Hero stories of France

By Eva March Tappan

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Title: Hero stories of France

Author: Eva March Tappan


        
Release date: October 11, 2026 [eBook #79765]

Language: English

Original publication: Boston: Houghton Mifflin Company, 1920

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*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK HERO STORIES OF FRANCE ***




HERO STORIES OF FRANCE

[Illustration: FERDINAND FOCH, MARSHAL OF FRANCE]




  HERO STORIES
  OF FRANCE

  BY
  EVA MARCH TAPPAN

  WITH ILLUSTRATIONS

  [Illustration]

  BOSTON AND NEW YORK
  HOUGHTON MIFFLIN COMPANY
  _The Riverside Press Cambridge_
  1920




  COPYRIGHT, 1920, BY EVA MARCH TAPPAN
  ALL RIGHTS RESERVED




CONTENTS


      I. VERCINGETORIX, THE HERO PATRIOT                               1

     II. SAINT DENIS, THE MISSIONARY                                  11

    III. THE COMING OF ATTILA THE HUN                                 15

     IV. CLOVIS, THE FIRST KING OF FRANCE                             22

      V. CHARLES THE HAMMER                                           29

     VI. PEPIN AND THE DO-NOTHING KINGS                               36

    VII. CHARLEMAGNE AND HIS KINGDOM                                  40

   VIII. THE SONG OF ROLAND                                           50

     IX. HOW THE NORTHMEN BECAME NORMANS                              56

      X. HOW A NORMAN BECAME KING OF ENGLAND                          63

     XI. HOW NORMANDY BECAME A PART OF FRANCE                         69

    XII. THE KING WHO WAS A SAINT                                     74

   XIII. THE SIX HEROES OF CALAIS                                     81

    XIV. THE STORY OF JEANNE DARC                                     87

     XV. PIERRE BAYARD, THE PERFECT KNIGHT                            93

    XVI. THE FIELD OF THE CLOTH OF GOLD                              101

   XVII. THE STORY OF COLIGNY                                        107

  XVIII. KING HENRY OF NAVARRE                                       114

    XIX. THE RISE OF RICHELIEU                                       121

     XX. LOUIS XIV AND VERSAILLES                                    130

    XXI. THE FRENCH REVOLUTION                                       140

   XXII. LAFAYETTE, FRIEND OF THE UNITED STATES                      154

  XXIII. NAPOLEON THE GREAT AND THE FIRST EMPIRE                     168

   XXIV. “NAPOLEON THE LITTLE”                                       185

    XXV. IN THE DAYS OF MARSHAL FOCH                                 198




ILLUSTRATIONS


  FERDINAND FOCH, MARSHAL OF FRANCE               _Colored Frontispiece_

  CHARLEMAGNE IMPOSING BAPTISM ON THE SAXONS                          42
    _After an old manuscript_

  ROLAND AT RONCESVALLES                                              54
    _From a drawing by_ V. Foulquier

  SAINT LOUIS OPENING THE PRISONS OF HIS REALM                        74
    _From a painting by_ Luc Olivier Merson

  JEANNE DARC AT THE CORONATION OF CHARLES VII                        90
    _From a painting by_ Jules Eugène Lenepveu

  HENRY IV AND MARIE DE’ MEDICI                                      118
    _From a painting by_ Rubens. _The King is shown presenting
    the Queen with the orb of sovereignty in making her regent
    on his departure for the war in Germany_

  MARIE ANTOINETTE IN THE CONCIERGERIE PRISON                        152
    _From a painting by_ Charles Louis Müller

  NAPOLEON AT THE BATTLE OF FRIEDLAND                                180
    _From a painting by_ Meissonier. _At Friedland Napoleon won
    a brilliant victory over the Russians in 1807. Meissonier
    said that in painting this picture his intention was to show
    Napoleon at the zenith of his glory_




HERO STORIES OF FRANCE




CHAPTER I

VERCINGETORIX, THE HERO PATRIOT


Two thousand years ago no one had ever heard the word “France,” for
the country that we call by that name was then known as “Gaul.” It was
larger than the France of to-day, for it extended to the Alps and the
Rhine River.

On the sunny plains and in the pleasant valleys there were many little
villages, mere groups of round huts made of poles bound together at
the top, and probably plastered with clay to keep out the wind and
cold. On the hills, however, there were often towns with streets of
houses framed of stout timbers. There were workshops, too, and in these
the Gauls made pottery, different sorts of weapons, and beautifully
enameled jewelry.

The Gauls wore tunics of bright-colored plaids and, what seemed
queerest to the Romans, they also wore trousers instead of the loosely
draped robes or togas of Rome. The Romans actually spoke of the part
of Gaul nearest to their own country as “the province that wears
trousers.” They were an enterprising people, these Gauls. They built
roads from town to town, they laid bridges across the rivers, their
heavily laden barges floated down the streams, and the largest vessels
on the Mediterranean Sea belonged to Gallic owners. They had valuable
mines, and they knew how to work them. They knew a good horse when they
saw one, and whenever there was a well-bred steed for sale, there was
always a Gaul ready to pay a high price for him.

Many different tribes lived in Gaul, and often there was warfare among
them. Then the warriors put on their chain armor, their golden rings
and armlets, and their helmets, each made in the shape of the head
of some wild beast. They seized their pikes and swords and shields,
mounted their prancing horses, and galloped off to battle, great plumes
nodding over their helmets as they dashed onward.

In Italy, southeast of Gaul, lived the Romans, the most powerful
nation of the age. They ruled nearly all the countries bordering on
the Mediterranean Sea. Their capital city was Rome, and there, as
in many more of their cities, they had handsome buildings, statues,
gardens, robes of silk and the finest wool, jeweled cups, and all
sorts of luxuries. Powerful as they were, the Romans felt uneasy when
they thought of their Gallic neighbors. Three hundred years earlier,
the Gauls had dashed down upon them and had burned their capital.
The invaders had finally been driven away, but there was no knowing
when they might come again. The Romans already controlled part of
Gaul--including the province that wore trousers--and if they could only
rule the whole country, they would sleep better nights.

In 58 B. C. the Romans were feeling especially uneasy, because the
Germans, who lived on the shores of the Baltic and the North Seas, were
breaking into Gaul, killing and destroying wherever they went. If they
should succeed in overrunning this country, they would next attack
Rome. Just at this time a tribe living in Switzerland decided to cross
Gaul and settle near the Atlantic coast. The Gauls begged the Romans
to prevent this. It was an excellent opportunity for the Romans, and
Julius Cæsar was sent to Gaul with an army.

Cæsar soon obliged the Swiss to return to their old homes; and then he
set out to make it clear to the Germans that they would not be allowed
to remain in Gaul. He sent to the German chief Ariovistus and asked him
to name a place for a parley. The independent young man sent back the
message, “If I wanted anything of you, I should go where you were; and
if you want anything of me, you must come where I am.” “I am ready to
be a good friend to you,” returned Cæsar, “but you may be sure that I
shall not overlook any injury to the people of Gaul.” “If you want to
fight,” declared Ariovistus, “choose your own time and come on.” Cæsar
did “come on,” and he drove the Germans back over the Rhine.

Now the Gauls were bright people, keen and wide-awake. They began to
suspect that Cæsar meant not only to drive away the Germans, but to
conquer Gaul, and they had no idea of giving up their freedom. Year
after year the struggle between Cæsar and the Gauls went on. At length
Gaul seemed to be completely subdued, and Cæsar ventured to return
to Rome for a short time. This was just the moment for a revolt, and
a young chief called Vercingetorix aroused the other chiefs to unite
against the invaders. These chiefs chose him to be their leader. Then
they stacked their standards and took a solemn oath to be true to their
country and to one another.

But when Cæsar returned they soon found out that they could not
withstand him in open battle. “We must starve him out,” declared
Vercingetorix to his people. “There are a few towns that we can defend,
but every other town and even every village that contains any store
of grain must be burned to the ground. This is not an easy thing for
you to do, but would it be easier to give up your own lives and have
your wives and children sold as slaves?” “No, no,” the people shouted,
and before the sun had set, twenty villages were already smouldering
in their ruins. “Let them burn!” cried the Gauls; “we shall soon have
better ones.”

But the people of the town Avaricum begged that their city might be
spared. “It is one of the finest towns in all Gaul,” they pleaded, “and
there is a marsh on three sides which will serve us well in defense.”
Vercingetorix yielded, though unwillingly, and Avaricum was not
destroyed.

It was not long before the Romans appeared at the end of a causeway
which led across the marsh nearly to Avaricum. They continued this
causeway by adding a strong wooden terrace, 330 feet wide and 80 feet
high; and on this they built stout sheds of heavy logs, their roofs
covered with clay, and also built a high fence or screen. Both sheds
and fence were on rollers and were pushed nearer and nearer to the town
as the work progressed. They began also a high tower from which the
slingers and archers could shoot.

The Gauls, too, had been building towers, and these stood, well filled
with soldiers, all along the wall of the town. This wall was too strong
for any battering ram to make a hole in it, and as it was built chiefly
of stones, it could not be set on fire. Therefore the Romans clutched
the great stones with stout hooks and pulled them down; that is, they
tried to pull them down, but the Gauls had a discouraging fashion of
letting down nooses to catch the hooks, and then pulling them up over
the wall. They had another custom which was even more disagreeable,
for they poured streams of boiling pitch down upon the heads of their
enemies. Nevertheless, the Romans kept hard at work till the tower was
nearly finished. Suddenly, a slender thread of smoke was seen, then
there was a tongue of fire, and then the woodwork of the terrace burst
into flames, for some of the Gauls had been burrowing under it and had
set it afire.

Now the Gauls poured out of the gates. A fierce battle was waged, and
Avaricum was taken. The Gauls, old men, women, and children, were cut
down without mercy. Out of more than forty thousand, only eight hundred
escaped. These managed to make their way to the camp of Vercingetorix,
a few miles distant. “Keep your courage,” the wise young leader
pleaded. “No one can expect to have success always. If Gaul is only
united, the whole world cannot overcome her.” The men shouted and
clashed their arms in applause, and Vercingetorix set out at once to
persuade as many tribes as possible to unite with him against the Roman
invaders.

The Gauls fought savagely for their freedom, but at length the
time came when they had to withdraw to the hill town of Alesia.
Vercingetorix had foreseen that this might be necessary, and therefore
he had fortified the town and stored it with provisions, so that if the
worst came to the worst, he could retreat to it for a last stand.

On the day after the Gallic leader took possession of Alesia, the
watchman on the walls reported, “Cæsar and his troops are encamped
before the town. They are digging trenches and heaping up great mounds
of earth for the archers.” The Romans worked by day, and by night,
too, when the moon was up. They tapped rivers and filled some of the
trenches with water. They hid sharp-pointed logs and barbed spikes in
low brushwood, and they made a ring of camps nearly around the town.
Soon the brave defenders would be entirely shut in.

Vercingetorix now called his cavalry apart. “The Roman works will soon
be completed,” he said, “and if we are ever to get help, now is our
chance. Do you steal out of the city to-night, and go, every one of
you, to his home town. Tell your people that they must stand by us, and
when you come back, bring with you every man that can wield a sword. I
will do my best to make the food last a month longer. Go.” That night
the Gauls slipped out silently from the town and stole up the valleys
into the darkness, each going the shortest way to his home town.

The days passed, and little food remained. Vercingetorix watched
anxiously for the return of the cavalry. But they had gone on a
difficult errand. Some of the tribes were jealous; some were defending
themselves from the Germans in their own home towns; some had already
yielded to Rome; one tribe declared that they intended to attack Cæsar
by themselves, and had no idea of putting themselves under any one’s
command. There was much delay, but at length Vercingetorix saw a cloud
of dust, and as the sun fell on it, the glitter of pikes. It was the
cavalry with many thousands of helpers. Now was the time for a sortie.
Vercingetorix had thought of everything. He had made movable huts to
shelter his men as they moved forward. He had provided fascines to fill
up the trenches. A fierce battle was fought, but the Gauls were at last
driven back to Alesia.

Cæsar, then, was besieging Alesia, and beyond his ring of camps was
a ring of Gauls who were besieging him. The fresh troops in the ring
of Gauls stole silently out of their camp at midnight and drew closer
to the Roman works. A sudden blare from their trumpets aroused their
friends in the town. Fascines were tossed into the moats, stones flew
from the slings, scaling ladders were thrown up, grappling hooks to
pull down the ramparts were set to work. But the pointed logs and the
spikes and the heavy pikes hurled down upon them by the Romans were
more than they could meet, and again the Gauls had to withdraw.

But they did not give up. Once more they dashed upon the Roman forces
from the rear, and Vercingetorix, coming down from the town rushed
upon them from the front. The Gauls were more in number, but the
Romans were more perfectly trained as soldiers. It began to grow dark,
and the Gallic newcomers fled into the night. “Back to the town!”
commanded Vercingetorix, for the fight was lost, his last struggle for
the freedom of Gaul had been made. In the morning he called his chiefs
together. “I have fought for my country,” he said, “not for myself, but
for all of you. We have lost, but it may be that my death will appease
these angry Romans. Kill me if you think best, or give me up alive to
Cæsar as a prisoner. Perhaps he will then spare you.”

The other chiefs were men of less noble strain. They talked the matter
over. “Vercingetorix will be slain in any case,” they said. “To die
with him would be of no good to us or to him. We may as well let his
death save our own lives.” So they sent messengers to Cæsar. “We
yield,” they said, “and we are ready to surrender to you Vercingetorix,
the man who has been our leader in the revolt.”

“Give up your arms,” commanded Cæsar, “and let the under-chiefs come
forth.” Then the under-chiefs came out to Cæsar and bowed humbly
before him as he sat on a tribunal or raised seat built on a fragment
of the wall in front of his camp, and every chief said, “I promise to
be faithful to you and to serve you.” Then a trampling of hoofs was
heard, and a handsome horse, splendidly caparisoned, galloped through
the gateway of the city. On his back was Vercingetorix. Three times he
rode around the tribunal; then he sprang lightly to the ground, took
off his armor and laid it together with his sword on the ground before
Cæsar, bowing himself at the feet of his conqueror. There he knelt,
silently begging mercy for his people. Cæsar gazed at him for some
moments, then ordered the guards to lead him away.

For six long years the noble Gallic patriot was kept in a dungeon at
Rome. Then came the time of Cæsar’s triumphal procession in honor of
his victories. The great general rode in a superb chariot drawn by
white horses. He wore a robe heavily embroidered with palm leaves, and
on his head was a crown of laurel. An ivory scepter was in his hand.
The senators of Rome formed his escort and conducted him through the
city gates, through the streets, and up to the capitol. Before him were
many wagons bearing the spoils of his warfare--gold, silver, precious
stones, jewelry and other products, and handiwork of the conquered
countries. Then came great models of the cities that had been captured,
then long lines of captives, who had now become slaves of the Romans.
Behind them walked the leaders whom Cæsar had subdued; and last of
them all was the noble Vercingetorix, the man who loved his country
better than himself, and who had given himself gladly in the struggle
to win her freedom. Even the years in a Roman dungeon had not broken
his spirit, and, loaded with chains as he was, he held himself proudly
erect. Between him and his conqueror marched the legions of Roman
soldiers, singing songs of victory. They were praised and rewarded; but
the Gallic patriot was led back to his prison and put to death.




CHAPTER II

SAINT DENIS THE MISSIONARY


Cæsar was a pitiless enemy, but after the Gauls had once yielded, he
treated them justly and kindly. Many of those nearest to Rome learned
to talk Latin as if they had been born Romans, and to live quite
in Roman fashion. They built handsome houses, temples, theaters,
baths, and aqueducts. They learned how to drain the swamps and how to
cultivate the soil so it would do its best. The Romans were always
famous road-builders, and they taught the Gauls how to build the
matchless stone roads that have lasted for centuries. Gallic schools
were opened and libraries formed. The Gauls continued their old
manufactures, and made also glass, silk, tapestry, and many other
things; indeed, in some of their work they improved upon Roman methods.
Everything went on prosperously.

But as the years passed, the Romans became idle and fond of luxury.
If there was war, they were no longer eager to protect their country
themselves, they preferred to pay others to fight for them. A great
deal of money was called for, and taxes became very severe. The laws
also became severe, until at length there was a law for almost every
act and a heavy penalty for every violation. The Gauls had gained in
order and civilization, but they had lost their freedom. Vercingetorix
would have hardly recognized his country.

But something new and wonderful had come to pass. In a far-away little
province of the Empire Jesus Christ was born, and his teachings made
their way to Rome. Before this, both Gauls and Romans had worshiped
many gods. They had gods of harvest, of springtime, of the sun, the
moon, the rain, and the thunder. Missionaries and teachers now made
their way into Gaul, and the wretched people learned that there was a
God who cared for them and was sorry when they were unhappy.

Soon, however, the people who were rejoicing in this new faith found
themselves in trouble with Rome. The Romans were perfectly willing
that the Gauls should have as many gods as they chose, provided that
they would now and then burn a few grains of incense before the images
of some of the Roman gods or say a prayer before the statue of some
emperor. To refuse to do this was looked upon as almost treason to the
State; but, of course, no Christian could yield to any such command;
therefore the Christians were terribly persecuted. Some were tortured
and then slain; some were given to wild beasts to be devoured.

Nevertheless, the teaching of the Gospel spread, and missionaries
continued to go to Gaul to teach and help the unhappy people. One of
the most famous of these missionaries was Saint Denis. According to the
old tradition, he set out from Rome with six companions. Perhaps he
went over one of the Roman roads to Lyons, which was then the capital
of Gaul; then partly by road and partly by rivers he pressed on,
stopping every little while to talk to the natives about Jesus. “You
pray to the sun and the moon,” he would say, “but they do not hear your
prayer. Let me tell you about the one true God, who listens when you
pray and cares for you.”

After a while Saint Denis came to a little town on the Seine River
called Lutetia, or “the muddy place.” This was the name it bore in
Cæsar’s time, three hundred years earlier; and, although it now had
some excellent buildings and its people had been growing rich through
the river traffic, it was still called by the same name.

