Читать книгу History of the Reformation in Europe in the Time of Calvin (Vol. 1-8) - J. H. Merle D'Aubigné - Страница 64

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WHEN Calvin passed through the capital on his way from Bourges to Noyon, on the occasion of his father's death, he might have remarked a certain agitation among his acquaintances. In fact, the Sorbonne was increasing its exertions to destroy Berquin, who, forsaken by almost everybody, had no one to support him but God and the Queen of Navarre.

=MARGARET'S SORROWS.=

Margaret, who was at St. Germain-en-Laye, enjoyed but little repose. The brilliant court of Francis I. filled the noble palace with their pastimes. Early in the morning every one was afoot; the horns sounded, and the king set off, accompanied by the King of Navarre, a crowd of nobles, the Duchess of Etampes, and many other ladies, and joined one of those great hunting parties of which he was so fond. Margaret, remaining alone, recalled her sorrows, and sought the one thing needful. Her husband sometimes indulged in gaming, and the queen entreated Montmorency to give him good advice. Henry, who thought his wife rather too pious, complained of this with all the impetuosity of his character. It was not Margaret's only vexation. At first her mother had appeared to take part with the Reformation. One day, in December 1522, Louisa of Savoy had said to her daughter, who was delighted to hear it: 'By the grace of the Holy Ghost, my son and I are beginning to know these hypocrites, white, black, grey, and all colours.... May God, by his mercy and infinite goodness, defend us from them; for, if Jesus Christ is not a liar, there is no such dangerous brood in all human nature.'95 But this princess, whose morality was more than doubtful, had now become reconciled, and even leagued with these 'hypocrites black, white, and grey,' and the king was beginning to give them his support. Thus Margaret saw the three objects of her tenderest affection alienating themselves from God; and remaining at the palace while Francis with his lords and ladies and his hounds was chasing the wild animals, she walked sadly in the park, saying to herself:

Father and mother I have none;

Brother and sister—all are gone,

Save God, in whom I trust alone,

Who rules the earth from his high throne.

All these loved ones I would forget;

Parents and friends, the world, its joys,

Honour and wealth however great,

I hold my deepest enemies!

Hence, ye delights!

Whose vanity

Jesus the Christ has shown to me!

But God, God only is my hope;

I know that he is all in all,

Dearer than husband to the wife—

My father, mother, friend, my all!

He is my hope,

My resting-place,

My strength, my being, and my trust,

For he hath saved me by his grace.

Father and mother I have none;

Brother and sister—all are gone,

Save God, in whom I trust alone,

Who rules the earth from his high throne.96

=SORBONNE PLOTS AGAINST BERQUIN.=

Whilst Margaret was seeking consolation in God, there came a support which she had not expected. Erasmus was growing uneasy; the letters which he received were full of alarming news; he saw that Francis I., on whom he had so much relied, was stumbling and ready to fall. This would give the victory to the Sorbonne. Having a presentiment that the ultramontanists were daring revolutionists, prepared to sacrifice not only literature and the Gospel, but royalty itself, he laid aside his usual prudence, and resolved to tear the veil from the king's eyes, which concealed the perverted designs of the Roman party, and to show him conspirators in those who called themselves the supporters of the throne. 'These men,' he wrote, 'under the cloak of the interests of the faith, creep into all sorts of dark ways. Their only thought is of bringing the august heads of monarchs under their yoke and of suspending their power. Wait a little. If a prince resists them, they call him a favourer of heresy, and say that it is the duty of the Church (that is to say, of a few apocryphal monks and false doctors) to dethrone him. What! shall they be permitted to scatter their poisons everywhere, and we be forbidden to apply the antidote?'97

