J. H. Merle D'Aubigné - History of the Reformation in Europe in the Time of Calvin (Vol. 1-8)

But Margaret did not lose courage. She recollected that the widow in the Gospel had obtained her request by her importunity. She entreated her mother, she wrote to her brother: ‘If you do not interfere, Berquin is a dead man.’ 470Francis I. yielded to her prayer, and wrote to the first president that he, the king, would make him answerable for Berquin’s life if he dared to condemn him. The president stopped all proceedings; the monks hung their heads, and Beda and his friends, says the chronicler, ‘were nigh bursting with vexation.’ 471

Yet Margaret did not hide from herself that she had still a hard struggle before her, which would require strength and perseverance. She felt the need of support to bring to a successful end in France a transformation similar to that which was then renewing Germany. The Count of Hohenlohe, at Strasburg, was not enough: she wanted at her side a staff that would enable her to bear with her brother’s rebukes. God appeared willing to give her what she wished.

There was at court a prince, young, lively, witty, handsome, brave and gay, though somewhat harsh at times: he had already gone through surprising adventures, and, what was no small recommendation in Margaret’s eyes, had been the companion of Francis in the field and in prison. He was Henry d’Albret, King of Navarre—king by right, if not in fact—and at that time twenty-four years old. Community of misfortune had united Francis and Henry in close friendship, and young d’Albret soon conceived a deep affection for his friend’s sister. Henry loved learning, possessed great vivacity of temper, and spoke with facility and even with eloquence. It was a pleasant thing to hear him gracefully narrating to the court circles the manner in which he had escaped from the fort of Pizzighitone, where he had been confined after the battle of Pavia. ‘In vain,’ he said, ‘did I offer the emperor a large ransom; he was deaf. Determined to escape from my gaolers, I bribed two of my guards; I procured a rope-ladder, and Vivis and I—(Vivis was his page)—let ourselves down from the window during the night. My room was at a great height, situated in the main tower above the moat. But, resolved to sacrifice my life rather than the states of my fathers, I put on the clothes of one of my attendants, who took my place in my bed. I opened the window; it was a dark night; I glided slowly down the high walls; I reached the ground, crossed the ditches, quitted the castle of Pavia, and, by God’s help, managed so well that I got to St. Just on Christmas Eve’ (1525). 472

Henry d’Albret, having thus escaped from his enemies, hastened to Lyons, where he found Madame, and where Margaret arrived soon after, on her return from Spain. Smitten with her beauty, wit, and grace, the King of Navarre courted her hand. Everything about him charmed all who saw him; but Margaret’s hand was not easy to be obtained. She had been first asked in marriage for the youthful Charles, King of Spain; and such a union, if it had been carried out, might not perhaps have been without influence upon the destinies of Europe. But the age of the monarch (he was then but eight years old) had caused the negotiation to fail, and the sister of the King of France married the Duke of Alençon, a prince of the blood, but a man without understanding, amiability, or courage. Chief cause of the disasters of Pavia, he had fled from the field of battle and died of shame.

Margaret did not at first accept the homage of the young King of Navarre. She was not to find in him all the support she needed; but that was not the only motive of her refusal; she could not think of marriage so long as her brother was a prisoner. Henry was not discouraged; he did all he could to please the duchess, and, knowing her attachment for the Gospel, he never failed, when present in the council, to take up the defence of the pious men whom Cardinal Duprat wished to put to death. This intervention was not a mere idle task. The persecution became such, that Margaret, withdrawing from the attentions of the prince, thought only of the dangers to which the humble christians were exposed whose faith she shared.

We shall see that the pope and the Sorbonne had more influence in France than the regent and the king.

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At the very moment when the duchess, the Count of Hohenlohe, and others were indulging in the sweetest hopes, the darkest future opened before their eyes. Margaret had dreamt of a new day, illumined by the brightest sunshine, but all of a sudden the clouds gathered, the light was obscured, the winds rose, and the tempest burst forth.

There was a young man, about twenty-eight years of age, a licentiate of laws, William Joubert by name, whom his father, king’s advocate at La Rochelle, had sent to Paris to study the practice of the courts. Notwithstanding the prohibition of the parliament, William, who was of a serious disposition, ventured to inquire into the catholic faith. Conceiving doubts about it, he said in the presence of some friends, that ‘neither Genevieve nor even Mary could save him, but the Son of God alone.’ Shortly after the issuing of the proclamation, the licentiate was thrown into prison. The alarmed father immediately hurried to Paris: his son, his hope ... a heretic! and on the point of being burnt! He gave himself no rest: he went from one judge to another: ‘Ask what you please,’ said the unhappy father; ‘I am ready to give any money to save his life.’ 473Vainly did he repeat his entreaties day after day; on Saturday, February 17, 1526, the executioner came to fetch William; he helped him to get into the tumbrel, and led him to the front of Notre Dame: ‘Beg Our Lady’s pardon,’ he said. He next took him to the front of St. Genevieve’s church: ‘Ask pardon of St. Genevieve.’ The Rocheller was firm in his faith, and would ask pardon of none but God. He was then taken to the Place Maubert, where the people, seeing his youth and handsome appearance, deeply commiserated his fate; but the tender souls received but rough treatment from the guards. ‘Do not pity him,’ they said; ‘he has spoken evil of Our Lady and the saints in paradise, and holds to the doctrine of Luther.’ The hangman then took up his instruments, approached William, made him open his mouth, and pierced his tongue. He then strangled him and afterwards burnt his body. The poor father returned alone to Rochelle. But the parliament was not satisfied with one victim; erelong it made an assault upon the inhabitants of a city which the enemies of the Gospel detested in an especial manner.

A well-educated young man of Meaux had come to Paris; he had translated ‘certain books’ from Latin into French: he took Luther’s part and spoke out boldly: ‘We need not take holy water to wash away our sins,’ he said; ‘the blood of Christ alone can cleanse us from them. We need not pray for the dead, for immediately after death their souls are either in paradise or in hell; there is no purgatory; I do not believe in it.’ 474‘Ah!’ said the angry monks, ‘we see how it is; Meaux is thoroughly infected with false doctrine; one Falry , 475a priest, with some others, is the cause of these perversions.’ The young man was denounced to the parliament. ‘If you do not recant, you will be burned,’ they said. The poor youth was terrified; he was afraid of death. They led him to the front of the cathedral of Notre Dame; there he mounted a ladder, bareheaded, with lighted taper in his hand, and cried out for: ‘Pardon of God and of Our Lady!’ Then the priests put in his hands the books he had translated; he read them ‘every word’ (the titles doubtless), and afterwards pronounced them to be false and damnable. The books were burnt before his face; and as for him, ‘he was taken to the Celestines’ prison and put upon bread and water.’