The tribe living in this part of Gaul were called the Parisii. They
listened eagerly to the preaching of Saint Denis and his companions.
Many hundreds came to believe that what the missionaries said was true.
“We will no longer worship the sun and the moon and the thunder,” they
declared. “We will make our prayers to the God of the preacher, for we
believe that this is the one true God.” They built a Christian church
and rejoiced in their new faith.

Before long, however, the Roman emperor heard what was being done
in the land of the Parisii, and he sent an officer to seize the
missionaries and put them to death. The officer journeyed to Lutetia
and called the preachers before him on the charge of teaching treason
to the State. They were sentenced to be beheaded and were taken to
Montjoie Hill, where the sentence was carried out. Their bodies were
thrown into the river Seine, but a Christian woman recovered them and
saw to it that they were buried with honor. A chapel was built over
Saint Denis’s tomb, and for more than a thousand years the French
people used to shout “Montjoie Saint Denis!” whenever they were going
into battle.

Some of the pictures of Saint Denis are just a bit startling, for they
represent an angel holding a crown over the martyr, although the good
saint has no head on which to put it. He is doing his best, however, to
supply the deficiency, for he is quietly picking up his head from the
ground. People forgot that the object of such a picture was to teach,
so that when any one looked at it, he would recall the manner in which
the saint met his death; and the legend arose that after Saint Denis’s
head was cut off, he picked it up and carried it in his arms two miles
to his place of burial.




CHAPTER III

THE COMING OF ATTILA THE HUN


In 312 the man who was then Roman emperor became a Christian, and of
course this put an end to the persecutions of the Christians in Gaul.
The Gauls had other troubles to meet, however, for the Germans were
making raids across the Rhine into the Gallic lands. Lutetia had now
become Paris, and here the Roman governor made his home, so that he
could keep watch of the invaders.

Rome grew weaker and weaker, and at length the Romans almost gave up
fighting with the Germans and made alliances with some of them instead,
calling them friends and guests and actually allowing them--perhaps
even inviting them--to come over the Rhine and make their homes in
Gaul. They expected the newcomers, to whom they had shown such favor,
to prevent the rest of the Germans from entering the land, but they
were disappointed. The lands of Gaul were more fertile than those
farther north, the climate was warmer, and the sky clearer, and the
Germans continued to come. One group of tribes in particular, the
Franks, or “Free Men,” were especially bold and daring, and it was soon
plain that they had come to stay and that all Rome could not hinder
them.

Before long the time came when even the Gauls were glad of the
presence of these fierce warriors. On winter evenings, in the dimly
lighted homes of Gaul, fearsome tales began to be told of a terrible
race known as Huns. “They are coming from Scythia,” whispered the
story-tellers fearfully. “They are coming on horseback, and they are
bringing in great carts their women and all their treasures. They have
tiny black eyes, flat faces, and broad noses. Their ears flare out
from their heads, their skins are painted and tattooed. They have no
beards, but their hair is rough and shaggy. Their bodies are short and
square, and when they walk, they look like bears trying to stand on
two legs. People say that their mothers were witches, their fathers
demons, and that they know how to work all kinds of evil spells upon
their enemies.” “But cannot the emperor buy them off?” some one would
ask; and the answer was, “The emperor has already given them land and
promised to pay them tribute; but no one believes that they will stay
where he put them.”

They did not stay, but pressed on into Gaul; and now the Gauls were
glad of the help of Romans, Franks, and any one else who could wield
a sword. Led by their chief Attila, the Huns swept on, killing and
destroying wherever they went. “Grass never grows again where the hoofs
of Attila’s steed have trod,” was the old saying.

Attila claimed that his sword had come to him as a gift from the god of
war. It seemed, according to the legend, that one of the Hun shepherds
noticed that blood was dropping from the foot of a young heifer.
He traced her footsteps back to a place where he saw a sharp point
sticking up out of the ground, and found that it was the point of an
ancient sword. He carried the sword to Attila. “This is the sword of
the god of war,” declared the wily leader. “The gods have sent it to
me, and wherever I wield it, there we shall win a victory.”

It began to seem as if Attila had made a true prophecy, for the chief
with his Huns ran through country after country, successful almost
everywhere. “The Scourge of God,” he was afterward called. He and his
savage followers were galloping straight for Paris, and the people of
that city were just beginning a frantic flight for somewhere, they knew
not where, in the hope of saving their lives, when suddenly the doors
of the church were flung open, and a young maiden stood before them.
The people fell on their knees before her, for this was Genevieve, a
shepherd girl whose holiness they all knew. “I have called the holy
matrons and the consecrated virgins to come together in the church,”
she said, “and I have bidden them to pray earnestly and trustfully to
God that he will save our city. He has listened to our prayers. Go back
to your houses, for Paris will be saved.”

This is the legend that has come down through the years. Whether it
is true or not, it is a fact that Attila suddenly changed his course;
Paris was spared, and he drove on to Orleans.

Orleans had new and strong fortifications, and her people had no
thought of yielding. But after a while food began to be scanty, the
walls showed cracks made by Attila’s battering rams, and the Huns were
drawing closer and closer around the city. The citizens of Orleans knew
that Romans, Gauls, Franks, and others were trying to come together to
meet the Huns, but there was long delay in their coming, and perhaps
they would not come at all.

“Be brave and do not let your courage fail,” said the good Bishop
of Orleans to his people. “Here is the messenger whom I sent to the
lookout on the rampart. Have you good news for us?” he asked, turning
to the young man.

“Alas, no!” he replied. “I could see nothing but the great plain
stretching out to the horizon.”

“Go once more,” bade the bishop, and the young man went again.

“Are they coming?” asked the bishop when he returned.

“Alas, no!” replied the young man for the second time. “There is
nothing to be seen but the great plain.”

“Go yet a third time, my son,” said the bishop. “God’s aid sometimes
seems slow, but it is sure.”

So the young man went a third time, and when he came back his face was
so bright that the people knew he had brought good news.

“The great plain stretches out as before,” he said, “but far away on
the horizon there is a tiny cloud.”

“The armies are coming! It is the aid of the living God!” cried the
bishop; and the multitude said after him in hushed and reverent tones,
“it is the aid of the living God.”

So the people of Orleans fought more bravely than ever, and soon
Attila too saw the cloud, then the gleam of the shining pikes, then
the banners, and last, the thousands of strong fighters coming to the
rescue of the city.

Evidently a battle was at hand that would need all his forces, and
Attila withdrew at once to the plain of the Marne River where Châlons
now stands, brought all his troops together, and fortified his camp,
arranging a breastwork of wagons around it. Then he spoke to his
followers:

“Do you see our enemies coming upon us?” he asked, pointing to the
advancing lines. “From one end of Europe to the other, armies have fled
before us, and these people too will flee. Glorious deeds await you
and mighty will be your rewards. Be brave. Be fearless, and show our
enemies the valor of the Huns!” “On! On! Lead us on!” cried the Huns,
shouting their battle-cries and rushing forward upon the Gallic lines.

Terrible fighting went on all that day, and only ceased when the
combatants could no longer see one another’s faces. Attila withdrew
to the shelter of the camp with its barricade of wagons and its
intrenchments and made ready for another battle on the morrow. “No man
shall ever boast of having captured Attila, the Scourge of God!” he
declared, and he built up a great mound of the wooden saddles of his
cavalry. On this he poured out his most valuable treasures, and around
it he stationed his wives. “If our enemies should be on the point of
taking the camp,” he said, “I shall set fire to this pile and perish
with my treasures. Neither I nor these shall ever fall into the hands
of our foes.”

When the morning came, the battle went on again, so furiously that,
even after the fighting had ceased, people could hardly believe that
it had really come to a close, and the legend quickly arose that high
up in the clouds above the field of slaughter the spirits of the
slain continued for three days the dreadful struggle. The Gauls and
their aids were the victors, but they made no attempt to destroy the
invaders. Attila and his followers were allowed to withdraw toward
Germany.

One year later the Huns invaded Italy and overcame city after city.
The terrible Hun, savage as he was, had a sense of humor. In one of
the Italian cities Attila came upon a picture representing the Roman
emperors sitting on their thrones, while the princes of Scythia bowed
at their feet. Attila sent for a painter. “Change that,” he commanded.
“Put _me_ on the throne and paint the emperors pouring out their gold
at _my_ feet.”

Attila was planning more invasions when he suddenly died. His followers
raised a great silken pavilion and within it they laid the body of
their leader. Around this marched the lines of the Huns, chanting a
funeral hymn of praise and sorrow. “He was glorious in his life,” they
sang, “and in his death he was invincible. To his people he was a
father, to his enemies a scourge, and to the whole world a dread and
terror.” They cut off locks of their hair and they made jagged cuts
into their faces that the blood might flow freely; for they said, “The
tears wept for such a man should not be of water but of blood.” They
then laid him into a coffin of iron, next into one of silver, and last
into one of gold. Lest these should be stolen and his body be treated
with disrespect, they buried him at dead of night, putting into his
grave a quantity of weapons and treasures. The grave was filled up,
and the prisoners who had dug it were put to death, that no one should
know where the mighty Scythian leader had been laid. Then, according to
their custom, they held a great feast with song and jest and merriment.

This battle of Châlons, the true “first battle of the Marne,” is famous
for two reasons. The first is because it was so fierce and so many men
were engaged in it. The second is because on the plains of Châlons it
was settled that the Huns, heathen and barbarians, should not rule in
Europe.




CHAPTER IV

CLOVIS, THE FIRST KING OF FRANCE


While there was danger from the Huns, the different tribes stood
together, but when that danger was past, each people began to consider
how they could make themselves more powerful than the others.

Of all the Franks that had come into Gaul, the Salii, or Salian Franks,
were the strongest, although as yet they held only a little land on the
left bank of the Rhine. Their chief, Meroveus, had fought at Châlons.
In 481, thirty years after this battle, Meroveus and his son were
both dead, and the only one left to represent his family was a boy of
fifteen named Clovis. He was a strong, energetic boy, and young as he
was, he had already shown on the battle-field that he could strike
a hard blow and a skillful one. The Frankish warriors voted that he
should be their chief. “Clovis! Clovis!” they shouted, and they carried
him through their villages raised high up on their shields, so that
every one might know whom they had chosen.

Clovis was an ambitious young man, and he promptly set about increasing
his territory. When he was only twenty, he defeated the Romans at
Soissons, about sixty miles from Paris. Other towns soon fell into his
hands, and so he became master of a wide area in what is now northern
France.

There were always many treasures in the churches, and among those taken
from the church in Rheims there was an especially beautiful golden
vase. Now the young chief had taken a liking to the Bishop of Rheims,
and the bishop was very willing to have the good-will of the valiant
young heathen. He would have it in his power to show many a favor to
the Church, and some day he might even become a Christian.

So it was that, when Clovis and his followers were about to divide the
booty, a messenger from the bishop appeared. He earnestly besought
Clovis to return what had been taken from the church at Rheims, “or,
if that is impossible,” said the messenger, “to return at least the
golden vase.” Now, among the Franks, all booty was divided by lot, and
the chief received no more than any one of his followers. Clovis spoke
to his men. “Will you grant me the favor,” said he, “of giving me the
vase of Soissons besides what comes to me by lot?” Either the followers
of Clovis were willing to please their leader or else they did not care
to offend so powerful a man, for all but one agreed. That one, a surly
fellow, growled out, “You will have what the lot gives you and nothing
more.” He raised his battle-axe and struck the vase a heavy blow.
Clovis gave the man one look, then, without a word, he picked up the
broken vase and handed it to the messenger.

Before long, the time came for his revenge. He was inspecting the arms
and armor of his men, and when he came to the one who had broken the
vase, he said, “There is no other man who has brought to me arms so
poorly cared for as yours. You are not fit to be among my followers.”
He snatched the battle-axe from the man’s hand and flung it down upon
the ground. The warrior stooped to pick it up--perhaps that he might
strike the first blow--but, however that may be, Clovis was before him.
He gave his own axe a mighty swing and brought it down with deadly
force upon the man’s skull, crying, “This is what you did to the vase
at Soissons.”

Clovis had no wife, but he had heard stories which interested him in a
young princess, Clotilde, niece of the King of Burgundy. It was said
that this king had slain the rest of her family save one sister, who
had entered a convent. Clotilde was living quietly at Geneva, giving
all her time to deeds of charity. Of course Clovis knew that her uncle
would not allow any suitor to have a glimpse of her, lest she should
marry and thus gain power to avenge her family; so he gave his ring
to a man whom he could trust and said: “Do you dress yourself in rags
like a beggar and put a beggar’s wallet upon your back. Go to Clotilde
and say that you are on a pilgrimage and ask for her charity. If the
stories told of her are true, she will not refuse to see a pilgrim, and
you can give her my message and the ring.”

The pretended beggar went to Geneva, and the gentle princess gave him
food and washed his feet with her own royal hands. As she was bending
over him, he leaned toward her and whispered, “Lady, Clovis, King of
the Franks, would gladly offer you marriage. In proof of my words he
sends you his ring.”

Clotilde was glad. She rewarded the beggar and gave him a ring of her
own to carry to the king. “If Clovis would wed me,” she said, “let
him send messengers without an instant’s delay to demand me of my
uncle and take me away with them. My uncle’s chief counselor is now in
Constantinople, and if he should return, he would advise against my
marriage, especially with so powerful a man as the King of the Franks,
lest I avenge the death of my family.”

The moment that Clovis heard this, he sent an embassy to ask for
Clotilde. The wicked uncle did not dare to refuse, so the ceremonies
of espousal were gone through with, and the princess was put into a
covered chariot drawn by four white oxen, and they set out with much
dignity and splendor for the home of Clovis.

They had gone only a little way before a good friend of Clotilde’s sent
her a message. She called her escort together and said: “I have certain
knowledge that the chief counselor has returned, and that my uncle has
already sent out a troop of warriors in pursuit of me. If you would
obey your king’s command and carry me safely to him, do you get me as
fast a horse as can be found.” So it was that the bride of King Clovis
entered Soissons, not in the glory of a chariot drawn by four white
oxen, but on the back of a horse galloping at full speed.

This is the story that has come down to us of the marriage of Clovis
and Clotilde. Very likely some of the praises of the princess that
first interested Clovis in her came from the wise Bishop of Rheims, who
would of course be delighted to have the powerful King of the Franks
become the husband of a Christian maiden.

Clotilde did her best to persuade Clovis to become a Christian. “You
worship gods of wood or stone or metal,” she said. “They are nothing,
and they can do nothing for you.” “They made all things in the world,”
insisted Clovis sturdily. By and by a little son was born to them, and
now Clotilde pleaded again with her husband. He did not yield, but he
did promise that the little prince might be baptized. This was done,
and Clotilde was happy. But in a few days the baby died. “That is
what this baptizing has brought about,” said Clovis. “If he had been
dedicated to my gods, he would be alive. The gods are angry with me,
and they have taken my child.”

Clotilde was broken-hearted, but she would not give up her God, and
when a second little son was born, she insisted that he, too, should
be baptized. In a few days this child also fell sick. “His brother
was baptized in the name of this Christ of yours,” declared the king
bitterly, “and he died. This child has been baptized, and he, too, will
die.” The child did not die, however, but grew well and strong, and
Clovis began to think that after all it might be that baptism did not
harm him.

A little while after this, Clovis was setting out for what he knew
would be a terrible battle. He hoped for the help of his gods, but he
was beginning to question a little whether they were really as powerful
as he had supposed. As he was starting, Clotilde put her arms around
his neck and said: “Your gods cannot help you to win this battle, but
my God can. Will you promise me that if you are successful, you will
thank my God and become a Christian?”

Clovis promised and said farewell. The battle was going against him,
and even his most trusted fighters lost heart. The king remembered his
promise and he cried out: “Jesus Christ, whom my queen Clotilde calls
the Son of God, my old gods have failed me, and I come to Thee. Only
give me victory over these enemies of mine, and I will believe in Thee
and be baptized in Thy name.”

The victory was won. Clovis kept his word, and when Christmas Day came,
he went to Rheims to be baptized. The whole city rejoiced. All along
the road leading from the palace to the cathedral, the houses were hung
with tapestry and banners and draperies of brilliant colors. First in
the procession came the clergy, bearing the book of the Four Gospels,
the cross, and the standards, and chanting as they walked. Then came
the Bishop of Rheims, leading the king by the hand. Close behind them
walked the queen, and then came the long line of citizens and men at
arms. When the moment for the baptism had come, a fair white dove
fluttered in through the open window, hovered over the altar a moment,
and then flew away. From this the legend arose that a dove had brought
a vial of holy oil with which to anoint the king.

The two sisters of Clovis and three thousand of his men at arms were
also baptized. He soon received from the Pope the title of “Most
Christian King and Eldest Son of the Church,” and this title has been
handed down to every sovereign of France.

Clovis was not exactly what would in these days be called a “Most
Christian King,” for he aimed chiefly at conquering more land and
murdering every one who might stand in the way of his power. The
kingdom now included the greater part of Gaul. It began to be called
Francia, or the country of the Franks. Its capital was Paris.

Thus it was that Clovis founded the French monarchy, and also Christian
France, even though he was not the ideal Christian of to-day.




CHAPTER V

CHARLES THE HAMMER


When Clovis died, his kingdom was divided among his four sons, and
every one of them was as determined to gain power as his father had
been. They quarreled and they fought, and before long one of them
was killed in battle. His three little boys went to live with their
grandmother, Clotilde, and she did her best to hold their father’s part
of the kingdom for them.

The two uncles pretended to be fond of the boys and spread the report
that they were going to put them upon their father’s throne. Clotilde
was delighted, and when the children were sent for, she made a great
feast, dressed the boys in royal robes, and sent them to their uncles.
But in a little while a stern man with a hard, cruel face appeared
before Clotilde. “Lady Queen,” he said, “I am sent here by your two
sons. Your grandsons are in their hands, and I am to ask which of these
you will choose for them.” He held up in one hand a naked sword, and in
the other a pair of shears.

Clotilde knew well what this meant. The sword was a sign of death; the
shears of disgrace. Meroveus, who fought at the battle of Châlons, had
long yellow hair, and this had come to be looked upon as a sure mark of
royalty. To cut it off was the same as saying, “This man is not worthy
of the crown. He must go away and hide himself in a monastery.”