This epistle from the prince of letters, who with so much discernment placed his finger on the sore, soon became known; and when it reached the Sorbonne, the doctors, dismayed that a man so moderate and respected should reveal their secrets so boldly, saw no other means of saving their cause than by striking their enemies with terror. They dared do nothing against the sage of Rotterdam, who was besides out of their reach; but they swore that his friend Berquin should pay for his master. The theologians of the Sorbonne demanded that this gentleman should be brought to trial; Duprat, Louisa of Savoy, and Montmorency supported their petition. There was no means of evading it, and twelve judges were nominated by the pope and by the king.98 These men were greatly embarrassed, for Berquin's irreproachable life, amiable character, inexhaustible charity, and regular attendance at public worship, had won universal esteem. However, as the first president De Selva, the fourth president Pailot, and some others, were either weak or fanatical persons, the Sorbonne did not lose all hope. One alone of the twelve caused any fear: this was William Budæus, called by Erasmus 'the prodigy of France;' an enlightened man, who, while professing a great respect for the Catholic Church, had more than once betrayed certain evangelical tendencies to his wife and children. The twelve judges proceeded with their investigation, without requiring the accused man to be shut up in prison. Berquin went and came as he pleased; he spoke to the judges and parliament, and convinced them of his innocence. But terror began to paralyse the weak minds among them; they were afraid of the righteous man; they would have nothing to do with 'that sort of people,' and turned their backs upon him.

=MARGARET INTERCEDES FOR BERQUIN=

Berquin now resolved to address the king and to get Margaret to support him. 'It was generally reported,' says one of the enemies of the Reform, 'that the Queen of Navarre took wondrous pains to save those who were in danger, and that she alone prevented the Reformation from being stifled in the cradle.'99 Berquin went to the palace, and made his danger known to the queen. He found in Margaret the compassion which failed him elsewhere. She knew that we ought not 'to stand aside from those who suffer persecution for the name of Christ, and would not be ashamed of those in whom there was nothing shameful.'100 Margaret immediately took up her pen, and sitting down at that table where she had so often pleaded both in prose and verse the cause of Christ and of christians, she wrote the king the following letter:—

'Monseigneur,—The unhappy Berquin, who maintains that God, through your goodness, has twice saved his life, presents himself before you, to make manifest his innocence to you, having no one else to whom he can apply. Knowing, Monseigneur, the esteem in which you hold him, and the desire which he has now and always has had to serve you, I fear not to entreat that you will be pleased to have pity upon him. He will convince you that these heretic-finders are more slanderous and disobedient towards you than zealous for the faith. He knows, Monseigneur, that you desire to maintain the rights of every one, and that the just man needs no advocate in the eyes of your compassion. For this cause I shall say no more. Entreating Him who has given you such graces and virtues to grant you a long and happy life, in order that he may long be glorified by you in this world and everlastingly in the world to come,

'Your most obedient and most humble subject and sister,

'Margaret.'101

Having finished, the queen rose and gave the letter to Berquin, who immediately sought an audience of the king. We know not how he was received, or what effect Margaret's intercession had upon Francis. It would seem, however, that the king addressed a few kind words to him. We know at least that Beda and the Sorbonne were uneasy, and that, fearing to see their victim once more escape them, they increased their exertions, and brought one charge after another against him. At last the authorities gave way; the police received orders to avoid every demonstration calculated to alarm him, lest he should escape to Erasmus at Basle. All their measures were arranged, and at the moment when he least expected it, about three weeks before Easter (in March 1529), Berquin was arrested and taken to the Conciergerie.

=BERQUIN'S LETTER DISCOVERED.=

Thus then was 'the most learned of the nobles,' as he was termed, thrown into prison in despite of the queen. He paced sadly up and down his cell, and one thought haunted him. Having been seized very unexpectedly, he had left in his room at Paris certain books which were condemned at Rome, and which consequently might ruin him. 'Alas!' he exclaimed, 'they will cost me serious trouble!'102 Berquin resolved to apply to a christian friend whom he could trust, to prevent the evil which he foresaw; and the next day after his incarceration, when the domestic, who had free access to him, and passed in and out on business, came for orders, the prisoner gave him, with an anxious and mysterious air, a letter which he said was of the greatest importance. The servant immediately hid it under his dress. 'My life is at stake,' repeated Berquin. In that letter, addressed to a familiar friend, the prisoner begged him without delay to remove the books pointed out to him and to burn them.

