The Historical Nights' Entertainment, Rafael Sabatini [freenovel24 .txt] 📗
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dangerous type of subject, Sire.”
“A subject who forces you into war with Protestant Flanders against
Catholic Spain,” added the blunt Tavannes.
“Forces me?” roared the King, half rising, his eyes aflash. “That
is a very daring word.”
“It would be if the proof were absent. Remember, Sire, his very
speech to you before you permitted him to embark upon preparations
for this war. ‘Give us leave,’ he said, ‘to make war in Flanders,
or we shall be compelled to make war upon yourself.’”
The King winced and turned livid. Sweat stood in beads upon his
brow. He was touched in his most sensitive spot. That speech of
Coligny’s was of all things the one he most desired to forget. He
twisted the chaplet so that the beads bit deeply into his fingers.
“Sire,” Tavannes continued, “were I a king, and did a subject so
address me, I should have his head within the hour. Yet worse has
happened since, worse is happening now. The Huguenots are arming.
They ride arrogantly through the streets of your capital, stirring
up rebellion. They are here in force, and the danger grows acute
and imminent.”
Charles writhed before them. He mopped his brow with a shaking
hand.
“The danger - yes. I see that. I admit the danger. But Coligny - “
“Is it to be King Gaspard or King Charles?” rasped the voice of
Catherine.
The chaplet snapped suddenly in the King’s fingers. He sprang to
his feet, deathly pale.
“So be it!” he cried. “Since it is necessary to kill the Admiral,
kill him, then. Kill him!” he screamed, in a fury that seemed
aimed at those who forced this course upon him. “Kill him - but
see to it also that at the same time you kill every Huguenot in
France, so that not one shall be left to reproach me. Not one, do
you hear? Take your measures and let the thing be done at once.”
And on that, his face livid and twitching, his limbs shaking, he
flung out of the room and left them.
It was all the warrant they required, and they set to work at once
there in the King’s own cabinet, where he had left them. Guise,
who had hitherto been no more than a silent spectator, assumed now
the most active part. Upon his own shoulders he took the charge
of seeing the Admiral done to death.
The remainder of the day and a portion of the evening were spent in
concerting ways and means. They assured themselves of the Provost
of the merchants of Paris, of the officers of the Gardes Francaises
and the three thousand Swiss, of the Captains of the quarters
and other notoriously factious persons who could be trusted as
leaders. By ten o’clock at night all preparations were made and it
was agreed that the ringing of the bell of Saint-Germain l’Auxerrois
for matins was to be the signal for the massacre.
A gentleman of the Admiral’s household taking his way homeward that
night passed several men bearing sheaves of pikes upon their
shoulders, and never suspected whom these weapons were to arm. He
met several small companies of soldiers marching quietly, their
weapons shouldered, their matches glowing, and still he suspected
nothing, whilst in one quarter he stopped to watch a man whose
behaviour seemed curious, and discovered that he was chalking a
white cross upon the doors of certain houses.
Meeting soon afterwards another man with a bundle of weapons on his
shoulder, the intrigued Huguenot gentleman asked him bluntly what
he carried and whither he went.
“It is for the divertissement at the Louvre tonight,” he was answered.
But in the Louvre the Queen-Mother and the Catholic leaders, the
labours of preparation ended, were snatching a brief rest. Between
two and three o’clock in the morning Catherine and Anjou repaired
again to the King’s cabinet. They found him waiting there, his face
haggard and his eyes fevered.
He had spent a part of the evening at billiards, and among the
players had been La Rochefoucauld, of whom he was fond, and who had
left him with a jest at eleven o’clock, little dreaming that it was
for the last time.
The three of them crossed to the window overlooking the river. They
opened it, and peered out fearfully. Even Catherine trembled now
that the hour approached. The air was fresh and cool, swept clean
by the stirring breeze of the dawn, whose first ghostly gleams were
already in the sky. Suddenly, somewhere near at hand, a pistol
cracked. The noise affected them oddly. The King fell into an ague
and his teeth chattered audibly. Panic seized him.
“By the Blood, it shall not be! It shall not be!” he cried suddenly.
He looked at his mother and his brother and they looked at him;
ghastly were the faces of all three, their eyes wide and staring
with horror.
Charles swore in his terror that he would cancel all commands. And
since Catherine and Anjou made no attempt to hinder him, he
summoned an officer and bade him seek out the Duke of Guise at once
and command him to stay his hand.
The messenger eventually found the Duke in the courtyard of the
Admiral’s house, standing over the Admiral’s dead body, which his
assassins had flung down from the bedroom window. Guise laughed,
and stirred the head of the corpse with his foot, answering that
the message came too late. Even as he spoke the great bell of
Saint-Germain l’Auxerrois began to ring for matins.
The royal party huddled at that window of the Louvre heard it at
the same moment, and heard, as if in immediate answer, shots of
arquebus and pistol, cries and screams near at hand, and then,
gradually swelling from a murmur, the baying of the fierce multitude.