Poor Clotilde was frantic with grief. She exclaimed, “Better die than
be shorn!” She could not think that her sons would be so wicked; but
the messenger hurried away to them, and on the instant two of the
little boys were slain. An attendant rescued the third child, and
carried him away to safety in a convent. When he grew up, he became a
monk of his own choice.

So the reigns of the Merovingian kings went on, marked by robbery,
cruelty, and murder. The best among them was Dagobert, who came to the
throne in 628. He was good-natured and really seemed to care for the
love of his people; and this was something so new that his subjects
called him “good King Dagobert.” He used to go about through his
kingdom, stopping at the principal places, and holding a sort of court
of justice. It was a rough-and-ready variety of justice, but people
soon found that he meant to be as fair to a poor man as to a rich man,
and this was a great surprise and delight to them.

Dagobert may not have been an especially wise man, but he was wise
enough to surround himself with good counselors and to listen to their
words. He was interested in beautiful things, and the doughty soldier
really enjoyed the exquisite work of Eloi, his treasurer, who had
been a famous goldsmith before he became a monk. He made among other
things a crown and scepter and a wonderful golden chair or throne
richly adorned with jewels. He also did much work for the church which
Dagobert built in honor of Saint Denis. Many years earlier, as has
been said before, a little church or chapel had been built over the
saint’s grave; but it had become so dilapidated that one day a deer,
trying to escape from the king, had no trouble in springing into the
ruin. “It has gone to the good Saint Denis for refuge,” said the king,
“and it shall not be harmed.” The frightened deer was allowed to go
free, and in memory of this day the king built a church and abbey on
the spot. Here was kept the sacred oriflamme, or “golden flame.” This
was a small banner of red silk, cut into two or three points. Whenever
a French king was about to set out for war, he always went first to
Saint Denis for this banner, and after the abbot had blessed it and
prayed that it might never see defeat, it was delivered to him. In
battle it was borne before him, and when there was any lull in the
warfare, it stood before his tent. King Dagobert was buried in his
beautiful church, and for more than a thousand years it was used as a
tomb for all French kings.

Dagobert was the last king of the line of Meroveus who was good for
anything. Twelve of his race followed him, but their names are not
worth remembering. They had no ambition to get more land or even to
rule what they had. They were stupid and lazy and roamed about in
their ox-carts from one country house to another, eating and drinking
heavily. The only thing about them that was royal was their long hair,
and when one long-haired king over-ate himself and died, another took
his place, and nobody knew the difference. People called them the
“Do-Nothing” kings, and no one has ever found a better name for them.

Useless as these kings really were, there were certain things that
they had to do, or pretend to do. One of these duties was to receive
ambassadors from other lands. When one came to pay his respects to the
king, the Do-Nothing would sit on the throne, try his best to look
wise, and then repeat whatever words he was told to say.

The one whose orders he obeyed was called the “mayor of the palace.” He
was the “power behind the throne,” and had to be a keen, bright man in
order to fill the place. As the kings grew weaker, this officer grew
stronger; and at length he even told the king how much pocket money he
might be permitted to spend. If a king seemed at all inclined to be
troublesome and disobedient, the mayor saw to it that he was poisoned
or assassinated, or the people would be informed that the king was
tired of his many cares and had decided to become a monk.

The Frankish kingdom had become so large that it extended far beyond
the Rhine and included the whole of the present France except Brittany.
It was not all at peace, and when one Charles came into power as
mayor of the palace, he had some disorders to quell. It was not long,
however, before matters in the kingdom were in good shape, for Charles
was a strong, powerful ruler.

It was fortunate for France that such a man was in control, for greater
trouble was coming from the East than had ever threatened the country
before, save in the days of the Huns. About two hundred years earlier,
an Arabian named Mohammed had declared that God had sent him as a
prophet. He produced a book called the Koran, which, he said, God had
inspired him to write. At first slowly, then rapidly, his religion
spread, until all Arabia had accepted it. Mohammed now declared that
God had given him permission to make converts by the use of the sword.
He sent missionaries to Persia, and when the people of that country
would have nothing to do with him, he opened war upon them. He planned
an attack upon Syria and the Roman Empire; but died before this could
be undertaken.

Two hundred years after Mohammed died, his followers set out to conquer
the world. It began to seem as if they would succeed; for they subdued
Egypt and northern Africa, and then crossed over into Spain and
Provence. Wherever they went, churches were robbed or torn down and
Bibles were destroyed. They were savage fighters, and they swept all
before them. Sometimes they accepted tribute, but generally they would
say to their prisoners: “The choice is yours, the Koran or the sword.
Believe in Mohammed or be slain.”

These were the people who were already in Spain and southern France and
had made their plans to sweep through the whole of France, Germany,
and Italy. They came over the Pyrenees, crossed the Garonne River, and
captured Bordeaux. The Mohammedans had heard of the wealth of Bordeaux,
but they found it far greater than they had supposed. Their own
stories of the capture declare that even the soldiers of lowest rank
had plenty of precious stones, topazes, emeralds, and others; and that
the whole army was so loaded down with gold and other booty that the
marching became slow and stumbling.

To the people of Aquitania, however, the march of the Mohammedans
seemed far too rapid. They had already covered the country between the
Garonne and the Loire and had pushed into Burgundy. “Will you help me?”
said Eudes, Duke of Aquitania, to Charles. “It is for your own good as
well as mine. Let but these heathen crush Aquitania, and you and your
Franks will next know their fury.”

Charles was more than willing, and with his ready Franks he went at
full speed to the Loire River. The city of Tours on the Loire was one
of the richest in the whole land, and he was sure that the Mohammedans
would try to capture it. He was right. “We will go to Tours,” said
the Mohammedan leaders, “and we shall find in the abbey there such
treasures as no army ever took before.”

If there had been such a thing as wireless telegraphy in those days,
the Mohammedans would have known that trouble was before them; but they
went on triumphantly to the very walls of Tours before they suspected
that an enormous number of Franks were coming down upon them. Evidently
this was no time to be dreaming about the treasures of Tours. Indeed,
it would have been far better if they had tossed aside what loot they
had already taken.

Probably neither side realized that this battle would decide whether
Europe should be Christian or Mohammedan, but both did realize that
it would be a tremendous struggle. Neither Charles nor the Mohammedan
commander was eager to begin the fight. Time was not so valuable in
those days, and for one whole week they waited and watched, each army
in its own camp. At last, the Mohammedans made a general attack.
The Franks “stood there,” says one old writer, “like solid walls or
icebergs.” Another says that their hands were made of iron. They were
tall and powerfully built, and their armor was stout and well made.
Six days they fought in something like battle array. Then some of the
Franks made a dash into the camp of the enemy. The Mohammedans rushed
back from the general conflict to defend their camp. Everything became
a wild turmoil, a fight between man and man; and here the height and
strength of the Franks counted immensely. At night both armies always
withdrew to their camps; but one morning no Mohammedans came out to
renew the battle. Carefully the Franks went to reconnoiter. “It is a
trick,” said some of them, “and the heathen have hidden themselves in
order to dash out upon us.” But it was no trick; the Mohammedans had
retreated in the night, and Europe was saved.

In this battle Charles had swung his heavy iron hammer or mace in such
tremendous blows that after this he was known as Charles Martel, or
“Charles the Hammer.”




CHAPTER VI

PEPIN AND THE DO-NOTHING KINGS


Charles Martel did one good deed in overcoming the Mohammedans. He did
another in bringing up his two sons so well that when the kingdom was
left in their hands, they did not fight over it in a struggle for each
to get the whole for himself, but worked together to do their best for
the country. Before many years had passed, however, one of the sons
became tired of ruling and entered a convent, leaving the possessions
of both under the rule of his brother Pepin.

Pepin was a strong man, but of less than medium height, and people
called him Pepin the Short. There was enough of him to make a king, but
for some years he seemed to feel, like the rest of the Franks, that a
people must have a Merovingian king, even if he did nothing but eat and
drink and sit on a throne. Pepin discovered somewhere one of the royal
family who seems to have been overlooked in spite of his long hair, and
made a figurehead of him. Charles Martel had not been so careful of
the prejudices of the Franks. _His_ Merovingian had died or entered a
convent, and Charles had never troubled himself to search for another,
but had gone on ruling without one.

Pepin had a good deal of common sense, and after he had ruled for a few
years with the Merovingian sitting on the throne and saying whatever
he was told to say, he sent a messenger to the Pope to ask, “Who has
the better right to be called king, the man who has the title or the
man who rules?” “It is better that the man who rules should have the
royal title,” the Pope replied.

This settled the question as far as the monks and the clergy were
concerned, but the masses of the people were still to be reckoned
with. Pepin knew well that they would not be won by any reasoning, but
by some showy feat of strength and fearlessness. It was a common and
most cruel amusement to have fights between wild beasts or between
beasts and men in great arenas, and one day when thousands watching a
lion attack a bull, Pepin waited until both were in a mad fury and the
lion was getting the better of it; then, while people were watching in
breathless silence, he rose and cried, “Which one among you dares to go
and save that bull?” No one cared to try. Pepin waited a moment, then
he himself leaped down into the arena, drew his sword, and, if we may
trust the old story, cut off the lion’s head at one blow. “Am I not
worthy to be your king?” he demanded; and the people shouted: “Pepin!
Pepin! He is worthy! King Pepin!” In the face of such a feat as this,
the people had forgotten their old feeling that, no matter who ruled,
a descendant of Meroveus must sit on the throne. The Frankish warriors
raised Pepin on a shield, and the archbishop anointed him with the
holy oil and placed the crown upon his head. The Franks were used to
obeying Pepin’s commands and following him in battle, and all went on
as usual, no one caring in the least when the last of the long-haired
Merovingians was taken away to a convent to spend the rest of his days.

The Pope had stood by Pepin, and now was the time to return the favor.
The Lombards, a German people, had fought their way into northern
Italy, had made settlements there, and were threatening to attack Rome.
Stephen, who was now Pope, was too wise a man to be satisfied with
sending a letter to Pepin. He was particularly anxious to win, not only
the help, but the lasting friendship, of the king, and he crossed the
Alps and journeyed to Paris. Pepin wished to do him all honor, for he,
too, had a favor to ask; and he sent his son Charles, a manly young
prince of twelve years, to represent him and give the Pope a cordial
and brilliant reception.

Pope Stephen spent the winter at Saint Denis, winning friends wherever
he went. Pepin promised to make an expedition against the Lombards, and
the Pope promised to crown him a second time, for Pepin felt that his
hold upon the throne would be stronger if the Pope himself had laid the
crown upon his head. This the Pope did, in the cathedral at Rheims. He
did it with generous thoroughness, for he anointed not only Pepin, but
his two sons, Charles and his younger brother. He also gave Pepin the
title of “Patrician of Rome.”

Pepin now kept his part of the bargain, for he and his warriors went
straight to Italy. “I demand that you evacuate the towns that you have
seized,” he declared, “and agree to leave Rome untouched.” This the
Lombards had no idea of doing, and now Pepin and his Franks came down
upon them, overpowered them, and shut them up in Pavia. They were soon
ready to promise anything and everything, and Pepin went home. Pope
Stephen did not believe that the Lombards would keep their word, but
how to get Pepin back was the question. He concluded to send an appeal
from higher authority, and he sent a letter to the king purporting to
have been written by Saint Peter himself, and promising Pepin that if
he would come at once to the rescue of the Church, he should conquer
his own enemies all the rest of his life and should be sure of the joys
of heaven.

After hearing this letter, the Franks were wildly eager to return to
Italy. They overcame the Lombards and again shut them up in Pavia. This
time the Lombards were thoroughly subdued. They had taken a number of
walled towns, and these Pepin had recaptured. He now made Pope Stephen
a present, namely, the keys of the gates of all these cities. This was
the beginning of the owning of territory by the Popes.

Under Charles Martel Europe was saved from the Mohammedans. Under
Pepin, the power of the Church was greatly strengthened. The rule of
these two men lasted only a little more than half a century, but in
this time they accomplished more than the whole line of the Do-Nothing
kings.




CHAPTER VII

CHARLEMAGNE AND HIS KINGDOM


Charles, the prince who when a boy of twelve had been sent to receive
the Pope, became king at the death of Pepin, and a real king he was.
He accomplished so much in his reign that he is known in history
as “Charles the Great,” or “Charlemagne.” There was no hint of the
Do-Nothings about this ruler. He was one of the most energetic men who
ever lived; and if ever a king needed energy, he did.

Of course, like all other rulers of the time, he had to do a great
deal of fighting. During thirty of the forty-six years of his reign he
was continually sending expeditions against the Saxons, who lived at
the north, just across the Rhine. Both Franks and Saxons were of the
Teutonic race, but each despised the other. “You Franks have given up
the free life of the forest and have built yourselves cities,” said the
Saxons scornfully; “you have taken one Christ for your God, and have
given up Thor who wields the thunderbolts.” And the Franks retorted,
“You Saxons are only savages and heathen.” “Cæsar with all the power of
Rome could not conquer us,” declared the Saxons proudly, “and in the
depths of our wilderness there stands a pillar in memory of the day
when the legions of the Roman Varus were cut down like grass.”

Such were the people whom Charlemagne meant to overcome, for, large
as his kingdom was, he aimed at making it still larger. He fought his
way into the forest until he came to the place that every Saxon held
sacred, for here stood the column in honor of the Roman defeat. There
was also a fortress. Charlemagne took the fortress and broke up the
column, and also the altar on which the Saxons used to sacrifice human
beings to the god Thor. He even cut down the sacred oak trees that grew
around the altar; and now at last the Saxons owned defeat and agreed to
pay him tribute.

Charlemagne was, according to the ideas of his day, an earnest
missionary. Wherever he went, he built not only strong castles, but
also churches, and he sent preachers as well as soldiers. In spite of
their promises, the Saxons promptly killed the preachers and burned
the churches. Then followed the stern vengeance of the Frankish king.
He came down upon the Saxons, took thousands of them prisoners, and
put them to death. He carried away thousands of others and scattered
them over his kingdom. At last the Saxons had to yield, and their chief
agreed to enter a convent. Then Charlemagne began his missionary work
in earnest. “Will you be baptized or put to death?” he would ask. It is
no wonder that the numbers of his converts increased rapidly. At length
it occurred to him that he might accomplish still more by bribery.
“Whoever comes of his own will to baptism shall receive a fine white
tunic,” he declared; and now they came--not once, but many times!

[Illustration: CHARLEMAGNE IMPOSING BAPTISM ON THE SAXONS]

Aquitania revolted, but Charlemagne subdued the revolt, and at the same
time skillfully overcame the strongest objections of the Aquitanians
to his rule, for he gave them his baby son for a king. The little
sovereign was carried part way in a cradle; but his escort thought that
he ought to enter his kingdom in a more dignified fashion, so they
dressed him in a little suit of armor and gave him a tiny sword. Then
they put him on a horse and carefully held him there, and he entered in
all the glory of a warrior bold.

Five years before the Aquitanian war came to an end, the Pope again
appealed for help against the troublesome Lombards. Charlemagne crossed
the Alps, and now the Lombard king was put into a monastery, and his
son fled to Constantinople. Charlemagne had hardly reached home before
the Pope sent a second appeal: The Lombards were revolting, would
he come again? He came, he subdued them, and he made a second young
prince, a boy of four years, King of Italy.

The next appeal to Charlemagne came from the Mohammedans, or Moors, in
northern Spain. “We can no longer submit to the Caliph of Cordova,”
they declared. “If you will come and help us against him, we will
become your faithful subjects.” Of course Charlemagne could not say no
to such a tempting invitation, and he marched with an army straight
across the Pyrenees and into Spain. He took a few cities, and then
he marched home again, just why is not known. The rear guard and the
baggage were in charge of Roland, nephew of the king and “Lord of
the Breton March,” that is, governor of the borderland of Francia, next
to Brittany. In going through the narrow pass of Roncesvalles in the
Pyrenees, he was set upon by the enemy and not a man survived. Because
of this expedition, Charlemagne claimed that portion of Spain lying
south of the Pyrenees as a part of his kingdom, but he never ceased to
mourn for his valiant nephew and follower.

Charlemagne’s vast kingdom was made up of many different peoples, and
each had its own kind of government. Some had written laws, some had
only customs that had been handed down, and some had hardly anything
that could be called government. It was not an easy thing to bring
under the same laws all these peoples with their different ways of
living and thinking, but this was what Charlemagne aimed at doing.
Twice every year he called together the chief men of the kingdom. The
more important of these two meetings was held in May, and was called
the “Field of May.”

In good weather the people who came to the Field of May assembled out
of doors. There must have been great crowds, and the king moved about
among his subjects with a friendly word for each. Leading men from
the different parts of the country were asked to inform him of the
condition of the people near their homes, whether they were contented
or restless, whether there was any disorder, and if so, what its cause
might be. Those who were to consider any new laws that he might
propose withdrew by themselves to discuss matters. If they wished to
ask any questions, they sent a messenger to the king; or, if they
preferred, he would come to them and talk things over in most familiar
fashion. When these men had come to an agreement, they reported it to
the king, and he made the final decision.

To make sure that these laws were carried out, Charlemagne gave each
district into the charge of some officer, or “count”; and to find out
whether these officers did their duty, he sent out superior officers,
whom people called the “Emperor’s Eyes.” They traveled from one
district to another, looking everywhere to ascertain not only whether
the laws were obeyed, but whether the people were treated fairly. If
any count was unjust, they quietly settled themselves in his house to
keep watch of him. He had to pay for their support, and in order to get
rid of them, he usually reformed very promptly.

Charlemagne had a vast respect for learned men. It is said that two
strangers once came to his court, saying that they had brought wisdom
to sell. “What is your price?” asked the king. “Food and clothes,
a room for a school, and pupils willing to learn,” they replied.
Charlemagne was soon obliged to leave for war, but before he went he
gave into the charge of the learned men some boys of poor parents and
some who were sons of nobles. When he came home, he commanded the
boys to show him what they had learned. The poor boys had done well,
but the young noblemen had trusted that the wealth and rank of their
fathers would give them success in life, and they had done very little.
The king praised the poor boys. “Keep on as you have begun,” he said,
“and you shall ever be honored in my eyes.” Then he turned upon the
rich boys and thundered: “You have idled and gambled and trusted in
your wealth, and you have disobeyed my orders. Understand that if you
do not make up for this by hard work, you will never get anything from
Charles.”