The servant, who did not possess the courage of a hero, departed trembling. His emotion increased as he proceeded, his strength failed him, and as he was crossing the Pont au Change, and found himself in front of the image of Our Lady, known as la belle ymage, the poor fellow, who was rather superstitious, although in Berquin's service, lost his presence of mind and fainted. 'A sinking of the heart came over him, and he fell to the ground as if in a swoon,' says the catholic chronicler.103 The neighbours and the passers-by gathered round him, and lifted him up. One of these kind citizens, eager to assist him, unbuttoned his coat to give him room to breathe, and found the letter which had been so carefully hidden. The man opened and read it; he was frightened, and told the surrounding crowd what were its contents. The people declared it to be a miracle: 'He is a heretic,' they said. 'If he has fallen like a dead man, it is the penalty of his crime; it was Our Lady who did it.'—'Give me the letter,' said one of the spectators; 'the famous Jacobin doctor who is preaching the Lent sermons at St. Bartholomew's dines with me to-day. I will show it to him.' When the dinner-hour came, the company invited by this citizen arrived, and among them was the celebrated preacher of the Rue St. Jacques in his white robe and scapulary and pointed hood. This Jacobin monk was no holiday inquisitor. He understood the great importance of the letter, and, quitting the table, hastened with it to Beda, who, quite overjoyed at the discovery, eagerly laid it before the court. The christian gentleman was ruined. The judges found the letter very compromising. 'Let the said Berquin,' they ordered, 'be closely confined in a strong tower.' This was done. Beda, on his side, displayed fresh activity; for time pressed, and it was necessary to strike a decisive blow. With some the impetuous syndic spoke gently, with others he spoke loudly; he employed threats and promises, and nothing seemed to tire him.

From that hour Berquin's case appeared desperate. Most of his friends abandoned him; they were afraid lest Margaret's intervention, always so powerful, should now prove unavailing. The captive alone did not give way to despair. Although shut up in a strong tower, he possessed liberty and joy, and uplifting his soul to God, he hoped even against hope.

=BERQUIN'S SENTENCE.=

On Friday, the 16th of April, 1529, the inquiry was finished, and at noon Berquin was brought into court. The countenance of Budæus was sorrowful and kind; but the other judges bore the stamp of severity on their features. The prisoner's heart was free from rancour, his hands pure from revenge, and the calm of innocence was on his face. 'Louis Berquin,' said the president, 'you are convicted of belonging to the sect of Luther, and of having written wicked books against the majesty of God and of his glorious mother. Wherefore we condemn you to do public penance, bareheaded and with a lighted taper in your hand, in the great court of our palace, asking pardon of God, of the king, and of justice, for the offence you have committed. You shall then be taken, bareheaded and on foot, to the Grève, where you shall see your books burnt. Next you shall be led to the front of the church of Notre Dame, where you shall do penance to God and the glorious Virgin, his mother. Afterwards you shall have your tongue pierced—that instrument of unrighteousness by which you have so grievously sinned.104 Lastly, you shall be taken to the prison of Monsieur de Paris (the bishop), and be shut up there all your life between four walls of stone; and we forbid you to be supplied either with books to read, or pen and ink to write.'

Berquin, startled at hearing such a sentence, which Erasmus terms 'atrocious,' and which the pious nobleman was far from expecting,105 at first remained silent, but soon regaining his usual courage, and looking firmly at his judges,106 he said: 'I appeal to the king.'—'Take care,' answered his judges; 'if you do not acquiesce in our sentence, we will find means to prevent you from ever appealing again.' This was clear. Berquin was sent back to prison.

Margaret began to fear that her brother would withdraw his support from the evangelicals. If the Reformation had been a courtly religion, Francis would have protected it; but the independent air that it seemed to take, and, above all, its inflexible holiness, made it distasteful to him. The Queen of Navarre saw that the unhappy prisoner had none but the Lord on his side. She prayed:

Thou, God, alone canst say:

Touch not my son, take not his life away.

Thou only canst thy sovereign hand outstretch

To ward the blow.107

Everything indicated that the blow would be struck. On the afternoon of the very day when the sentence had been delivered, Maillard, the lieutenant-criminal, with the archers, bowmen, and arquebusiers of the city, surrounded the Conciergerie. It was thought that Berquin's last hour had come, and an immense crowd hurried to the spot. 'More than twenty thousand people came to see the execution,' says a manuscript.108 'They are going to take one of the king's officers to the Grève,' said the spectators. Maillard, leaving his troops under arms, entered the prison, ordered the martyr's cell to be opened, and told him that he had come to execute the sentence. 'I have appealed to the king,' replied the prisoner. The lieutenant-criminal withdrew. Everybody expected to see him followed by Berquin, and all eyes were fixed upon the gate; but no one appeared. The commander of the troops ordered them to retire; the archers marched back, and 'the great throng of people that was round the court-house and in the city separated.' The first president immediately called the court together, to take the necessary measures. 'We must lose no time,' said some, 'for the king has twice already rescued him from our hands.' Was there no hope left?

