatched, and uncontrolled-for the prelates of the kingdom universally

forsook their dioceses for the court-and succeeded in converting the king to the reformed faith. His brother, the prince of Condé, followed the same example. Loyalty or attachment to Henry might have prevented this step; but of this they were destitute. Jealousy of the duke of Guise, and of the cardinal of Lorraine, was their predominant feeling.

It was incumbent on these princes to repair to the capital in order to attend the marriage of the dauphin, Francis, with Mary, the young queen of Scots, which took place in the spring of 1558. They there gave courage and countenance to the Protestants, who were emboldened to assemble publicly in the open air, chanting the psalms of Marot, and indulging in all the enthusiasm of heterodox devotion. A serious tumult occurred on one occasion, and the parliament were obliged to excuse themselves for not inquiring into it by avowing the terror which the menaces of the Protestants against informers produced. It was reported to the king, probably by the Guises, that Dandelot, brother of Coligny, was a convert to the new religion. Henry, who esteemed Dandelot, sent for him to Monceaux, a palace belonging to Catherine of Medicis. At supper the monarch took an opportunity to address his guest in a solemn tone of affection, warned him of the accusation, and begged of him at once to deny it, and exculpate himself. Dandelot was moved by the monarch's earnestness and friendship, but nevertheless resolutely avowed his creed, and scrupled not to declare "the sacrifice of the mass an abomination." Henry started up at the word, and thrust Dandelot from him as a viper. He instantly ordered him to prison, and gave his place of colonelgeneral of the infantry to Montluc. The pope, on learning this, was delighted at the prospect of so illustrious a person suffering at the stake. But Henry relented, and used every effort to bend Dandelot, who at length consented that mass should be said in his prison. He was immediately liberated and restored to favor..

The family of Guise was now all-powerful. The duke, popular for his victories and his liberality, was soon to be still more popular for his orthodoxy. The constable, his nephew Coligny, and the mareschal St. André, were prisoners of Philip, and none at court dared to rival or oppose the duke of Guise and his brother the cardinal. Such prosperity is apt to bring on the canker of arrogance, which works its ruin. The duke failed in the respect that he had hitherto paid to the duchess of Valentinois. The mistress was not insensible to this, and Guise had soon cause to regret his neglect. He took the command of the army in May, and invested Thionville, a fortress of Luxembourg, which he took. But the

1559.

PEACE OF CHATEAU CAMBRESIS.

227 French received about the same time a much more serious check. The mareschal de Termes, governor of Calais, had invaded the litoral of Flanders, and had plundered Dunkirk. He thought proper, however, to retreat before the count of Egmont. The delay caused by the passage of the river Aa, allowed the Spaniards to come up with him near Gravelines, and to force him to an action. It was fought with valor on both sides, and with uncertain success, until some English vessels of war, cruising off the coast, heard, and made sail towards the quarter whence proceeded the reports of artillery. Perceiving the engagement, the English ascended the river with the tide, and placed themselves so as to cannonade the French. The consequence was, their complete defeat,a disaster that cut short all the sanguine hopes of conquest entertained by the duke of Guise, and opened the way for

peace.

The king regretted Montmorency, son bon compere, "his good gossip," as he used to call him. The arrogance of Guise, the imperiousness of the cardinal of Lorraine disgusted him; and the duchess of Valentinois now took care to aggravate his dislike. Henry kept up a familiar correspondence with the constable, and informed him of passing events, not disdaining to act as a kind of spy, betraying the petty intrigues and views of the Guises. The constable panted for his liberty, and resolved to make use of his influence to obtain it. He was liberated on parole. There was a cessation of hostilities; and commissioners met at Cercamp to arrange the conditions of a treaty. The Spaniards presumed on Montmorency's influence, united with his desire to be free. Their demands were exorbitant; and the constable returned to prison. Not long after, however, we find him with the court at Beauvais, celebrating the marriage of one of his sons with the granddaughter of the duchess of Valentinois. Negotiations for peace were not relaxed. The ransom of the constable was fixed at 200,000 crowns; but it was to be diminished by one-half, if peace should be concluded through his medium, a stipulation that leaves somewhat like a stain on Montmorency's honor.