A really great man is always glad to gather great men around him, and
this Charlemagne was always eager to do. Nearly all the famous scholars
of the time were induced by him to come to his court. Some of them he
sent to Italy and Aquitania to advise his sons in their government.
Some he sent out as commissioners to other parts of his kingdom. Some
he kept at his own palace. They taught his children, and they also held
a school for the grown folk, a sort of conference where many subjects
were discussed. It was much the fashion to choose for one’s self and
use among one’s friends some name from history or literature, and in
this palace school each one had a special name. The king called himself
David; his sister Gisela became Lucia, his daughter Gisela was Delia.
One of his courtiers took the name of Nathanael; another that of Homer.
In science it was not the custom to study nature, but to accept any
fancy that occurred to the teacher. When Alcuin taught arithmetic, for
instance, he declared that the numbers 3 and 6 contained “the keys
of nature”--whatever that may mean. When the planet Mars disappeared
from the sky, Charlemagne asked Alcuin why this occurred; and Alcuin
replied that the sun had delayed the planet. He asked why a comet had
appeared, and was told that it was the soul of a man who had recently
died. Alcuin often had rather a hard time, for Charlemagne was not only
eager to learn, but he had an excellent memory; and when the teacher
explained some marvel of nature by one fancy, and a little later by
another fancy, the king was quite likely to ask how the two statements
could both be true. Long after poor Alcuin had left court and retired
to an abbey at Tours, he spoke of some of his mistakes and said that
they ought to be overlooked. “The horse,” he said, “which has four legs
often stumbles; how much more must man, who has but one tongue, often
trip in speech.” Alcuin wrote Latin poetry, and the following is a
translation of one of his poems:

      “_Spring._ I am fain for the cuckoo’s coming, the bird that I love
        the best;
    And there’s not a roof where the cuckoo deigns to pause in his
        flight and rest,
    And pipe glad songs from his ruddy beak, but will call him a
        welcome guest.

      “_Winter._ Delay me the coming of cuckoo! The father of toils is
        he;
    And battles he brings, and all men in the world, however weary
        they be,
    Must rouse them from rest at his trumpet to brave land-farings
        and perils at sea.

      “_Spring._ The note of the cuckoo brings flowers and gladdens
        with honey the bee,
    Sends the landsman to build up his homestead, the ship to the
        unruffled sea,
    And the nestlings are hatched by his music, and the meadow
        glows green and the tree.”

Next to Alcuin, Charlemagne was the most learned man in the kingdom.
He spoke Latin readily and understood Greek. He studied grammar
and rhetoric; he was interested in art and music and especially in
astronomy. Penmanship he found difficult, for his hand was more used to
holding a sword than a stylus, the pointed instrument used in writing
on waxen tablets. He kept such tablets and a stylus under his pillow so
he could practice when wakeful; but he never learned to write a good
hand.

When the year 800 had come, Charlemagne was at Rome hearing mass, which
was celebrated by the Pope himself. Whether Charlemagne knew what
was coming or not, no one can say, but suddenly the Pope turned to
where the king knelt before the altar, placed a crown upon his head,
and anointed him with the holy oil. The crowd, probably instructed
beforehand, cried, in the ancient form of words used in accepting an
emperor, “To Charles Augustus, crowned of God, great and peaceful
Emperor of the Romans, life and victory!” The Roman Empire, once so
powerful, had been divided long before this, and the western part had
not had an emperor for more than three hundred years. In crowning
Charlemagne, then, the Pope was reviving the old title, and declaring
him to be “Emperor of the Romans,” and at the head of what came to be
called the “Holy Roman Empire,” though, as has been often said, it was
“neither holy, nor Roman, nor an empire.”

Charlemagne died in 814. Several years before his death, he made his
will with the utmost care, dividing his property among his children,
the poor, his servants, and the Church. He called the chief men of
the empire together and “invited” them to make his son Louis emperor.
They agreed willingly. Immediately after this, father and son met
them in the cathedral at Aix-la-Chapelle. Charlemagne, in his kingly
robes and with his crown on his head, first knelt in prayer, then,
standing facing his son, he addressed him on the duties of a sovereign
to the Church and the people. “Are you fully resolved to fulfill these
duties?” he asked solemnly. “I am,” replied Louis. The king had laid a
second crown up upon the altar, and he said, “Take the crown from the
altar and place it upon your head.” Louis did this, and all the people
shouted, “Long live the Emperor Louis!” Charlemagne then formally
declared that his son would rule together with him, and with the
prayer, “Blessed be Thou, O Lord God, who hast granted me grace to see
with mine own eyes my son seated on my throne!” the ceremony came to an
end.

Charlemagne gave strict commands about the manner of his burial. In
obedience to these, his body was placed in a little stone chapel. He
was seated in a chair or throne, a gold chain about his neck and a
scepter in his right hand. A Bible lay open on his knees, and a sword
hung at his side. In one of the laments on his death there was written,
“Many are the afflictions that Frankland has known, but never knew she
such a sorrow as when at Aachen she laid in the earth the august and
eloquent Charles.”




CHAPTER VIII

THE SONG OF ROLAND


Roland, who fell at Roncesvalles, was Charlemagne’s nephew and one of
the bravest of knights. This is all that is really known of him, but
that is enough for a legend. There was something so touching about the
early death of the gallant young Roland that people told the story over
and over. They put in what details they knew and added others that they
imagined. Minstrels sang songs of Roncesvalles, and by and by some
poet, no one knows his name, put the story into the form of a poem, and
in this form it has been handed down to us for eight hundred years.

Of course the poet who wrote this “Song of Roland” was more interested
in making a poem than in being historically accurate, and he begins
the story by saying that Charlemagne had been in Spain seven years,
winning victories wherever he went. Saragossa was the only city not yet
conquered. Its king, Marsila, realizing that he could not resist the
great emperor, sent messengers to ask for peace.

The ten envoys, dressed in the richest of robes and riding upon the
whitest of mules, set out for the camp of Charlemagne. In their hands
they carried branches of olive. Four hundred mules followed them, laden
with silver and gold. “We will be baptized,” the envoys were to say,
“and we will give our sons to you as hostages. We will agree to hold
fair Spain as a fief of yours, if you and your army will but cross the
Pyrenees and return to the land of the Franks.”

Then Charlemagne and his barons discussed the offer of Marsila. Roland
sprang to his feet. “Do you not remember,” he cried, “that once before
this same Marsila sent you an olive branch, but that when you accepted
his submission and sent envoys to him in return, he slew them falsely
and treacherously? O my king, let us carry on the war in the good old
fashion, the fashion that has no failure for its end! Let us storm the
walls of Saragossa and conquer this maker of false promises!”

Then arose Ganelon, stepfather of Roland, and urged the emperor to
accept the submission of Marsila. So advised others, and then the
question arose, Who is to go? Roland begged to be sent, but Charlemagne
refused. Then Roland named Ganelon, and Ganelon was sent, in a mad rage
and vowing revenge upon his stepson.

Once arrived at the court of Marsila, he delivered the message of
Charlemagne nobly and as a faithful knight of the great emperor should
do. Then his hatred of Roland overcame him, and for the sake of
vengeance he was ready to betray his stepson and his sovereign.

“King Marsila,” said the faithless envoy, “with all your power you
could never overcome Charlemagne in open battle, but by craft and
artful cunning you may do more than you dream. Listen to what I would
advise. Do you send costly gifts and the keys of your city and many
hostages to Charlemagne in proof that you have yielded to him. He will
start for home happy and unsuspecting. Then, when he is far ahead, do
you come upon the rear guard and cut them down to a man. Never will
Charlemagne recover from such a blow, and never again will he venture
to cross the Pyrenees or disturb you in your kingdom.”

“Do you swear by all that is holy to keep faith with me?” demanded
Marsila. “I swear it,” declared the traitor, “and what is more, I
swear that the leader of the rear guard shall be one Roland, nephew of
Charlemagne and dearest to his heart.”

So the evil plan was formed, and Ganelon set out on his return, with
seven hundred camels loaded with gold and silver for Charlemagne,
and the richest gifts for the traitor who was plotting to work his
overthrow.

Charlemagne and his knights were watching anxiously; and when Ganelon
came in sight and told them that all was well, that Marsila yielded and
sent gifts and hostages and the keys of Saragossa, they were overjoyed,
and could hardly plan rewards generous enough to repay the successful
envoy.

Straightway the camp was broken up and the army made ready to set out
on the march to Francia and home, to their wives and their children.
Charlemagne did not suspect any treachery, but he was a careful
general, and he planned that, while the main part of his army was
marching over the mountains, a faithful body of men should be left as
rear guard to make their safety sure. To lead this rear guard was a
post of danger, but it was also a post of honor, and when the traitor
Ganelon suggested that Roland should be in command, the other knights
rejoiced that the gallant young warrior was to have this recognition of
his bravery.

With trumpets and banners Charlemagne and his followers started on
their homeward way. Roland put on his well-polished armor, buckled on
his beloved sword Durendal, his trusty sword with the golden hilt,
mounted his noble horse Veillantif, and waved the white banner fastened
to the end of his lance. Oliver, his dearest friend, whose sister was
his betrothed, galloped to his side, and soon the line was formed.
The emperor and his hundred thousand followers waved their banners in
farewell and marched slowly up the mountain ridges. With the passing
of every hour, home was nearer, and they were more and more happy--all
but the emperor. For him, too, wife and children were waiting, but he
feared for his beloved Roland and the rear guard. He remembered that
Ganelon had named him for the place of danger, and he recalled the look
of hatred in Ganelon’s eyes as he spoke the name of his stepson. Then,
too, Charlemagne had had a dream wherein he had seen great evil befall
the brave young knight. But such fancies as these were no reason for
turning back with his army, and though sad and gloomy, he marched on
away from Spain and Roland.

The emperor might well have had visions of evil befalling Roland, for
four hundred thousand of the pagans were advancing upon him. There were
but twenty thousand of the rear guard, for in spite of Charlemagne’s
urging, Roland had scorned to take more. The music of Saracen clarions
and the heavy tramping of Saracen feet could be heard, and Oliver
begged Roland to sound a blast on his horn that the emperor might hear
it and come to their aid; but Roland was fired with the thought of the
glory that he and his little troop might win, and he refused. Again and
yet again did Oliver beg him to blow his horn, but Roland would not
yield, and soon the mighty forces of the pagans were upon them.

The poet does not hesitate to make a story thrilling while he is about
it. Oliver kills seven hundred with the broken fragment of a lance. All
but one man of the ten thousand in the advance guard of the Saracens
soon fall, and that one man flees for his life. But other pagan
thousands were coming, and at last Roland sounded his horn. Thirty
leagues away Charlemagne heard it and knew that it was the horn of
Roland, and that he was in dire distress. A second time it sounded and
even a third, but fainter and fainter. Then Charlemagne and his men put
spurs to their horses and dashed back toward the pass of Roncesvalles,
where Roland and his little band of fifty were doing their best to meet
sixty thousand of their enemies. Oliver fell, and before long only
Roland and Archbishop Turpin, the fighting archbishop, were alive. Four
hundred pagans had banded together to kill Roland; but when they
heard the distant trumpets of the emperor, they fled in rage and terror.

[Illustration: ROLAND AT RONCESVALLES]

The archbishop was sorely wounded, but with his last breath he
pronounced a blessing upon the brave twenty thousand who had fallen in
the battle. Roland was faint from loss of blood and knew that his hour
had come. He threw himself down under a great pine tree to die with
his face toward Spain. “Here my emperor shall find me, with face to
the foe, as a conqueror should lie,” he said to himself; and then he
prayed, “Father, O Father, forgive me my sins and grant me to live with
Thee in Thy heaven!”

Under the pine tree the emperor found his beloved knight, and fell
by his side, fainting with grief. But the foes of the Franks were
upon him, an enormous army brought together from forty kingdoms. They
were routed, Saragossa fell into the hands of Charlemagne, and its
inhabitants had to choose between the sword and the waters of baptism.
The sister of Oliver fell dead on hearing the news of the death of her
betrothed and her brother. Ganelon met with a terrible punishment; and
so the story ends.




CHAPTER IX

HOW THE NORTHMEN BECAME NORMANS


Once upon a time Charlemagne was in a little seashore town of Francia
on the borders of the Mediterranean. As he and his followers sat at the
table eating dinner, they caught sight of a fleet of vessels coming
into port. “Those are Jewish traders,” declared some of the company;
but others thought they came from Africa, and one or two questioned
whether they were not British. “No,” said Charlemagne, “those are
not traders; see how lightly they are built. They are made to carry
men, not goods, and they are laden with the cruelest of our foes, the
barbarous Northmen.”

Then the Franks ran swiftly to their ships to drive away the pirates.
They might just as well have saved their strength and finished their
dinner, for in some way the Northmen learned that the great emperor was
there, and they slipped away into the mist as fast as sails and oars
would carry them.

Charlemagne did not return to the table, but stood by the window a long
while, gazing in the direction whence the vessels had disappeared.
Tears were in his eyes as he turned toward his followers and said, “I
have no fear of any harm coming to me from those miserable pirates, but
I grieve to think what evils they will heap upon my children and my
poor people in the years that are to come.”

These Northmen were wild marauders from Scandinavia, who had no fear of
the maddest tempest, but dashed out into the stormy seas, landing at
dead of night wherever the wind chanced to drive them, burning crops
and houses and murdering the people. Britain and Ireland had already
endured much from them, and Francia, as Charlemagne foretold, was also
to suffer from their ravages.

After the death of Charlemagne there was no one of his family--or of
any other family, for that matter--strong enough to rule his enormous
empire. It was divided and subdivided; and there was dissension and
war; but at length, in 843, a treaty was made at Verdun by which his
lands were divided into three broad strips and given to his three
grandsons respectively. Roughly speaking, the most western strip became
France; the middle strip included Italy, the valley of the Rhone, and
a belt of land extending to the mouth of the Rhine; the most eastern
strip became Germany. This was the first great treaty among the
European states.

Meanwhile the Northmen were becoming more and more daring. They glided
up the rivers of Francia far into the country. Sometimes they besieged
a city, sometimes a traitor let them within its walls. The monasteries
and churches were full of treasures, and so these were the special aim
of the pirates. The abbot of Saint Denis was carried away and made to
pay a heavy ransom. Worst of all, sometimes a king would agree with the
Northmen that if they would leave his own lands untouched, he would not
interfere with their pillage of his subjects. To one of these kings
the Archbishop of Rheims wrote indignantly on hearing that he made no
effort to defend his people.

In 885, the Northmen, under one Siegfried, pushed up the Seine to
Paris. They had expected to capture the city without any difficulty,
and they were amazed to see new towers and ramparts and a strong double
wall. Siegfried landed alone and demanded to speak with Bishop Gozlin,
governor of the city. “All we want is to go farther up the river,” he
said, “and if you will allow us to pass the city, we will harm neither
person nor property.” “I do not believe your story,” declared the
bishop, “and I will give you no such passage.” “Then shall our armies
launch their poisoned arrows against you, and you shall be given over
to all the horrors of famine.” But the bishop stood firm, and Siegfried
went back to his ships, vowing vengeance.

For thirteen long months the siege went on. The Northmen made great
wheeled sheds, each one concealing a battering ram. They made smaller
sheds covered with hides to protect men from fire while they were
trying to breach the walls. They did their best to fill the fosse
by throwing in earth, leaves, branches of trees, and even bodies of
their prisoners, slain for the purpose. The defenders responded with
crossbows and machines for throwing stones and with long beams with
iron points; but now came a new terror, for the Northmen had driven
three burning ships near to the city walls. But the ships struck on
the stone piers of the bridge, and the walls stood.

So the months passed. The bishop died and the Northmen took new
courage. The brave Count Odo was now left in command of the Franks,
and he forced his way through the ranks of his foes to appeal to the
king for aid. But the king was made of different stuff. He dawdled and
delayed, and when he finally came to the help of his city, all he did
was to tell the Northmen that if they would leave Paris alone, they
were welcome to go up the river and plunder Burgundy as much as they
chose. He even added to this permission a bribe of seven hundred pounds
of silver. Such was the king who reigned over men like Bishop Gozlin
and Count Odo.

When Siegfried advanced upon Paris, Rollo, one of the leaders of the
Northmen, was sent to take possession of Rouen. This he did, and, much
to the surprise of its people, he treated them kindly, was careful not
to injure their buildings, and even repaired their city walls. Here was
a viking who was actually somewhat respectable. Indeed, it was said
that he had visited England more than once, not as a robber, but as a
guest of King Alfred the Great and his successor. He was becoming so
powerful that the wisest course was to make friends with him. The king
consulted with his councilors, and soon the Archbishop of Rouen was
sent to the Northmen with an important offer. This said in brief: “If
you will acknowledge yourself to be my vassal [that is, do military
service when needed], and will agree to be baptized as a Christian, I
will give you land and also the hand of my daughter Gisela in marriage.”

Rollo and his comrades talked the matter over. As far as land was
concerned, they held a large territory already, and they could win more
whenever they chose, for people much preferred having them as settlers
and neighbors to enduring the terrible sufferings inflicted by their
raids. On the other hand, Rollo was beginning to see that piracy was
not the most desirable kind of life. He really had an inclination to
rule a country justly and fairly, rather than to be ever robbing and
murdering. He agreed that a day should be appointed to discuss terms of
peace.

When the day came, the king took his stand on one shore of a little
river, while Rollo and his followers stood on the opposite bank.
Messages were carried back and forth. “I will grant you Flanders,” said
the king. “That is too swampy,” objected Rollo. “Then I will give you
the maritime part of Normandy.” “That is nothing but forests,” Rollo
declared; and the king did not venture to retort that the cultivated
fields had been laid waste by the raids of the Northmen. Finally, land
was agreed upon, and the Duchy of Normandy was formed.