=BUDÆUS TRIES TO SAVE BERQUIN.=

There were in France at that time two men of the noblest character, both friends of learning, whose whole lives had been consecrated to doing what was right: they were Budæus on the bench, and Berquin in his cell. The first was united to the second by the purest friendship, and his only thought was how to save him. But what could he do singly against the parliament and the Sorbonne? Budæus shuddered when he heard of his friend's appeal; he knew the danger to which this step exposed him, and hastened to the prison. 'Pray do not appeal!' said he; 'a second sentence is all ready, and it orders you to be put to death. If you accept the first, we shall be able to save you eventually. Pray do not ruin yourself!' Berquin, a more decided man than Budæus, would rather die than make any concession to error. His friend, however, did not slacken his exertions; he desired at whatever risk to save one of the most distinguished men of France. Three whole days were spent by him in the most energetic efforts.109 He had hardly quitted his friend before he returned and sat down by his side or walked with him sorrowfully up and down the prison. He entreated him for his own safety, for the good of the Church, and for the welfare of France. Berquin made no reply; only, after a long appeal from Budæus, he gave a nod of dissent. Berquin, says the historian of the University of Paris, 'sustained the encounter with indomitable obstinacy.'110

=BERQUIN'S FALL AND RECOVERY=

Would he continue firm? Many evangelicals were anxiously watching the struggle. Remembering the fall of the apostle Peter at the voice of a serving-maid, they said one to another that a trifling opposition was sufficient to make the strongest stumble. 'Ah!' said Calvin, 'if we cease but for an instant to lean upon the hand of God, a puff of wind, or the rustling of a falling leaf, is enough ... and straightway we fall!' It was not a puff of wind, but a tempest rather, by which Berquin was assailed. While the threatening voices of his enemies were roaring around him, the gentle voice of Budæus, full of the tenderest affection, penetrated the prisoner's heart and shook his firmest resolutions. 'O my dear friend,' said Budæus, 'there are better times coming, for which you ought to preserve yourself.' Then he stopped, and added in a more serious tone: 'You are guilty towards God and man if by your own act you give yourself up to death.'111

Berquin was touched at last by the perseverance of this great man; he began to waver; his sight became troubled. Turning his face away from God, he bent it to the ground. The power of the Holy Spirit was extinguished in him for a moment (to use the language of a reformer), and he thought he might be more useful to the kingdom of God by preserving himself for the future, than by yielding himself up to present death. 'All that we ask of you is to beg for pardon. Do we not all need pardon?' Berquin consented to ask pardon of God and the king in the great court of the palace of justice.

Budæus ran off with delight and emotion to inform his colleagues of the prisoner's concession. But at the very moment when he thought he had saved his friend, he felt a sudden sadness come over him. He knew at what a price Berquin would have to purchase his life; besides, had he not seen that it was only after a struggle of nearly sixty hours that the prisoner had given way? Budæus was uneasy. 'I know the man's mind,' he said. 'His ingenuousness, and the confidence he has in the goodness of his cause, will be his ruin.'112

During this interval there was a fierce struggle in Berquin's soul. All peace had forsaken him; his conscience spoke tumultuously. 'No!' he said to himself, 'no sophistry! Truth before all things! We must fear neither man nor torture, but render all obedience to God. I will persevere to the end; I will not pray the leader of this good war for my discharge. Christ will not have his soldiers take their ease until they have conquered over death.'

Budæus returned to the prison shortly afterwards. 'I will retract nothing,' said his friend; 'I would rather die than by my silence countenance the condemnation of truth.'113 He was lost! Budæus withdrew, pale and frightened, and communicated the terrible news to his colleagues. Beda and his friends were filled with joy, being convinced that to remove Berquin from the number of the living was to remove the Reformation from France. The judges, by an unprecedented exercise of power, revised their sentence, and condemned the nobleman to be strangled and then burnt on the Grève.