By the peace of Château Cambresis, signed April, 1559, France ceded all her conquests and claims in Italy and Savoy. She restored Luxembourg and the Charolois. In return she kept Metz, Toul, and Verdun, and, what was more important than all, Calais; the restitution of which, when Philip no longer insisted on, Elizabeth, the new queen of England, was in no state to make good. This peace, inveterately opposed by the Guises, and cried down by their partisans, is generally condemned by historians, who have taken

uv the cry, as injurious to France. Her interests, say they, were sacrificed to the freedom of her superannuated constable. In this respect they exaggerate, wilfully putting Calais out of consideration, which was ceded more by Philip than by the English. The treaty was sealed as usual by marriages.

Emmanuel Philibert, the hero of St. Quentin, and now the restored duke of Savoy, espoused the king's sister. His daughter Elizabeth, once the destined bride of the infant of Spain, was given to that prince's father, Philip; and Claude, another princess, was betrothed to the duke of Lorraine.

Had the life and reign of Henry II., destined to be of not much longer duration, closed here, he would have left the character of a severe but not a perfidious prince. As yet, the noble sentiments, the chivalric feeling of good faith, that Francis I. had professed and rendered popular, prevailed. Neither Henry in all his weakness, nor his ministers in all their ambition and mutual quarrels, had forgotten the plain laws of manly uprightness and honor. These were destined soon to be forgotten. To be brave, candid, generous, loyal, soon ceased to be the mode. The volumes of chivalry were soon thrown aside as puerile, and Machiavel was studied in their place. Another ideal of perfection, and another model of conduct, were established. By it dissimulation, cunning, and fraud, provided they proved successful, were declared to be the most estimable qualities. Superiority of intellect was measured by depth of guile. All moral considerations were of course set aside. The end was in every case found to justify the means, however base; and, as a natural consequence of such views, the end that each politician proposed to attain by these extreme measures soon dwindled down into mere self-interest.

Nowhere, in fact, can be pointed out so sudden and complete a change of national character as that which took place in France at this epoch. The contemporaries of Francis I. seem separated by centuries from the men who figured in the days of his grandson: even the same men present different characters in the two epochs. The Guise of Henry II.'s reign is not the Guise of Charles IX. What effected this sad change? Religion, Catholicism, it must be answered;—the established faith of Rome, and its supporters, who, finding that the common weapons of reason and justice would not suffice to crush reform, and that the common principles of religion and morality could not be brought to bear against it perverted both, more, if possible, than they had already perverted them in the iniquitous contest.

The act of Henry II., now about to be narrated, is the first flagrant outrage against honor, the first open demonstra

1559.

BED OF JUSTICE.

229 tion of Machiavelism, and may well mark the point of juncture between the two epochs,-the substitution of the law of fraud for the law of honor. The treaty between Philip and Henry was not concluded without a solemn agreement between the monarchs, sufficiently unnecessary, indeed, considering their character, for extirpating heresy. The great obstacle in Paris was the apathy or leniency of the parliament. Many of the members were supposed to favor the reformation; but how were they to be discovered? The cardinal of Lorraine conceived a plan for this purpose. It by no means bespoke a want of cunning. The only wonder is, how he could persuade the king to become the instrument of such baseness. But sacerdotal reasoning in such cases is conclusive.

Henry, accompanied by the great officers of his court, proceeded unexpectedly to the hall of parliament: he took his seat, to the great astonishment of the members, and formed what he called a bed of justice: he then, in a tone of the utmost kindness and condescension, announced to them that he came merely to ask the advice of the sage members of his parliament on an important matter, viz. a due treatment of heresy. He urged all present to offer their several opinions. They unsuspectingly obeyed him. Those of the highest consideration, the presidents Harlai, Seguier, and De Thou, boldly and generously avowed their sentiments in favor of toleration; professing at the same time their attachment to the faith of their fathers, but declaring that they deemed it equally impolitic and unjust to punish the errors of thought or the misgivings of conscience. The zealots, on the other hand, recommended persecution, and cried out for blood. Two counsellors, however, excited most attention, by openly avowing their predilection for the new opinions. These were Louis Faur and Anne Dubourg. The latter complained, that whilst men were dragged to the stake for simply praying to their God, the orthodox were busied in blasphemy, perjury, debauch, and adultery. The last words, though levelled at the cardinal, were instantly referred to the king. His anger instantly overcame his dissimulation. He ordered Montgomery, the captain of his guards, to arrest the two counsellors and drag them to prison. The parliament saw the trap which had been laid for them, and trembled. Faur and Dubourg were both hanged. Several judges were arrested, while others took flight.

A very short time after this, a festival took place in honor of the late royal marriages. A tournament was Henry's chosen pastime, and one was prepared in the Rue St. Antoine on this occasion. The king and the duke of Guise were