Rollo was not fully instructed in the manners of royal circles, and
when the bishops told him that in acknowledgment of such a gift he
should kiss the foot of the king, he stoutly refused. “I bend my knee
to no man,” he declared, “and I kiss the foot of none.” The bishops
urged that it was only a form, but that it was quite proper and
necessary. “Do it for me, then,” Rollo commanded one of his comrades.
The warrior bold had no more intention of kneeling than his master.
Bolt upright he stood and raised the foot of the astounded king to his
lips. Naturally the king toppled over, and the throng shouted with
amusement. The king and all his nobles, dukes, counts, and abbots
swore solemnly to protect Rollo in his possession of the land. He was
baptized by the French name of Robert, and so the wild Northern pirate
became ruler of Rouen and much country thereabouts.

Rollo now had land of his own to defend, and he set to work to
cultivate it and to care for his people as energetically as he had
carried on his earlier career of robbery. The manners of the wild
rovers became more civilized. Their very names were softened for
“Northmen” became “Normans,” and “Rollo,” also called “Rolf” or
“Hroth,” became “Rou.” For twenty years he governed his broad domain.
He rebuilt the towns which his countrymen had destroyed, he befriended
the Church, and he treated his people justly. Wrongdoing he punished
with a heavy hand. Whoever was injured by another had the right to
shout “Haro!” and every one within hearing was bound to join in the
chase for the culprit. A legend says that in order to find out whether
his laws were observed, Rollo hung his golden bracelet upon the branch
of a tree, and that when he went to look for it three years later, he
found it still hanging there. This might be a little easier to believe
if the same story had not been told of Alfred the Great and other wise
rulers.

Whether there is any truth in this legend of the bracelet or not,
it is certain that before long the Normans had become more French
than the Franks themselves. Within forty years after the founding of
Rollo’s duchy, French, manners and customs prevailed, and French was
more generally spoken in Normandy than the old tongue of the Northmen.
These sea rovers had a remarkable aptitude for adopting the best of the
ways of other folk and improving upon them; and before much time had
passed, the Normans became leaders in building, in commerce, and even
in literature.




CHAPTER X

HOW A NORMAN BECAME KING OF ENGLAND


One of the earliest memories of William of Normandy was of being
dressed handsomely and led into the castle hall, where he found his
father and a number of other men. The boy heard his father say: “This
is my son. He is little, but he will grow.” Then these men, one by
one, knelt before the boy, laid their hands in his, and promised to
be faithful to him. He was only seven or eight years old, but he
understood the meaning of this ceremony, namely, that they were now
bound to fight for him if he called upon them.

The father of the child was Robert, Duke of Normandy, one of the
successors of Rollo the Northman. Some of the Normans called the duke
“Robert the Devil.” More than one crime was laid to his charge, but,
according to the belief of the day, these would all be forgiven if
he only made a pilgrimage to Jerusalem; and this he was about to do.
Robert died on the journey, and the boy became Duke of Normandy.

Those were stormy times in Normandy. Many a man would not have
hesitated a moment to kill the child in the hope of getting possession
of his inheritance, and among them were some of the very nobles who had
sworn to be faithful to him. Others realized what horrors of warfare
the death of this boy would bring upon the duchy, and they guarded
him with their lives. He could never be left alone a moment for fear
of poison or assassination. Sometimes he was caught up in the night
and carried from one castle to another. Sometimes he was hidden away
for safety in the cottage of his grandfather; for his mother was the
daughter of a peasant. The King of France, to whom he paid homage
for his duchy, had promised in return to protect him; but the king
was beginning to be jealous of the strength of Normandy. He did not
realize, however, how powerful it was, and after William became a man,
the king swept into the duchy with his forces, expecting to conquer it
at a dash. On the contrary, he was driven from the land so promptly
that he was only too glad to make peace.

William was able also to make his peace with the Pope. The duke had
married Matilda of Flanders, although for some reason that is not
clearly understood the Pope had objected. He was after some years
persuaded to confirm the marriage on condition that William and Matilda
would build four hospitals, one in each of the four chief towns of
Normandy, and also one convent for men and one for women.

Life was now moving more easily for William, but his greatest adventure
still lay before him. This is the way it came about. A few years before
William was born, his great aunt and her husband were driven from the
English throne and with their two little boys fled to Normandy. Edward,
the elder of the two boys, was twenty-five years older than the young
duke, and he promised William that if he ever became King of England,
he would bequeath him the English crown. It did not seem to enter his
mind that the English people might have a word to say about the matter.

William never forgot this promise of King Edward, and he watched every
movement of the people across the English Channel. One of the most
prominent of these people was Earl Harold, son of a powerful noble.
Edward had at last begun to suspect that the English would not accept
a foreigner as king, and his thoughts, as well as the wishes of the
English people, turned toward Harold. William had learned this, and
when one day Harold went out sailing and a storm drove his boat upon
the coast of Normandy, William’s mind was made up just what course to
follow.

Day after day passed in royal entertainment for the visitor, with
feasts, games, hunting, hawking, even a choice bit of warfare, for
William invited his guest to help him subdue a disobedient vassal. On
the way home from this amusement, they were riding along side by side
when William began to talk of the days when King Edward lived at his
father’s castle. “He was like an older brother to me,” said the duke,
“and he promised to bequeath me his crown if he should ever become
King of England. There may be difficulties in the way, and if you will
promise me your aid, I promise in return to do for you whatever you may
ask of me.”

Harold well knew that if he refused he would probably be thrown into
one of the dungeons in William’s castle, and he made the promise. A few
days later, William invited him to come to an assembly of the barons. A
table covered with cloth of gold stood before the duke. On it were two
reliquaries, or caskets holding relics of the saints. “Harold,” said
William, “you have already promised to aid me in gaining the throne
of England. I ask you now to swear to this on these relics of the
saints and in the presence of my barons.” Harold laid his hands on the
two reliquaries and took the oath. To swear on the bones of the less
important saints was looked upon as a sin, of course, but a sin for
which one might by doing penance win forgiveness, and probably Harold
had no idea of keeping his promise; but suddenly the cloth of gold was
removed, and he was aghast to see that he had sworn on a great tub full
to the brim of the most sacred relics of the Church in Normandy.

Early in 1066 King Edward died, and Harold was made king. William at
once sent a swift messenger to say to him, “William, Duke of Normandy,
recalls to you the oath that you swore to him on the relics of the
saints.” Harold replied: “An oath sworn under compulsion is not
binding. Moreover, the kingship belongs not to me, but to the country.
I cannot put it from me without the country’s consent.”

Then began mighty preparations for conquest. Many hundred vessels were
brought together at the mouth of the Dive River, and many thousand men
crossed the Channel. The battle which followed was called the battle of
Hastings, because it was fought seven miles from Hastings. The Normans
marched on toward the hill of Senlac, where the English were drawn up.
There were slingers and archers in the Norman lines. There were the
heavy-armed infantry; there were knights with sword and lance. There
was even a warlike bishop, William’s half-brother. The Church forbade
him to use sword or spear for the shedding of blood, but he persuaded
himself that it was not unlawful to swing a club. The duke himself bore
neither lance nor javelin, but a heavy iron mace, a terrible weapon in
the hands of so powerful a man.

Suddenly a rider galloped out in front of the Norman line, Taillefer,
the minstrel. “My lord,” he said to William, “I have served you long.
Reward me this day for my services. Grant me to strike the first blow
in the battle.” “I grant it!” cried William. Then the minstrel sang the
old ballads of Roland at Roncesvalles. He tossed his sword into the
air and caught it as it fell. He made his horse curvet and caracole.
Wheeling about, he galloped up to the lines of the English, thrust his
lance through one man, cut down another with his sword, and in another
moment himself lay dead, struck down by many an English weapon.

This was the beginning of a battle which made William of Normandy King
of England. It was also the beginning of the holding of English land by
French dukes, and of French land by English sovereigns. Of course this
was bound to make trouble between the two countries, and it was five
hundred years before England was forced to surrender the last bit of
her French possessions.




CHAPTER XI

HOW NORMANDY BECAME A PART OF FRANCE


Some twenty years after the great adventure of William the Norman, or
William the Conqueror, as he came to be called, a strange figure was
seen in France, going about from one place to another. He wore a woolen
tunic and over it a rough serge cloak which reached to his heels. He
was bareheaded and barefooted, and as he rode along on the back of
a rather forlorn-looking mule, he stretched out one bare arm before
him, carrying a crucifix in his hand. Wherever he stopped, the people
gathered about him, and he preached to them in simple, homely words
which, nevertheless, were eloquent and moved them wonderfully. They
followed him in crowds. They treasured hairs from his mule to keep as
precious relics. They brought their quarrels to him and yielded to his
decisions. They loaded him with gifts--which he gave away to the first
person whom he saw in need.

This strange, eloquent man was Peter the Hermit. He, as well as
Robert of Normandy and thousands of others, had been on pilgrimage to
Jerusalem. The Holy City had long been in the hands of the Turks, but
pilgrims had been permitted to pass within its gates on payment of a
tax. Another race of Turks, however, had captured Jerusalem, and now
Christian pilgrims were not only obliged to pay large taxes, but they
were robbed and tortured and often murdered. This was the story told by
Peter the Hermit, and he begged his hearers to free the Holy Land from
the infidels.

Pope Urban II had met Peter and believed in him and his message, and in
a great meeting held on the plain of Clermont in France, Urban urged
the thousands of people before him to put on their breasts or shoulders
the red cross that was to be the sign of their vow to rescue the city
of their Lord. He bade none but strong men go on the crusade, but the
vast company that set out was a strange medley of men, women, and
children, of good people and bad people--thieves, drunkards, and all
sorts of rascals. Better soldiers soon followed them, and Jerusalem was
taken. It remained in the hands of the Christians less than a century,
then fell again into those of the Turks. One of the crusades undertaken
in hope of recovering it might well have been called the royal crusade
or the crusade of the kings, for it was led by King Philip Augustus of
France and Richard the Lion-Hearted of England.

When Philip was only fifteen, his father became very ill, and, as in
the case of Charlemagne, he wished to see his son crowned before his
death. So all the princes and nobles hastened to Rheims, and in the
great cathedral the crown was placed upon the boy’s head. His father
died a few months later, and Philip was left to rule alone. He was an
ambitious young king, and his great dream was to make his kingdom as
large as it had been in the days of Charlemagne. There was not much
prospect of this coming true, and of course Philip knew it; but he had
another dream not quite so ambitious, namely, that some day he would
make Normandy a part of the kingdom of France, and this was not at all
impossible.

Into the midst of Philip’s dreams the news came that the Turks had
captured the Holy City. All Europe was bewailing its loss. No king
could hope to be honored by his people who did not do his best to help
recover Jerusalem. Men were half wild to go on a crusade, and those who
could not go submitted willingly to a tax amounting to one tenth of
their property in order to pay the expenses of an expedition. Philip
and Richard started for the Holy Land. Each wanted to be the hero of
the crusade, and as the glory was inclined to fall into the hands of
Richard, Philip was not at all pleased, and before long he set out on
his return to France.

Besides his jealousy, Philip had another reason for hastening home. He
had made a solemn promise not to touch Richard’s land or to injure him
in any way while he was on the crusade. To break such a promise would
be a serious matter and would get Philip into trouble, not only with
English and Normans and even some of his own people, but also with the
Church. If, however, he could persuade the Pope to release him from the
promise, he could seize the land before Richard could get home--and
this land was the coveted Normandy.

But the Pope refused to have anything to do with such a trick, and
Philip set to work to form new plans. His first step was to make a
bargain with John, Richard’s younger brother. Philip was to help
John get possession of the English throne, and in return John was to
agree not to interfere with Philip’s seizing Normandy. All was going
on smoothly for the treacherous plotters when news came that Richard
had made a truce with the Turks which would permit pilgrims to visit
Jerusalem in peace, and was already on his way home. A little later
they learned that he had been shipwrecked and was now in the hands
of the Emperor of Germany. This suited them to perfection, and they
offered the emperor a large sum of money if he would hold on to his
captive. Possibly the emperor guessed what the plotters were about and
did not care to increase the power of France; but, however that may
be, he accepted the offer of the English people to pay a huge ransom
for their crusader king and set Richard free. “Beware, the devil is
unchained,” wrote Philip to John.

Richard was never revengeful, and he forgave his brother. Then he set
out to try to protect Normandy, but he was slain, and John was now King
of England and Duke of Normandy, although Normandy--and England too for
that matter--belonged to his young nephew Arthur.

The people of Normandy did not like John, and Philip found them more
than willing to accept Arthur for their duke. But Arthur fell into his
uncle’s hands and was put into prison. One day the door of his room
was thrown open and King John entered. He spoke to the boy pleasantly
and asked him if he would like to have a row on the Seine River. Of
course he was delighted, and they got into the boat. When they had
come to a lonely place, King John suddenly drew his sword, turned upon
his nephew, and stabbed him to the heart. This is the story that was
generally believed, and, at any rate, Arthur was never seen again.

John was now King of England, to be sure, but he was also Duke of
Normandy, and as duke he was a vassal of Philip and must obey him if he
wished to keep the Norman lands. Philip summoned him to come for trial
on the charge of having murdered his nephew. He paid no attention to
the summons, and Philip--not at all unwillingly--declared his lands
forfeited. So it was that Normandy became a part of the kingdom of
France.




CHAPTER XII

THE KING WHO WAS A SAINT


When Prince Louis was only twelve years old, the death of his father
made him King Louis IX. Fortunately for the boy, his mother, Queen
Blanche, was a very wise woman. She knew that the barons would be
likely to refuse to support her son, but they were scattered over the
kingdom, and before they could come together and make any definite
plots, she had him firmly seated on the throne and the government going
on in his name.

Within two weeks after the funeral of his father, Louis was made a
knight. There was a long ceremony, of course, but on the same day the
court moved to Rheims for the coronation; and that night the young
king kept vigil before the altar in the great lonely cathedral. On the
following day, although he must have been a very tired and sleepy boy,
he walked up to the altar barefooted before a great company of knights,
bishops, peers, and peeresses, and there took a solemn oath to be
faithful to God and the Church, and to deal justly with his people. He
was anointed with the holy oil, the royal scepter of power was placed
in his right hand, and the small rod of mercy in his left, and then the
crown of France was laid upon his head.

[Illustration: SAINT LOUIS OPENING THE PRISONS OF HIS REALM]

Louis was King of France, and everything was done in his name, but the
queen was the real ruler and guardian of her son. In those days
people believed that children should be brought up with the greatest
severity, and although Queen Blanche loved her son with all her heart,
she would have thought herself a weak and foolish woman if she had not
treated him with sternness. When he was fourteen, she put him into the
hands of a tutor who believed that the upright, obedient boy ought
to be whipped every day because it would be good discipline for him.
Kings cannot run away, so the boy had to bear it as best he could, and
somehow he never lost his kind, gentle disposition and his love of
making the people around him happy.

Queen Blanche ruled the land wisely and managed to subdue the turbulent
barons. In spite of her strictness, Louis loved her, and even after
he came of age to rule by himself, he always set the highest value
upon her advice. Kind and thoughtful of others as he was, he would
never yield when he was sure that he was in the right. He gave careful
consideration to the question whether he ought not to return Normandy
to England; but when some of the French barons tried to get possession
of portions of the land properly belonging to the crown, he would not
give up a single inch. To his own brother he said, “Charles, there must
be only one king in France.”

Although Louis stood so resolutely for his rights, he was full of
sympathy for all in need. With his own hands he cared for lepers too
loathsome for others to touch. In remembrance of Jesus’ washing the
feet of his disciples, this humble sovereign washed the feet of poor
beggars one day of each week. He even bore it patiently when one of the
beggars found fault with him for not doing the work more thoroughly.
It is no wonder that even during his lifetime he was known as “Saint
Louis.”

But this royal saint had a keen sense of humor, and was never at a loss
for a witty reply. At festivals and on all public occasions he always
dressed handsomely, but aside from this he wore such simple clothes
that his wife objected. “You wish me to wear costly stuffs,” he said
to her; “but since the wedding law holds that the wife must please
the husband and the husband the wife, you must, in your turn, be kind
enough to put off all your fine attire. You conform to my ways and I to
yours.” When some one ventured to hint that he was giving too much time
to prayer, he said, “But no one would criticize me for giving as much
time to hunting or to dice; why, then, should I be blamed for spending
the time in praying?”

Of course King Louis was deeply interested in the crusades, and he must
have often longed earnestly but vainly to take part in them. He was
never strong, and after a while the time came when he was dangerously
ill. Throughout the whole land the churches were crowded with people
praying for his recovery. His subjects fasted, they gave alms, they
made long processions, they did everything that they hoped would win
the favor of Heaven to spare the life of their beloved king; but Louis
grew worse and worse. The day came when, in spite of doctors and the
holiest relics of Saint Denis, the king, who had long been unconscious,
was apparently dead, and one of the nurses drew a cloth over his face.
Suddenly from under the cloth there came a feeble voice, “God hath
brought me back from the shadow of death,” and the weeping was changed
to rejoicing.

It was but a little while before Louis sent for the Bishop of Paris.
“Bring me the cross of a crusader,” he commanded. The bishop tried his
best to dissuade him, but Louis insisted, and finally the cross was
laid upon his breast. After he had recovered, Queen Blanche, bishops,
and courtiers all told him in what danger he would leave his kingdom if
he went on a crusade. They reminded him that when he took the cross he
was too feeble to be responsible for what he was doing. Louis quietly
handed the cross back to the bishop. Then he said, “I lack now neither
sense nor reason; I am not weak, and I am not at the point of death;
and now I demand my cross back again.”

Of course many knights followed his example and put on the cross, but
more were needed, and to induce them to go he played a little trick
upon them. It was his custom to give each of his nobles a handsome
cloak at the door of the church when they came to Mass at dawn on
Christmas morning. Behold, when they had come through the darkness into
the candlelight of the church and knelt in prayer, every man saw on the
shoulder of each of his neighbors an embroidered cross. They took the
trick good-naturedly, however, and called the king a new hunter of
pilgrims and fisher of men.

King and nobles made their wills, said their farewells, and set sail to
cross the Mediterranean. It was a gorgeous display. The sails of the
ships were of scarlet, gold, green, or purple, and the ships themselves
were painted in all the colors of the rainbow. When at length they
reached Egypt, the eager king sprang ashore into water breast-high, the
first of the band of crusaders. “Montjoie Saint Denis!” they shouted as
they pushed on against the Saracens.