Margaret, who was at St. Germain, was heartbroken when she heard of this unexpected severity. Alas! the king was at Blois with Madame ——.... Would there be time to reach him? She would try. She wrote to him again, apologising for the very humble recommendations she was continually laying before him, and adding: 'Be pleased, Sire, to have pity on poor Berquin, who is suffering only because he loves the Word of God and obeys you. This is the reason why those who did the contrary during your captivity hate him so; and their malicious hypocrisy has enabled them to find advocates about you to make you forget his sincere faith in God and his love for you.'114 After having uttered this cry of anguish, the Queen of Navarre waited.

=THE EXECUTION HURRIED ON.=

But Francis gave no signs of life. In his excuse it has been urged that if he had at that time been victorious abroad and honoured at home, he would have saved Berquin once more; but the troubles in Italy and the intrigues mixed up with the treaty of Cambray, signed three months later, occupied all his thoughts. These are strange reasons. The fact is, that if the king (as is probable) had desired to save Berquin, he had not the opportunity; the enemies of this faithful christian had provided against that. They had scarcely got the sentence in their hands, when they called for its immediate execution. They fancied they could already hear the gallop of the horse arriving from Blois, and see the messenger bringing the pardon. Beda fanned the flame. Not a week's delay, not even a day or an hour! 'But,' said some, 'this prevents the king from exercising the right of pardon, and is an encroachment upon his royal authority.'—'It matters not! put him to death!'—The judges determined to have the sentence carried out the very day it was delivered, 'in order that he might not be helped by the king.'115

In the morning of the 22nd of April, 1529,116 the officers of parliament entered the gloomy cell where Berquin was confined. The pious disciple, on the point of offering up his life voluntarily for the name of Jesus Christ, was absorbed in prayer; he had long sought for God and had found him; the Lord was near him, and peace filled his soul. Having God for his father, he knew that nothing would be wanting to him in that last hour when everything else was to fail him: he saw a triumph in reproach, a deliverance in death. At the sight of the officers of the court, some of whom appeared embarrassed, Berquin understood what they wanted. He was ready; he rose calm and firm, and followed them. The officers handed him over to the lieutenant-criminal and his sergeants, who were to carry out the sentence.

Meanwhile several companies of archers and bowmen were drawn up in front of the Conciergerie. These armed men were not alone around the prison. The news had spread far and wide that a gentleman of the court, a friend of Erasmus and of the Queen of Navarre, was about to be put to death; and accordingly there was a great commotion in the capital. A crowd of common people, citizens, priests and monks, with a few gentlemen and friends of the condemned noble, waited, some with anger, others with curiosity, and others with anguish, for the moment when he would appear. Budæus was not there; he had not the courage to be present at the punishment. Margaret, who was at St. Germain, could almost see the flames of the burning pile from the terrace of the château.

When the clock struck twelve, the escort began to move. At its head was the grand penitentiary Merlin; then followed the archers and bowmen, and after them the officers of justice and more armed men. In the middle of the escort was the prisoner. A wretched tumbrel was bearing him slowly to punishment. He wore a cloak of velvet, a doublet of satin and damask, and golden hose, says the Bourgeois of Paris, who probably saw him pass.117 The King of heaven having invited him to the wedding, Berquin had joyfully put on his finest clothes. 'Alas!' said many as they saw him, 'he is of noble lineage, a very great scholar, expert and quick in learning ... and yet he has gone out of his mind!' There was nothing in the looks or gestures of the reformer which indicated the least confusion or pride. He neither braved nor feared death: he approached it with tranquillity, meekness, and hope, as if entering the gates of heaven. Men saw peace unchangeable written on his face. Montius, a friend of Erasmus, who had desired to accompany this pious man even to the stake, said in the highest admiration: 'There was in him none of that boldness, of that hardened air which men led to death often assume; the calmness of a good conscience was visible in every feature.'—'He looks,' said other spectators, 'as if he were in God's house meditating upon heavenly things.'118