Other bells gave tongue, until from every steeple in Paris the alarm
rang out. The red glow from thousands of torches flushed the heavens
with a rosy tint as of dawn, the air grew heavy with the smell of
pitch and resin.
The King, clutching the sill of the window, poured out a stream of
blasphemy from between his chattering teeth. Then the hubbub rose
suddenly near at hand. The neighbourhood of the Louvre was
populous with Huguenots, and into it now poured the excited Catholic
citizens and soldiers. Soon the quay beneath the palace windows
presented the fiercest spectacle of any quarter, of Paris.
Half-clad men, women, and children fled screaming before the
assassins, until they were checked by the chains that everywhere
had been placed across the streets. Some sought the river, hoping
to find a way of escape. But with Satanic foresight, the boats
usually moored there had been conveyed to the other side. Thus
some hundreds of Huguenots were brought to bay, and done to death
under the very eyes of the King who had unleashed this horror.
Doors were crashed open, flames rose to heaven, men and women were
shot down under the palace wall, bodies were flung from windows,
and on every side - in the words of D’Aubigne - the blood now
flowed, seeking the river.
The King watched a while, screams and curses pouring from his lips
to be lost in the horrible uproar. He turned, perhaps to upbraid
his mother and his brother, but found that they were no longer at
his side. Behind him in the room a page was crouching, watching
him with a white, horrified face.
Suddenly the King laughed - it was the fierce, hysterical laugh of
a madman. His eyes fell on the arquebuses flanking the picture of
the Mother of Mercy. He took one of them down, then caught the boy
by the collar of his doublet and dragged him forward to the window.
“Hither, and load for me!” he bade him, between peals of his
terrible laughter. Then he levelled the weapon across the sill of
the window. “Parpaillots! Parpaillots!” he screamed. “Kill!
Kill!” and he discharged the arquebus into a fleeing group of
Huguenots.
Five days later, the King - who by now had thrown the blame of the
whole affair, with its slaughter of some two thousand Huguenots,
upon the Guises and their hatred of Coligny - rode out to Montfaucon
to behold the decapitated body of the Admiral, which hung from the
gallows in chains. A courtier of a poor but obtrusive wit leaned
towards him.
“The Admiral becomes noisome, I think,” he said.
The King’s green eyes considered him, his lips curling grimly.
“The body of a dead enemy always smells sweet,” he said.
VI. THE NIGHT OF WITCHCRAFT
LOUIS XIV AND MADAME DE MONTESPAN
If you scrape the rubbish-heap of servile, coeval flattery that
usually smothers the personality of a monarch, you will discover a
few kings who have been truly great; many who have achieved
greatness because they were wisely content to serve as masks for
the great intellects of their time; and, for the rest, some bad
kings, some foolish kings, and some ridiculous kings. But in all
that royal gallery of history you will hardly find a more truly
absurd figure than that of the resplendent Roi Soleil, the Grand
Monarque, the Fourteenth Louis of France.
I am not aware that he has ever been laughed at; certainly never
to the extent which he deserves. The flatterers of his day,
inevitable products of his reign, did their work so thoroughly that
even in secret they do not appear to have dared to utter - possibly
they did not even dare to think - the truth about him. Their work
survives, and when you have assessed the monstrous flattery at its
true worth, swept it aside and come down to the real facts of his
life, you make the discovery that the proudest title their
sycophancy could bestow and his own fatuity accept - Le Roi Soleil,
the SunKing - makes him what indeed he is: a king of opera bouffe.
There is about him at times something almost reminiscent of the
Court buffoons of a century before, who puffed themselves out with
mock pride, and aped a sort of sovereignty to excite laughter; with
this difference, however, that in his own case it was not intended
to be amusing.
A heartless voluptuary of mediocre intelligence, he contrived to
wrap himself in what Saint-Simon has called a “terrible majesty.”
Hewas obsessed by the idea of the dignity, almost the divinity - of
kingship. I cannot believe that he conceived himself human. He
appears to have held that being king was very like being God, and
he duped the world by ceremonials of etiquette that were very
nearly sacramental. We find him burdening the most simple and
personal acts of everyday life with a succession of rites of an
amazing complexity. Thus, when he rose in the morning, princes of
the blood and the first gentlemen of France were in attendance: one
to present to him his stockings, another to proffer on bended knee
the royal garters, a third to perform the ceremony of handing him
his wig, and so on until the toilette of his plump, not unhandsome
person was complete. You miss the incense, you feel that some
noble thurifer should have fumigated him at each stage. Perhaps
he never thought of it.
The evil fruits of his reign - evil, that is to say, from the point
of view of his order, which was swept away as so much anachronistic
rubbish - did not come until a hundred years later. In his own day
France was great, and this not because but in spite of him. After
all, he was not
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