So brave a beginning ought to have led to success, but there was
trouble almost from the first. They were besieged by the Saracens;
pestilence and starvation were upon them. The king himself was terribly
ill. Thousands of the crusaders were shut into a court with a single
door. Through this door they were led out one by one. “Will you become
a follower of Mohammed?” was asked of each. Those who refused were
beheaded on the instant. King Louis would willingly have been among
the martyrs, but he was a king, and his captors could get an enormous
ransom for him; surely they were not so foolish as to let harm befall
him. Handsome clothes were provided, and a friar who knew both French
and Arabic was allowed to attend him; but before they discovered what
was going on, the earnest prisoner was trying his best to convert his
jailers to Christianity by means of this interpreter. Some of the wild
Saracens demanded that he should make them knights; but he steadfastly
refused to give the blessing of Christ to heathen arms, even though
refusing this request endangered his life. At last a treaty was made,
the ransom was paid, and the king and his followers were allowed to go
free. One of them reported with great glee that the Saracens had gone
off with only part of the promised ransom. The king overheard this. “Go
after them,” he commanded, “and see to it that the amount is paid in
full.” Those who had not died either in battle or in prison sailed for
home. The crusade was a failure.

The power of the Saracens increased. The Christians had a strip of
coast land, but they were being rapidly driven from even that. “The
cross is conquered. God sleeps!” was the wail that came to the king’s
ears. Seventeen years after his first crusade Louis prepared for a
second. He was so feeble that he had to be carried in the arms of a
man to church and convent to make his farewells. All knew that the
king would never return, but he went away happily, less in the hope of
conquest than in the longing to win his enemies for Christ. Pestilence
and the hot winds of the desert overcame what little strength remained
to him. By his orders sacking was spread over a bed of cinders, and
there the beloved king was laid to die. “Jerusalem, Jerusalem!” he
murmured. “Lord, have pity on Thy people whom I have led here. Send
them to their homes in safety. Let them not fall into the hands of Thy
enemies, nor let them be forced to deny Thy Holy Name.”

So died Saint Louis, the blameless king, and so ended the crusades.
Jerusalem remained in the hands of the Turks until, in 1917, it was
captured by General Allenby of the British army.




CHAPTER XIII

THE SIX HEROES OF CALAIS


In 1328, the King of France lay hopelessly ill, and who should succeed
him was a question. He had no children, but he had a sister, Isabella,
and in England the crown would have been given to her. Among one branch
of the ancient Franks, however, the Salians, who lived on the lower
Rhine, there was a law that no woman should rule the Salic lands.
Therefore, when the king died, the French gave the crown to his cousin
Philip.

But in England Edward III, a shrewd, wide-awake sovereign, was watching
matters closely. He was the son of Isabella, and he argued that even if
a woman could not reign, her son could. The lawyers of Europe did not
agree with him, but, nevertheless, he took the title of King of France
and in 1337 set to work to make it valid by force of arms.

He won a great naval victory off Sluys, on the Flemish coast, and
destroyed the French fleet. He ravaged Normandy, won the famous
battle of Crécy, and then marched on to Calais. He settled his troops
as comfortably as possible, building for them a town of wooden huts
thatched with straw. These were arranged in streets, and there was also
a market-place where twice a week bread, meat, cloth, and many other
comforts from England were for sale.

The wealthy people of Calais had been filling their houses with
provisions, but the poorer people had not been able to do this, and the
governor of the place now sent them out from the city to seek homes and
food wherever they might. Edward III was a stern ruler, but his heart
was touched by the sight of these hungry, suffering folk. He told his
men to pass them through the lines in safety, and he ordered a hearty
dinner to be prepared for them. Then he gave some money to each one,
and so let them go.

The French king had not forgotten the plight of Calais, and he bade
every knight and every squire of his realm come with him to its
aid; and before long, the watchmen on the walls of the city saw two
hundred thousand men marching to their help with banners flying in the
moonlight.

But even after they had come, the passes were so carefully guarded that
they found no opportunity for battle. They sent envoys to Edward and
asked him, in rather childlike fashion, if he would name some place for
a battle. Edward replied that if the French were so eager to fight,
they might have come sooner; but that he had now done so much that he
expected to be master of Calais in a very short time; and in any case,
he had no idea of arranging his affairs to suit their convenience. At
this the King of France withdrew and disbanded his troops.

The governor of Calais, however, was of quite different mettle. He had
no idea of surrender, but the people of the town had now held out for
nearly a year, and they begged the governor to ask for a parley; so
he mounted the battlements and made a sign that he wished to talk with
envoys from the English king. Edward sent Sir Walter de Manny, a brave
and honorable knight, to hold a parley with them. Of Sir Walter the
governor asked that his people might be allowed to go free, leaving the
city with all its wealth to King Edward.

“That will not satisfy him,” replied Sir Walter. “Your obstinate
defense has cost him not only money, but many lives. He is enraged, and
he declares that the life of every one in this town must be given into
his hands, that he may do as he pleases with it, either accept ransom
or destroy it, as he will.”

Then said the governor: “We have served our king as you would have
served yours. We have endured much, but we will endure as much more
before we will consent that the smallest boy in this town shall fare
worse than the best. I beg of you to go to the king and entreat his
compassion upon us.”

Sir Walter reported the parley to Edward, but the king declared firmly
that he would accept nothing but unconditional surrender. Then said
Sir Walter: “But, my lord, the time may come when we shall be in the
hands of the French, and if you put these people to death, the French
will take their revenge on us. You could not under such circumstances
expect us to obey you cheerfully when you order us to go to any of your
castles.”

Many of the other barons agreed with Sir Walter, and at last the king
said: “I am not so obstinate as to insist upon my opinion against you
all. Sir Walter, go you to the governor of Calais, and say to him that
the only grace he will get from me is this: If six of the chief men of
Calais will come to me, bareheaded and barefooted, with ropes around
their necks and the keys of the town in their hands, then shall the
rest of the people have pardon, but with these six, I will do as I
please.”

When the governor heard these words, he went down from the battlements
into the market-place and had the bell rung for the people to come
together. After they had heard the hard terms, there was great weeping
and wailing, but soon Eustace de Saint-Pierre, the richest citizen of
the town, rose to his feet, and said: “It would be a very great pity to
suffer so many people to die through famine if any means could be found
to prevent it. I have such faith and trust in finding grace before God
if I die to save my townsmen that I name myself as first of the six.”
“I will be the second,” said John Daire, another man of wealth, and
four others quickly followed their example.

Amid the tears and lamentations of the people, the governor led the six
heroes to the city gate where Sir Walter de Manny stood waiting. “I
swear to you,” said the governor, “that these six citizens are the most
wealthy and respected inhabitants of Calais. I beg of you, gentle sir,
to beseech the king that they may not be put to death.”

“I cannot answer for what the king may do with them,” replied Sir
Walter sadly, “but you may be sure that I will do all in my power to
save them.”

When the six heroes had come before King Edward, they fell upon their
knees before him and begged for mercy. All the barons and knights and
squires wept at the sight, but the king, angry for what the people of
Calais had made him endure, ordered them to be taken away and beheaded.
Sir Walter and the others present pleaded for mercy, but the king would
not yield. “Send for the executioner,” was his only reply. But Queen
Philippa now knelt before him and pleaded for the men. “With great
danger I crossed the sea to come to you,” she said, “and I have never
yet asked a favor of you. I ask you now, for the sake of the Son of
the Blessed Mary and for your love to me, that you will be merciful to
these six men.”

The king stood looking at her in silence. Then he said: “Ah, lady, I
wish you had been anywhere else than here, but I cannot refuse you.
Take them and do with them as you please.” So the queen took the six
men to her own apartments. She cast off the halters from their necks,
gave them new clothes, and served them with a generous dinner. Then
they were escorted back to the city gates in safety, and for the sake
of the six heroes the lives of the men of Calais were spared.

This is the story of the heroes of Calais as it is told by Froissart, a
French historian who spent much time talking with men who had fought in
the wars and visiting the fields where great battles had taken place.
Queen Philippa was especially kind to him, and he must have enjoyed
writing this story of her goodness and mercy.




CHAPTER XIV

THE STORY OF JEANNE DARC


The warfare of Edward III in France was the beginning of the English
struggle for the French crown which is known as the “Hundred Years’
War.” It lasted from 1337 to 1453, although it was broken by occasional
times of peace.

In 1422 the King of France died. His son could not be crowned, because
French sovereigns were always crowned at Rheims, and Rheims, as well
as the northern half of the whole country, was in the hands of the
English; but he was proclaimed as Charles VII of France. The King of
England was only a baby of ten months, but his guardians quite as
promptly proclaimed him too as King of France.

Charles was kind-hearted, handsome, fond of a good time, and decidedly
lazy. He was willing that people should fight for him, but he had no
desire to lead them. There was nothing about him to arouse enthusiasm,
and many of the French would have cared little if he had lost his
throne. It began to look as if this would come to pass, for the English
were besieging Orleans, the last stronghold of southern France. The
English, however, were in reality more discouraged than they would have
been willing to admit, for their friends, the Burgundians, had deserted
them. Moreover, there was an old prophecy that some day a maiden would
save France, and a rumor was afloat that a young girl had been sent by
Heaven to raise the siege of Orleans.

This young girl was Jeanne Darc, daughter of a peasant of Domremy. She
knew what war meant, for the Burgundians had sacked her little village
and desecrated the church that she loved. She and her parents had had
to flee for safety, and had returned to find their home in ruins.
During the long hours when she was caring for her father’s flocks, she
grieved over these things. One sunny day, as she stood in the little
garden, she heard voices and found herself in the center of a great
brightness with angels around her. “I saw them as plainly as I see
you,” she said to her judge long afterwards. Over and over she had the
same experience and heard voices bidding her raise the siege of Orleans
and conduct Charles to be crowned at Rheims.

When she spoke of the voices and their bidding, her father was angry,
and the village priest thought her insane. How could she, a village
maiden of seventeen, get an opportunity even to see the King of France?
She begged her uncle to ask the French commander in the next town to
lead her to the king. “Slap the silly girl and send her home,” growled
the rough soldier. Then Jeanne made her way to him. “I _must_ go,” she
said, “I must raise the siege of Orleans; no one else can do it.” She
pleaded so earnestly that at last he agreed to send her to the king.

The people of the town gave her a horse, a coat of mail, a lance, and a
sword; and in the respectful care of an archer and a king’s messenger
she journeyed to Chinon, where Charles was residing. After some delay
she was brought into the great hall of the castle, where three hundred
knights were assembled. The king was not nearly so richly dressed as
they, and he kept himself a little out of sight to see whether she
would recognize him. She looked about her a moment, then went straight
to him and bowed before him. He tried to make her think that he was not
the king, but she said, “In God’s name, it is you and none other!”

People were impressed with her power, but whether it came from God
or Satan, they were uncertain, and she was taken to Poitiers to be
examined by bishops and archbishop. They argued with her and questioned
her for a fortnight. When after all this they demanded of her some sign
of her truth, she at last lost patience. “In the name of God,” she
said, “I am not come to Poitiers to show signs; take me to Orleans and
I will give you signs.”

After many weeks she was allowed to start for Orleans with armor,
sword, white banner emblazoned with lilies and a representation of God
holding the world in his hand. Priests chanting, “Come, Holy Ghost,
our souls inspire,” followed her horse; and behind them marched ten or
twelve thousand men.

When they were not far from Orleans, Jeanne sent a letter to the
English, commanding them to leave the town, and declaring that if
they did not obey she would soon come and make them. The English were
greatly weakened by the departure of the Burgundians; but beside this,
many of them were badly frightened. If Jeanne’s power came from God,
they were afraid to resist her; and if it came from Satan, they were
equally afraid. Between the two fears she was allowed to enter the city
unmolested.

The citizens were wild with joy, but naturally the officers were slow
to follow the lead of the unknown country girl. The very night after
her coming they made a sortie without telling her their plans. She
awoke and galloped at full speed to the fighting ground. In every
struggle she was in the thickest of the fight. She was severely
wounded, but never did she show any sign of fear, and eight days after
her coming to Orleans, the English marched away from the rescued city.
It would have been good generalship to pursue them, but Jeanne was no
eager general. All that she wanted was to obey the commands of her
“voices”; she had nothing to do with pursuit. Her work was to conduct
Charles to Rheims to be crowned, and then she would be free to return
to her village home, to the simple life to which she had always been
used.

[Illustration: JEANNE DARC AT THE CORONATION OF CHARLES VII]

But what was Charles about in those stirring days? He was in a castle
on the banks of the Loire River, amusing himself. The very day after
Orleans was free, the Maid of Orleans, as she was henceforth called,
set out to find him. She rode toward him, bearing the victorious
banner. Charles took off his cap and held out his hand to her. He was
pleased with what she had done, but when she urged him to start at
once for Rheims, he hesitated. The council said it was a long journey,
and he had not the money for it. Then, too, it would be dangerous, and
there were no troops ready.

After a month of delay, they set forth. When they came to the town of
Troyes, which was held by the English, Charles and his council were
ready to give up; but Jeanne made such energetic preparations for an
assault that the citizens were alarmed and threw open their gates.
The king was conducted to Rheims, and in the cathedral he was crowned
by the archbishop, while Jeanne stood joyfully by, holding the royal
standard.

When Charles asked her to name her reward, she would have nothing for
herself, but begged that Domremy might be free from taxation. Charles
promised, and for more than three centuries France kept the promise
sacred. Jeanne now wished to go home. “I have done what I was bidden,”
she said, “and now I would gladly go back to my father and mother
and care for their sheep and cattle.” But Charles insisted upon her
remaining to help drive the English from the northern part of the
country.

Jeanne did her best, but her inspiration was gone. She had done what
her “voices” commanded her to do, and they now warned her that she
would be a prisoner before many months had passed. So it was. She fell
into the hands of the Burgundians, who had again joined the English,
and they sold her to England. The English believed that, even if she
was kept in prison, her influence would prevent their success, and
they tried her on the charge of witchcraft. She had given Charles
a kingdom, and he did not raise his hand in her behalf. In the
market-place of Rouen she was bound to a stake to die by fire. She
asked for a cross, and an Englishman made a rude one of a broken stick.
She kissed it and laid it on her breast. The cross from a neighboring
church was now brought, and she begged of her confessor, “Hold the
cross up before me, that I may never cease to look upon it.” As the
crowd turned away from the market-place, one of the English leaders
said fearfully, “We are all lost; we have burned a saint.”

Jeanne’s ashes were cast into the Seine; but her death aroused and
united the French as even her life could not do. They fell upon the
English with new energy, and before many years had passed, England lost
every foot of French soil that she had once held, except Calais.




CHAPTER XV

PIERRE BAYARD, THE PERFECT KNIGHT


Pierre Bayard was born in a castle perched on a rocky crag in the
mountains of Dauphiné, in France. It had dungeons and trap doors and
gloomy passages, quite according to the old storybooks; but it also had
a great hall with a cheerful wood fire, with rushes on the floor, and
skins of bears and wolves laid here and there.

The four children, all boys, learned nothing of books, but they did
learn to tell the truth, to say their prayers, and to fear nothing.
They had a wild, happy, out-of-door life; but children grow up fast,
and one day their father called them to him and asked what they would
like to do when they were men. When it was Pierre’s turn to choose, he
said he wanted to be a knight, like his grandfather. “My boy,” said his
father, “you shall have your wish. Your grandfather was one of the best
knights of his day, and I believe that you will not be unworthy of him.”

The first step toward knighthood was to become a member of some
household whose master was of high rank, and very soon the boy of
thirteen was on his horse, ready to gallop away to become a page at
the castle of the Duke of Savoy. When he said good-bye to his mother,
she said, “My boy, I bid you to serve God and pray to Him morning and
night; to be gentle and courteous to all; and to be charitable to the
poor.” Pierre promised her, and this promise he kept to the last day of
his life.

In the castle of the Duke of Savoy Pierre learned to use arms, to run,
leap, and swim, to play all sorts of athletic games, and never to fail
in courtesy or in neatness of dress. He learned also to read and write,
to play chess and backgammon and other indoor games. Before many months
had passed, the duke decided to go to court and to take the young page
with him. The king, Charles VIII, took a great fancy to Pierre and his
wonderful riding, and in a fit of generosity the duke presented him
with the boy. In the royal court he was taught still more of wrestling,
fencing, of the use of the sword and the crossbow; and he learned so
rapidly that when he was only seventeen he was made a squire.

Every man of arms longed, of course, to get a taste of real warfare;
and Pierre was delighted when King Charles brought forward his claim to
the throne of Naples and set out on an expedition to Italy. This did
not accomplish much, but Charles’s successor, Louis XII, was fully as
eager as Charles to make conquests in Italy. The Pope, the Emperor of
Germany, the King of Spain, and the King of England were all afraid of
letting France become too powerful. They all fought against her, and
it would seem as if even Bayard might have had enough of fighting; but
he was never tired of it. Once when there was a truce of two months,
he and a friend met a company of thirteen Spaniards and saluted them
courteously. After a little conversation, one of the Spaniards said:
“We are utterly tired of this truce, and perhaps you feel the same.
Here are thirteen of us; supposing you and eleven others come out
against us and see which side will conquer.” Bayard was ready, of
course, and a week later the fight took place.

This contest was somewhat like a tournament; that is, at a given signal
the two parties put spurs to their horses, and with leveled lances
galloped together to try to unhorse their adversaries. Now the armor
worn in those days was very heavy, sometimes weighing as much as two
hundred pounds, and the bravest knight in the field was helpless if
once thrown from his horse. For this reason it was entirely against the
laws of chivalry to aim at the horse of an adversary. The Spaniards,
however, had a grudge against Bayard, and they paid no attention to
this law, but aimed at the horses, and soon eleven of them lay dead.
There was one result of the trickery, however, which they had not
counted upon, for their own steeds refused to step over the bodies, and
therefore the line of dead horses made so good a rampart that the two
French knights, Bayard and his friend, rode away with the honors of the
fight.