=BERQUIN'S MARTYRDOM.=

At last the tumbrel had reached the place of punishment, and the escort halted. The chief executioner approached and desired Berquin to alight. He did so, and the crowd pressed more closely round the ill-omened spot. The principal officer of the court, having beckoned for silence with his hand, unrolled a parchment, and read the sentence 'with a husky voice,' says the chronicler. But Berquin was about to die for the Son of God who had died for him; his heart did not flinch one jot; he felt no confusion, and wishing to make the Saviour who supported him in that hour of trial known to the poor people around him, he uttered a few christian words. But the doctors of the Sorbonne were watching all his movements, and had even posted about a certain number of their creatures in order to make a noise if they thought it was necessary. Alarmed at hearing the soft voice of the evangelist, and fearing lest the people should be touched by his words, these 'sycophants' hastily gave the signal. Their agents immediately began to shout, the soldiers clashed their arms, 'and so great was the uproar that the voice of the holy martyr was not heard in the extremity of death.' When Berquin found that these clamours drowned his voice, he held his peace. A Franciscan friar, who had accompanied him from the prison, eager to extort from him one word of recantation, redoubled his importunities at this last moment; but the martyr remained firm. At length the monk was silent, and the executioner drew near. Berquin meekly stretched out his head; the hangman passed the cord round his neck and strangled him.

=EFFECT ON THE SPECTATORS.=

There was a pause of solemn silence ... but not for long. It was broken by the doctors of the Sorbonne and the monks, who hastily went up and contemplated the lifeless body of their victim. No one cried 'Jesus! Jesus!'—a cry of mercy heard even at the execution of a parricide. The most virtuous man in France was treated worse than a murderer. One person, however, standing near the stake, showed some emotion, and, strange to say, it was the grand penitentiary Merlin. 'Truly,' he said, 'so good a christian has not died these hundred years and more.' The dead body was thrown into the flames, which mounted up and devoured those limbs once so vigorous and now so pale and lifeless. A few men, led away by passion, looked on with joy at the progress of the fire, which soon consumed the precious remains of him who should have been the reformer of France. They imagined they saw heresy burnt out, and when the body was entirely destroyed, they thought that the Reformation was destroyed with it, and that not a fragment of it remained. But all the spectators were not so cruel. They gazed upon the burning pile with sorrow and with love. The christians who had looked upon Berquin as the future reformer of France, were overwhelmed with anguish when they saw the hero in whom they had hoped reduced to a handful of dust. The temper of the people seemed changed, and tears were seen to flow down many a face. In order to calm this emotion, certain rumours were set afloat. A man stepped out of the crowd, and going up to the Franciscan confessor, asked him: 'Did Berquin acknowledge his error?'—'Yes, certainly,' answered the monk, 'and I doubt not that his soul departed in peace.' This man was Montius; he wrote and told the anecdote to Erasmus. 'I do not believe a word of it,' answered the latter. 'It is the usual story which those people invent after the death of their victims, in order to appease the anger of the people.'

Some such stratagems were necessary, for the general agitation was increasing. Berquin's innocence, stamped on his features and on all his words, struck those who saw him die, and they were beginning to murmur. The monks noticed this, and had prepared themselves beforehand in case the indignation of the people should break out. They penetrated into the thickest of the crowd, making presents to the children and to the common people; and having worked them up, they sent them off in every direction. The impressionable crowd spread over the Grève and through the neighbouring streets, shouting out that Berquin was a heretic. Yet here and there men gathered in little groups, talking of the excellent man who had been sacrificed to the passion of the theological faculty. 'Alas!' said some with tears in their eyes, 'there never was a more virtuous man.'119 Many were astonished that a nobleman who held a high place in the king's affections should be strangled like a criminal. 'Alas!' rejoined others indignantly, 'what caused his ruin was the liberty which animated him, which is always the faithful companion of a good conscience.'120 Others of more spirit exclaimed: 'Condemn, quarter, crucify, burn, behead ... that is what pirates and tyrants can do; but God is the only just judge, and blessed is the man whom he pardoneth.' The more pious looked for consolation to the future. 'It is only through the cross,' they said, 'that Christ will triumph in this kingdom.'121 The crowd dispersed.

=THE MARTYRS' HYMN.=

The news of this tragedy soon spread through France, everywhere causing the deepest sorrow. Berquin was not the only person struck down; other christians also suffered the last punishment. Philip Huaut was burnt alive, after having his tongue cut out; and Francis Desus had both hand and head cut off. The story of these deaths, especially that of Berquin, was told in the shops of the workmen and in the cottages of the peasants. Many were terrified at it; but more than one evangelical christian, when he heard the tale at his own fireside, raised his head and cast a look towards heaven, expressive of his joy at having a Redeemer and a Father's house beyond the sky. 'We too are ready,' said these men and women of the Reformation to one another, 'we are ready to meet death cheerfully, setting our eyes on the life that is to come.' One of these christian souls, who had known Berquin best, and who shed most tears over him, was the Queen of Navarre. Distressed and alarmed by his death and by the deaths of the christians sacrificed in other places for the Gospel, she prayed fervently to God to come to the help of his people. She called to mind these words of the Gospel: Shall not God avenge his own elect, which cry day and night unto him?122 A stranger to all hatred, free from every evil desire of revenge, she called to the Lord's remembrance how dear the safety of his children is to him, and implored his protection for them:

O Lord our God, arise,

Chastise thy enemies

Thy saints who slay.

Death, which to heathen men

Is full of grief and pain,

To all who in heaven shall reign

With thee is dear.

They through the gloomy vale

Walk firm, and do not quail,

To rest with thee.

Such death is happiness,

Leading to that glad place

Where in eternal bliss

Thy sons abide.

Stretch out thy hand, O Lord,

Help those who trust thy Word,

And give for sole reward

This death of joy.

O Lord our God, arise,

Chastise thy enemies

Thy saints who slay.123

This little poem by the Queen of Navarre, which contains several other verses, was the martyrs' hymn in the sixteenth century. Nothing shows more clearly that she was heart and soul with the evangelicals.

Terror reigned among the reformed christians for some time after Berquin's martyrdom. They endured reproach, without putting themselves forward; they did not wish to irritate their enemies, and many of them retired to the desert, that is, to some unknown hiding-place. It was during this period of sorrow and alarm, when the adversaries imagined that by getting rid of Berquin they had got rid of the Reformation as well, and when the remains of the noble martyr were hardly scattered to the winds of heaven, that Calvin once more took up his abode in Paris, not far from the spot where his friend had been burnt. Rome thought she had put the reformer to death; but he was about to rise again from his ashes, more spiritual, more clear, and more powerful, to labour at the renovation of society and the salvation of mankind.

95 Journal de Louise de Savoie.

96 Marguerites de la Marguerite, i. p. 502.

97 'Illis licere venena sua spargere, nobis non licere admovere antidota.'—Erasmi Epp. p. 1109.

98 Journal d'un Bourgeois de Paris sous François I. p. 380.

99 Flor. Rémond, Hist. de l'Hérésie, p. 348.

100 Calvin.

101 Lettres de la Reine de Navarre, ii. p. 96.

102 Journal d'un Bourgeois de Paris, p. 381.

103 Ibid.

104 'Lingua illi ferro perfoderetur.'—Erasmi Epp. p. 1277. Journal d'un Bourgeois de Paris, p. 382.

105 'Audita præter expectationem atroci sententia.'—Erasmi Epp.

106 'Constanti vultu.'—Ibid.

107 Marguerites de la Marguerite, i. p. 444.

108 Chronique du Roi François I. p. 76, note.

109 'Budæum triduo privatim egisse cum Berquino.'—Erasmi Epp.

110 Crévier, v. p. 206.

111 Crespin, Martyrologue, p. 103, verso.

112 Crespin, Martyrologue, p. 103, verso.

113 'At ego mortem subire, quam veritatis damnationem, vel tacitus approbare velim.'—Bezæ Icones.

114 Lettres de la Reine de Navarre, ii. p. 99.

115 Journal d'un Bourgeois de Paris, p. 383.

116 Crespin and Theodore Beza speak of the month of November; the Bourgeois de Paris mentions the 17th of April, but most of the authorities give the 22nd.

117 'Des chausses d'or.'—Journal d'un Bourgeois de Paris, p. 384.

118 'Dixisses illum in templo de rebus cœlestibus cogitare.'—Erasmi Epp. p. 1277.

119 'Prædicant eo nihil fuisse integrius.'—Erasmi Epp. p. 1313.

120 'Libertas, bonæ conscientiæ comes, perdidit virum.'—Ibid. p. 113.

121 'Christo, nonnisi sub cruce, in Gallis triumphaturo.'—Bezæ Icones.

122 Luke xviii. 7.

123

'Reveille-toi, Seigneur Dieu,

Fais ton effort,

Et viens venger en tout lieu

Des tiens la mort.'

Les Marguerites de la Marguerite, i. p. 508.