The story of this engagement was told and retold with the greatest
delight by the admirers of Bayard; but perhaps they took even more
pleasure in the tale of his holding the bridge quite in the fashion
of Horatius of the early Roman days. When this took place, the French
were encamped on one side of the river Garigliano in southern Italy,
and the Spanish on the other side. The bridge was in the hands of the
French, and Bayard, quite as a matter of course, had his quarters close
to it; that is, in the place of greatest danger. One day the French
were amazed to see that Spanish troops had succeeded in crossing the
river by a ford and were coming up the bank. The whole army were upon
them, the French thought. Bayard was always clear-headed, and he saw
that there were not more than two hundred Spaniards, and that they
were aiming at the bridge. He sent a messenger off at full speed for
troops, and he took his stand at the end of the bridge, striking out so
vigorously that, as the old chronicler says, the Spaniards thought they
were fighting a devil and not a man. Reinforcements came to the French,
and Bayard chased the Spanish over the bridge and a mile or two farther
on the other side. Then seven or eight hundred men were seen coming to
help them, and he ordered a retreat. He was last in line, and, when
thirty or forty Spaniards surrounded him, he was forced to surrender.
His friends turned and dashed upon the enemy to rescue him; but
Bayard’s captors had not realized what a prize they had taken, and they
had not even disarmed him. His own horse was exhausted, so he sprang
upon a fresh one belonging to the Spaniards and fought desperately. The
end of it was that the Spaniards galloped away at full speed, while the
French sat at ease on their horses, laughing to see them go.

The war continued, and now Venice joined the Italian forces. The
French king’s nephew, Gaston de Foix, Duke of Nemours, was in command
of the French. He was determined to capture the town of Brescia,
strongly fortified as it was. All the knights agreed to his plan of
attack except Bayard alone. “Our foot soldiers who are to lead the
advance will have to meet picked men of the enemy,” he said, “and I
advise that they have one hundred and fifty horsemen to support them.”
“What you say is true,” replied the duke, “but the first aim of the
enemy would be to shoot every horseman. Who would put himself and his
men at the mercy of the Italian arquebuses?” “I will,” said Bayard
quietly, “and I will answer for it that my company will do good service
to our king.” This was all the more noble in Bayard because he had
such detestation of fighting with arquebuses or any other machines
for throwing balls. To be slain in a contest of swords or lances or
battle-axes he looked upon as fair and just, but, as he said, “It
is a shame that a man of spirit should be exposed to be killed by a
miserable stone or iron ball against which he cannot defend himself.”

The attack upon the town began with such a noise of clarions and
trumpets and drums that it was “enough to make the hair of the boldest
stand on end,” said one who was present. The troops in the town
responded with volleys of cannon shot. These cannon cannot have been
very dangerous, for it was said that one shot straight into the midst
of the duke’s company, but not a man was killed or wounded! Before
long came the dash upon the walls. Bayard was the first to cross
the rampart, but he paid dearly for the honor, for he was wounded so
severely that he had to be carried from the field. The French swore
vengeance for the injury to their beloved knight and attacked the town
more furiously than ever. Their valor was needed, for they had to meet
not only the fire of the troops within the walls, but also the stones
and bricks and boiling water and pieces of furniture which the women
were throwing over the walls and down upon the besiegers. Nevertheless,
Brescia fell.

On one occasion Bayard and his men were entirely surrounded in battle,
and he was forced to advise them to yield. He caught sight of a
Burgundian soldier too exhausted to think of taking prisoners. He had
removed his helmet and sat on the bank of a stream. “Yield, or you
are a dead man,” cried Bayard, with his sword at the man’s throat. “I
yield,” said the man, for he could do nothing else, “but who are you?”
“I am the Captain Bayard,” replied the knight; “take my sword, for now
I yield myself to you.” After a few days in camp, Bayard remarked that
he wished to go home. “But we have said nothing about your ransom,”
exclaimed the Burgundian. “_My_ ransom!” cried the knight. “But what
about _yours_? I might have slain you if I had chosen. We’ll fight it
out between us.” But the Burgundian had no wish to fight the great
Bayard, and they agreed to leave the question to the commanders. So
it was brought before the Emperor of Germany and the King of England,
Henry VIII. The emperor looked at the king, and the king looked at
the emperor. Finally they agreed--and Bayard and the Burgundian agreed
with them--that the two prisoners might well consider themselves quits.
Henry VIII afterwards offered Bayard great riches and honors to enter
his service, but Bayard refused. “I have only one master in heaven, who
is God,” he said, “and one on earth, who is the King of France, and I
shall never serve any other.”

Bayard’s death came about by the obstinacy of one Admiral Bonivet.
In spite of Bayard’s explanations that the place could not be held,
the admiral insisted upon his occupying a little village with neither
walls nor ditches nor barricades, and close to the camp of the enemy.
Bayard did everything that a brave knight could do, but he was struck
by a stone from an arquebus. “O God, I am slain!” he cried, and raising
the cross-hilt of his sword to his lips, he kissed it as if it were a
crucifix. His friends were about to carry him away, but he said: “I
have never turned my back to a foe, and I will not do it now. Put me
at the foot of a tree with my face to the enemy, and then charge upon
them.” After he had been laid tenderly down, he bade farewell and sent
messages to his king and his friends.

When it was known that the great Bayard was dying, warfare was
forgotten, and both friends and enemies gathered around him. Among
them was the Constable of Bourbon, who had deserted the French king
and entered the service of Spain. “How much I pity you,” he said to
the suffering knight; but Bayard replied: “I thank you, but pity is
not for me, who die a true man, serving my king. Pity is for you,
who bear arms against your prince, your country, and your oath.” The
Italian Marquis of Pescara had his own tent brought for Bayard, and his
own bed, and he himself helped to lay the wounded man upon it. In the
midst of an earnest and trustful prayer to God to receive his spirit,
the good knight passed away. He had been faithful to the three French
kings under whom he had lived. He had fought with Italians, Spaniards,
and Englishmen, and had won the respect of every adversary. He was
the model of all chivalric virtues, a knight without fear and without
reproach.




CHAPTER XVI

THE FIELD OF THE CLOTH OF GOLD


The third of the three French kings who were served by Bayard was
Francis I, who was somewhat of a spoiled child, but lovable and brave.
One of his first exploits with the sword took place in a room of his
own palace. He had just captured a wild boar in the forest, and for
some whim let it loose in the courtyard. A little later, one of the
doors was burst open, and in rushed the angry beast. The courtiers ran
for their lives, but the prince drew his sword, and soon the dead body
of the boar was tumbling down the stairs and back into the courtyard.

When Francis came to the throne, he was only twenty years old, and was
longing for adventure and glory. The two preceding kings had gained
nothing permanent in Italy, and Francis determined to do better. He
crossed the Alps, building bridges and blowing up rocks to make a way
for his army, and met the Italians, together with the Swiss, whom they
had hired to help them, on the field of Marignano, and was victorious.
“I have been in seventeen battles,” said one of the French marshals,
“and they have been only child’s play compared with this.”

Francis was not only brave himself, but he appreciated bravery in
others, and before he left the battle-field he went straight to
Bayard and said, “Bayard, I pray you to bestow upon me the honor of
knighthood.” “But, sire,” replied Bayard, “the king of so noble a
realm, he who has been crowned and consecrated with oil sent down
from heaven, is knight over all other knights.” “Bayard, my friend,”
returned the king, “make haste. Do not quote laws or canons here, but
do my bidding.” “Assuredly, sire,” said Bayard, “I will do it, since it
is your pleasure.”

So it was that Francis was made a knight, and there on the field he
knighted those of his followers who had done most valiant service. He
gained no new dominions by his Italian wars, but he did gain new ideas
of art and architecture, and when he returned to France, he carried
with him paintings and statuary made by the greatest artists of Italy.

Francis delighted in magnificence and display, and only four or five
years after the battle of Marignano, he had an opportunity to be just
as gorgeous as he chose. A certain young Austrian prince by the name
of Charles had by the death of one of his grandfathers become King of
Spain, and also of Naples, Sicily, Sardinia, and the Netherlands. Then,
too, this was in 1519, when Cortez was conquering Mexico, and great
stores of gold and silver were coming into the coffers of Spain from
the New World across the Atlantic. Charles was already a very powerful
and wealthy monarch; and now, by the death of his other grandfather,
Austria fell into his hands. Even worse than that, in the eyes of
Francis I of France and Henry VIII of England, was the fact that he was
soon chosen Emperor of Germany. This put into his control all western
Europe except France and the British Isles.

Francis and Henry had each hoped to be chosen emperor, and they were
now two badly disappointed young monarchs. What could they do about it?
Francis decided to make war against Charles, and Henry was apparently
quite willing to unite with him. They agreed to meet and talk over
their plans.

The place of meeting was to be near Calais, where English and French
territory met, so that each king could be on his own soil. Splendid
preparations were made by both sovereigns. Henry had sent eleven
hundred skilled workmen from Holland and Flanders to build him a summer
palace. Its windows were glazed with finer and more transparent glass
than had ever been seen before. Posts and mullions were overlaid with
gold. Statues of men in glittering armor were everywhere. Close to the
entrance was a fountain flowing, not with water, but with wine, and
over it in letters of gold was the inscription, “Make good cheer who
will.” Within the palace all things were rich and elegant. The ceilings
of the corridors were covered with fluted white silk, and those of the
chambers with roses on a golden groundwork. The hangings were of silk,
of different colors and beautifully embroidered. Tapestry of silk and
gold, Turkish cushions, cloths and draperies of golden tissue and rich
embroidery adorned the state apartments.

Francis had put up a tent, but such a tent as never was seen before,
for it was dome-shaped and covered with cloth of gold. It was lined
with blue velvet studded with golden stars. Adjoining the tent were
other tents, smaller, but just as richly decorated.

There were hundreds of tents for the members of the two courts, and
banners of all colors floated above them. Coats of arms were emblazoned
upon them, and at the door of each stood a sentinel with glittering
bill and lance. Knights were all about in their dazzling armor. It is
no wonder that from that day to this the plain has been known as the
“Field of the Cloth of Gold.”

But in the midst of all this splendor there was important business to
attend to, and before long the two kings, most richly dressed, met and
made a treaty which, among other provisions, bound the French king to
marry the four-year-old daughter of the English king. The sovereigns
made speeches of friendship, took wine together, and after the
presentation of their respective courts, the meeting came to an end.

For more than two weeks there were feasts and tournaments and all
kinds of entertainments. But through it all the officials of the two
kingdoms feared treachery, and the two kings were obliged to meet
with much formality. This was especially annoying to Francis, and one
morning he slipped out of his bedroom and with only two gentlemen and
a little page to attend him went to call on Henry. “Surrender, I have
come to take the castle,” he cried merrily to the astounded English
guards. “Where is the chamber of the king, my brother?” he demanded.
The governor of the palace did not dare refuse to answer, but pleaded,
“Sire, the king is not yet awake.” Francis went on, knocked at Henry’s
door and walked into the room. Naturally the English king was amazed,
but also much gratified at the trust which the French king had shown
in him. Henry gave his guest a jeweled necklace, and Francis presented
to him in return a valuable bracelet which he had brought with him. “I
will wait upon you,” Francis declared, and, quite in the fashion of a
valet, he handed King Henry his shirt and other clothes.

After this, everything was delightfully friendly between the kings and
between their peoples; and yet, not long before Henry had crossed the
English Channel, Charles of Spain had visited England, and Henry on his
way home visited Charles in Flanders and spent three days with him in
Calais, and when war broke out two years later he became the ally of
the Spanish king!

Francis won no more such victories as that of Marignano, and at length,
at the battle of Pavia, he was captured, and shut up in a gloomy
Spanish prison. To win his freedom, he signed a treaty with Spain and
delivered his two little sons to Charles as hostages. Before long he
declared that since he had been forced to sign this treaty, it was not
binding upon him, and war followed. He was ready to pay any price for
the help of England, and Henry now joined the French side. This helped
Francis very little, but in the peace that followed, the two boys were
given back to their father. This time it was Charles who broke the
treaty, and war began again. So it went on till a short time before the
death of the French king.

These wars, which lasted most of the time during a quarter of a
century, aimed at preserving what is called the balance of power in
Europe; that is, preventing any one country from becoming strong
enough to control other countries. This struggle began in the reign
of Francis, and has lasted for four hundred years, each nation living
in fear lest some neighboring nation should become too powerful. It
is this which has made it necessary to keep standing armies of troops
always ready for warfare; and it is this which has increased so heavily
the weight of taxation upon the people of European lands.

Francis was interested in the New World, and he sent out explorers
in spite of the wrath and indignation of Spain and Portugal. These
countries, because of their early voyages to America, claimed the
whole continent; but Francis only laughed at their complaints, and
returned the rather exasperating reply, “Show me the clause in the will
of Father Adam which divides America between Spain and Portugal, and
excludes France.”

Francis appreciated art and architecture and music and literature. He
built handsome palaces. He invited poets and artists and musicians to
his court, and some of them made it their home. In such ways as these
he did a great deal for his country, and if his life could only have
been free from war, he would have been able to do much more.




CHAPTER XVII

THE STORY OF COLIGNY


In 1522 the Marshal de Chatillon died, and his four little boys were
left for their mother to bring up in the fashion thought proper for the
children of a French nobleman.

Not so very many years earlier, boys in their position in life would
have been taught to use arms, to be brave and fearless and courteous,
and not so very much besides. If a letter was to be written, a clerk
would write it. If a document was to be signed, a knight would make his
mark and not feel in the least ashamed of being unable to write his
name. But now times had changed, and it was looked upon as a disgrace
for a young man of good family to know nothing of books. Of course,
then, these boys had a tutor as well as an instructor in arms; and when
they were brought to court, they were well fitted to take their place
among the best-trained of the young nobles.

The dauphin, who afterwards became Henry II, was of about their age.
He and Gaspard Coligny de Chatillon and the young men who gathered
around the court, had the merriest time possible with tournaments,
dances, tennis, hunting, and all the light-hearted pranks that a group
of happy young men could think of. Often people like those best who
are least like themselves, and the Duke of Guise, a young noble whom
Coligny especially admired, was quite his opposite. Coligny was rather
inclined to be grave and thoughtful. People had to know him well before
they really appreciated him. The Duke of Guise was open-hearted in
manner, merry, generous, and winning; and everybody, from King Francis
to the boys in the streets, was devoted to him. King Francis, however,
although he admired him, did not really trust him, and when about to
die, he warned his son Henry not to allow the Guise family to become
too powerful.

It was almost a matter of course that young men of good family
should become soldiers. Coligny and Guise fought side by side in
many a battle, and both soon won high promotion. Coligny was made
captain-general of the French infantry, composed chiefly of Swiss, who
could always be hired to fight for any one, anywhere. They were wild
and lawless. They murdered and pillaged wherever they went. No one
had ever tried to make them show any decency or honor. Imagine their
wrathful surprise when Coligny ordered them to stop quarreling and
swearing and pillaging and behave like respectable men. His penalties
were not agreeable. If a man insulted a woman, he was to be hanged. If
he made no effort to give up swearing, he was invited to spend eight
days in prison on bread and water for his first offense. For his third
offense, he lost one hand. Of course Coligny was called severe, but by
the punishment of a few he saved thousands of lives and transformed a
mob of robbers and murderers into well-behaved troops. Another reform
of his, which probably the soldiers appreciated quite as much as being
made to behave themselves, was the formation of an ambulance corps to
carry the wounded to a military hospital, the first time that such a
thing had ever been done.

Both Guise and Coligny were ambitious, of course, like any other young
men of spirit, and both attained to high positions, for Guise became
lieutenant general, and Coligny admiral.

In 1552, the king made war upon Charles V of Spain. Early in this war,
Guise held Metz against all the attacks of the Spanish. He also took
Calais, which had been in the hands of the English for more than two
hundred years. Moreover, to add to all this glory, his niece married
Francis, eldest son of King Henry. Coligny had been equally brave and
skillful in the war, but less fortunate. He had held Saint-Quentin till
its walls fell, and by this had saved Paris; but he had been obliged to
surrender at last and had been taken prisoner.

While in prison, Coligny had time to think of religious subjects, as
thousands of other people were doing. The Bible had been translated.
People were reading it and were talking of matters of religion, and
instead of accepting whatever the Church taught, they were discussing
and questioning and making up their minds for themselves, and many were
becoming Protestants, or Huguenots, as they were called in France. To
leave the Roman Catholic Church and become a Huguenot was looked upon
by all Catholics not only as accepting a wrong and dangerous belief,
but also as taking a long step toward disloyalty to the king, which
deserved heavy penalties. On the other hand, there were disagreements
even among the Protestants, and they sometimes persecuted one another.
Then, too, political interests entered into the matter. King Francis
believed that to permit his subjects to become Protestants would weaken
his authority; therefore he persecuted the French Huguenots. But to
weaken the authority of Charles V in Germany was just what he wanted;
therefore he aided the German Protestants. Coligny had long been
inclined to favor the Huguenots, and when he was released from prison,
he came out openly as one of them and soon became their principal
leader.

King Henry’s death left the crown to his sickly young son, Francis
II, who had married Mary, Queen of Scots, niece of Guise. The Duke of
Guise was then a successful general, uncle of the queen, a man of great
ability and winning manners. Few boys of sixteen would have stood out
against his advice, and King Francis was not one of those few. The Duke
of Guise and his family were practically the rulers of the country.

But in less than two years Francis died, and Mary, Queen of Scots, was
obliged to leave her beloved France and return to Scotland. Charles,
the ten-year-old brother of Francis, now became sovereign. The land
was in such disorder that civil war was probable. In the midst of
the confusion, Coligny planned a settlement in America where the
Huguenots might be free to think and to worship as they believed right.
One attempt was made at the entrance of Port Royal, South Carolina,
another on the Saint John’s River in Florida. The first failed for
lack of food; the second was destroyed by the Spaniards and most of
the colonists slain--“Not as French, but as heretics,” the Spaniards
declared.

Catherine de’ Medici, mother of the boy king, was regent. She was a
woman quite without principles of honor and uprightness, and with a
single aim, namely, to increase her own power. To weaken the power of
Guise she allowed many privileges to the Huguenots. Then, when the
Huguenots showed signs of becoming too strong to suit her wishes, she
made a secret treaty with Charles V to destroy them and plotted with
the Guise party to murder the Huguenot leaders. An attempt was made to
kill Coligny; but King Charles was fond of Coligny and went at once to
tell him how sorry he was. This alarmed Catherine. Evidently, if she
was to retain her power, she must get rid of the Huguenots; so she and
her followers planned a general massacre of them. She wrote a decree
authorizing such a massacre and carried it to Charles to sign. He was
now twenty-two years old, but he was almost as much under his mother’s
influence as when he was a boy. At first he refused. “But do you not
realize,” demanded Catherine, “that the Huguenots will all accuse you
of encouraging the attack upon Coligny? They will rise up against you.
Better to get rid of them now than to risk a battle later.” Over
and over Charles refused to sign the decree. Even after his mother
succeeded in making him believe that the Huguenots were plotting
against his life, he refused. Day after day she kept up her arguing and
pleading. Then she began to weep and declared that she should leave the
court. Charles had held out remarkably well for so weak a nature, but
now he suddenly yielded. “Kill them all, then!” he cried. “Kill every
Huguenot in France, so that none may be left to reproach me.”

At two o’clock on the morning of Saint Bartholomew’s Day, the ringing
of a church bell was heard in Paris. Others followed, until there was a
wild jangling from every belfry. This was the signal, and in a moment
the streets were filled with armed men bearing on hat or sleeve a white
cross, the badge of the Guise family. Every Huguenot, man, woman, or
little child, that could be found was murdered.

Coligny was one of the first to die, for his old boyhood friend,
the Duke of Guise, went at once to the house of his rival and sent
assassins up the stairs to his bedroom. “Are you Coligny?” they
questioned. “Yes, I am,” Coligny replied calmly. “I am a wounded and
aged man, and you ought to respect my gray hairs. But you will not
shorten my life much,” he added.

Catherine had also sent to the various provinces commands in the king’s
name to carry on similar massacres. Some of the governors obeyed;
others refused. One wrote: “I respect Your Majesty too much not to
believe that this letter is a forgery; and if, which God forbid,
the order be genuine, I respect Your Majesty too much to obey you.”
Nevertheless, so many obeyed that it is believed twenty thousand
Huguenots perished in France.

All Europe was horrified, all save Philip II of Spain, successor of
Charles V. He sent a message to Charles that if soldiers were needed to
complete the overthrow of the Huguenots, he should be glad to supply
them. Catherine never expressed the least regret for the horrors of
Saint Bartholomew’s Day. Charles died after two years of keen remorse
and physical suffering. And yet he had so little stability of mind that
he appointed Catherine regent until his younger brother should be able
to reign.




CHAPTER XVIII

KING HENRY OF NAVARRE


At the death of Charles IX, there were three Henrys who were prominent
in France. The first was Charles’s younger brother, who now became
Henry III.

Henry was already King of Poland, but he did not like Poland, and was
so delighted to be able to return to France that he actually ran away
from his kingdom. A crowd of his subjects ran after him, but they could
not catch their fugitive sovereign. Henry amused himself in Italy for a
while, and then went to France. The French people were ready to welcome
their new king, but they soon found that there was nothing kingly about
him except his title. He paid no attention to his royal duties, but
idled his days away. Worse than this, he became the leader of a band of
vicious, dissolute young men who filled their time with shameless acts.

It is small wonder that the French, both Catholics and Protestants,
were indignant and disgusted. The Huguenots were becoming stronger, and
the Catholics formed a League to uphold and protect their faith. Their
leader was Henry, Duke of Guise, the second of the three Henrys.

The third Henry was Henry, King of Navarre, the leader of the
Protestants. King Henry III of France had no children, and this Henry
of Navarre, though only a tenth or eleventh cousin, was heir to the
French throne.

King Henry III was about as foolish as a king could be. First, he gave
privileges of worship to the Protestants, or Huguenots; which angered
the Catholics. Then he took away these privileges; which angered the
Protestants. The result was the “War of the Three Henrys,” and before
long there came a day which is known as the “Day of the Barricades,”
because the citizens of Paris made barricades of carts, barrels, and
paving-stones, and stretched chains across the streets, in order to
resist the king’s troops. These troops had to yield, and King Henry,
in his own capital, was forced to beg the Duke of Guise--whom he had
forbidden to enter Paris--to try to stop the slaughter in the streets.
The duke did this without the slightest trouble, for the Parisians were
ready to obey his slightest wish. The king was forced to make the duke
lieutenant-general of France and to agree to take up arms against the
Huguenots.

Not many months later, the duke was called to the king’s room. As he
drew aside the portiere, a group of assassins attacked him, and he
fell dead at their feet. Henry kicked the body aside. “I am King of
France now,” he declared in delight; “the King of Paris is dead.” Both
Protestants and Catholics were horrified at the crime, and the Pope
excommunicated King Henry. One day a young monk begged leave to present
a letter to the king; and as Henry was reading it, the monk stabbed
him to the heart. Thus ended the life of Henry III, the last of the
House of Valois.

King Henry of Navarre was now King Henry IV of France. He was born in
a castle in the Pyrenees, and was brought up by a wise mother and an
equally wise grandfather. Nobody dreamed that he would ever become
King of France, for nine princes stood before him in the succession to
the throne. He was dressed like the other boys of the district, and
scrambled up the mountains with them, barefooted and bareheaded. His
food was the same as theirs--coarse bread, beef, cheese, and garlic;
and they were not allowed to show him any deference because he was a
prince. When he went to visit the French court, the court historian
said of him that he was “the jolliest and best-composed lad in the
world.” His tutor was as sensible as his grandfather, and the boy was
taught such rhymes as:

    “Kings rule their subjects with a mighty hand;
    But God with greater power doth kings command,”

and

    “Either justly gain the victory,
    Or learn with glory how to die.”

When this “jolliest lad in the world” was fifteen, he was taken to
the camp of the Huguenots and greeted as their leader. Before long he
showed so much ability that he became their leader in reality as well
as in name. It was fortunate that he had military talent, for after he
became king, he had to spend five years fighting his way to Paris, the
capital of his own kingdom. He won an important battle at Arques, and
then came the battle of Ivry. It is of this that Macaulay wrote his
poem, beginning,

    “Now glory to the Lord of Hosts, from whom all glories are!
    And glory to our sovereign liege, King Henry of Navarre!”

Just before the battle, King Henry rode along the lines with a
snow-white plume in his helmet. “If my standard-bearers fall,” he
said, “press where you see my white plume shine, for there will be the
thickest of the fight.” The battle began and, as Macaulay tells the
tale,

    “A thousand spurs are striking deep, a thousand spears in rest,
    A thousand knights are pressing close behind the snow-white crest;
    And in they burst, and on they rushed, while, like a guiding star,
    Amidst the thickest carnage blazed the helmet of Navarre.”

Henry and his brave followers won the victory, and by and by he drew
near to Paris. He besieged the city, but he never forgot that his
opponents were also his subjects. More than once he permitted food to
be carried within its walls, and he allowed thousands of non-combatants
to withdraw. “I am their father and their king,” he said. “They are
innocent; it is the Leaguers that are resisting me.” It is no wonder
that the four thousand who were allowed to leave at one time marched
out crying “Long live the king!”

Philip II of Spain sent troops to raise the siege; and before long
Henry IV of France found himself in a difficult position. Any favor
that he showed to either party aroused the other party against him.
Even those to whom he had shown the favor felt no gratitude, for they
always thought that he might have done more for them. The result was
that hardly one sixth of the French were his friends. The League was
against him. The Pope was against him. Queen Elizabeth of England was
giving him some help, but not nearly enough. The French were planning
to make the daughter of the powerful Philip II of Spain their queen.
Just at this time Henry made up his mind to become a Roman Catholic.
He went in state to the Abbey of Saint Denis, where he was met by the
archbishop and many others of the clergy.

“Who are you?” demanded the archbishop.

“I am the King of France,” Henry replied.

“What do you wish?”

“To be received into the bosom of the Catholic, Apostolic, and Roman
Church,” said Henry.

So it was that Henry IV became a Catholic. Whether he was convinced or
not that his Protestant friends were “heretics,” he had at any rate
chosen the only way to keep the kingdom united and to save it from
Spain, for within a few months he was accepted as king by nearly all
France. He took no vengeance upon his enemies. When the Spanish troops
left Paris, he saluted them and cried merrily, “Commend me to your
master, gentlemen, but do not come here again.”

[Illustration: HENRY IV AND MARIE DE’ MEDICI]

Philip, however, did not give up the hope of setting the French crown
upon his daughter’s head, and for three years longer the war with Spain
continued. The royal treasury of France was emptied to pay the
soldiers, and the king was poorer than his subjects. “My shirts are
all torn,” he wrote to a friend. “My doublets are out at elbows, my
cupboard is often bare, and for the last two days I have been dining
and supping with one and another.” At length, however, Henry’s enemies
were overcome, and Philip II met his death.

Henry had become a Catholic, but he did not forget that many of his
subjects were Protestants. In 1598 he issued a famous paper in their
behalf, called the Edict of Nantes. This gave to both Catholics
and Protestants equal rights in the practice of their religion and
in holding office. It even established a special court to look out
for their interests. To-day this would be regarded as no more than
fair; but in those times it was looked upon as a wonderfully liberal
proceeding.

Henry astonished the rulers of the other European countries in another
way. It was generally accepted that a king had a perfect right to
deceive others if he chose; but King Henry was so honest and sincere
that they did not know what to make of him. It was a long time before
they could believe that he really meant what he said.

King Henry had faults as well as people who are not kings; but he was
one of the most unselfish of rulers. His first thought was always,
“How can I help my people?” It is no wonder that his subjects loved
him. “I want every peasant to have a fowl in his pot on Sundays,” he
said; and in those days, when peasants rarely tasted meat, this was a
great wish. “Their father has come home,” he said; and he set to work
to study the wages and expenses of the working-people and to learn how
much these wages would purchase for them. He lessened their taxes; he
built roads and bridges; he drained marshes; he encouraged silk-making
by planting mulberry trees to provide food for the silkworms; he built
factories for weaving silk, velvet, lace, and linen, and for making
glass. The country became happy and prosperous. Henry even sent out
colonists to America, who founded Quebec. He planned a union of all
the Christian nations of Europe against the Turks. But all this was
suddenly brought to an end by the dagger of a half-crazed assassin.
Paris was wild with grief. People ran about the streets groaning and
weeping; and parents embraced their children, crying, “What will become
of you? You have lost your father.”

The French people have had rulers who were great, but no other
sovereign has ever held such a place in their hearts as their beloved
Henry IV.




CHAPTER XIX

THE RISE OF RICHELIEU


A few years before the death of Henry IV, a young man of a family
called Richelieu was at a military school in training for the army.
Suddenly he was called home by his mother and asked if he was willing
to become a priest. In both army and Church there were opportunities
to rise in the world; but in the Church there was a specially good
opportunity for a son of the Richelieus. The family had been presented
by King Henry III with the privilege of naming a bishop for the diocese
of Luçon, and they wished to name this young Armand de Richelieu. The
income of Luçon was not very large, but a bishop of even so small a
diocese would always receive honor and be treated as a man of rank. To
what position he might rise would depend in great degree upon himself.

Armand accepted the invitation. He promptly dropped his military
pursuits and devoted himself to the study of theology and philosophy;
and before he was twenty-three years of age, he had become Bishop
of Luçon. According to the custom of the times, no one would have
found any fault with him if he had made his home in Paris, where he
could be at court and on the lookout for chances of promotion; but he
went to the dirty little town of Luçon, to what he called the “most
disagreeable bishopric in France,” and did his best for his people.

The bishop was a poor man, but he was also a very ambitious man; and he
never failed to have his eyes open to any opportunity to rise in the
world. An opportunity soon appeared. When he had been at Luçon only
three years, the murder of Henry IV took place, and a nine-year-old
prince became Louis XIII and the ruler of France. His mother, Marie
de’ Medici, was made regent. “Woe to thee, O land, when thy king is a
child,” said a writer of the olden time; and the truth of this was soon
evident in France. Confusion and discontent prevailed. The boy king was
eager to rule, but he was allowed to have no power whatever. The queen
was a weak, vain woman, who was controlled by an Italian and his wife.
The nobles gathered around her. They cajoled and flattered her and
begged for money and positions--which she gave to them for the sake of
peace. Whether they were fitted for the positions into which she placed
them was of no consequence to her or to them. She actually gave command
of the whole French army to her pet Italian, although he had never been
even a private soldier.

Such a condition of things could not last forever. Before long the
money which Henry IV had left in the royal treasury had been handed
out to the greedy nobles. They wanted more, and they felt sure that if
they made life sufficiently unpleasant for the queen, she would manage
in some way to get it for them. When she did not, they took up arms
against her. Now was the time for the country bishop. He had made it
plain that he was on the queen’s side, and when she called a meeting
of the States-General, he succeeded in being elected as a delegate of
the clergy, and he made a speech or two that attracted attention. The
wheels were beginning to turn.

All this time the boy Louis was becoming more and more indignant at
being deprived of his birthright. When he was thirteen, he was declared
of age; but the queen and her favorites showed no intention of allowing
the rightful sovereign of France to share their power. Louis grumbled
angrily, but he had not spirit enough to seize his proper position.
Three years more passed, and then De Luynes, a man who took care of
his hawks and who was a favorite of the king, persuaded him that the
Italian was plotting to kill him. Louis was aroused. “You have my
permission to arrest the man,” he said, “and if he resists, to shoot
him.” Of course he resisted. Louis was watching, and when he heard the
shot, he called out of the window to the murderers, “Thank you, thank
you, I am king now.” He really thought that if he was freed from the
sway of his mother and her favorites, he would be able to rule; but
De Luynes and the nobles were still much stronger than he. They now
banished the queen; but the boy of sixteen soon found that he had no
more power than before.

But what of the Bishop of Luçon in these years of confusion and
snatching at money and offices? When the queen was sent away from
court, he left court also, and followed her to her new abode, where
she set up a court of her own. The bishop was now skillful enough to
win the favor of both queen and king. He became chief of the queen’s
council--but refused to accept the office without the king’s consent.
He sent to De Luynes careful reports of whatever the queen might
do--“to show that there is no reason for suspecting her,” he assured
one party; “to guard the king from any possible plots against him,” he
assured the other. He tried to make his faithfulness to the king very
clear; but somehow neither Louis nor De Luynes was quite sure of it;
and it may be that a hint from the king was what induced him to return
to his diocese. After a while the queen became so troublesome that to
prevent further difficulty the king was glad to have Richelieu return
and act as her adviser.

Meanwhile, the Huguenots had risen against the royal forces. They
planned to form a Protestant republic in the west of France with La
Rochelle as its capital; and of course war resulted between the king
and his Huguenot subjects. De Luynes, as the head of the army, was in
command; and a strange commander he made, for he knew as little as a
man could know about military matters, and even the private soldiers
laughed at him. If he had been a very brave man, they would have
respected him in spite of his ignorance; but they suspected that he was
rather inclined to keep out of the way of danger.

De Luynes died of fever while the campaign was going on. What he would
have done if he had lived is a question, for the Huguenots were
in arms, the nobles were turbulent and rebellious, and Austria was
becoming much stronger than was for the advantage of France. Now was
the time for Richelieu. He had brought about peace between the king and
his mother and, chiefly through the influence of Marie de’ Medici, he
was made a cardinal by the Pope. He soon became minister of state, and
the most powerful man in France.

There was need of such a man. The king was keen enough to see it, and
although he never really liked Richelieu, he kept him in office because
this was for the interest of the country; and he followed the advice
of his prime minister because it was the only thing to do. Cardinal
Richelieu was the keenest politician France has ever known, and for a
score of years he ruled king, council, and country. He was honestly
devoted to France. He aimed at making her stronger than other European
lands, especially Austria and Spain. One step toward this was to make
an alliance with England. In France there was a princess of fourteen
years, and in England there was a young prince in search of a wife.
Richelieu brought it about that the two should marry. The princess was
a Catholic, and he hoped that this marriage would make easier the lives
of the Catholics in England. He was glad to do something for them, of
course, but he was equally glad to form an alliance with the Protestant
Dutch and Germans, because they were enemies of Austria. But while he
was perfectly willing to marry the French princess to a Protestant
Englishman and to join hands with Protestant countries if this would
help to make France greater, he had no idea of permitting the Huguenots
to become strong enough to have any political power in France. There
was already warfare between them and the French Catholics. Before long
it was plain that the party which could hold La Rochelle would be the
winner. The Huguenots had fortified the city and were in possession.
Richelieu besieged it. He had never forgotten his military training,
and he commanded the siege in person. Even after twenty years as a
bishop, he was still a soldier, and some one has pictured him in full
military dress, with two pistols and a sword, and from his hat a long
white plume floating as he allowed his horse to prance and caracole.

To capture this city was not an easy task. Troops could be stationed
on three sides, and so prevent the sending of food by land; but there
was the harbor, and it was a hard matter to keep ships from entering
it, especially as King Louis had very few ships of war, and none at all
that the defenders of La Rochelle could not easily overcome. In earlier
struggles, Richelieu had borrowed vessels of Holland and England; but
the Dutch did not care to assist the Catholics against the Protestants;
and as for the English, they had before this declared that the French
had not kept the promises of the marriage treaty, and instead of
helping Louis, they did all that they could to help the Huguenots.
They sent ships with food, and the French could not drive them away.
At length Richelieu built of stonework directly across the mouth of
the harbor a dike or mole almost a mile long; and this served his
purpose well, for now the people of La Rochelle must either surrender
or starve. They chose to starve. They lived on the flesh of horses,
dogs, and rats; they boiled every scrap of leather that could be found
and made a nauseous soup of this and any bit of green that they could
discover. They held out for fifteen months, but finally they submitted;
that is, the few who still lived submitted.

When the Huguenots had finally yielded, every one waited eagerly to see
how the king--or rather, his minister--would treat them. A few were
punished as rebels, but nearly all were pardoned. The Edict of Nantes
was confirmed; the Huguenots were as free as the Catholics to practice
their own form of worship. They were protected and treated with justice
and considerable favor. Here the cardinal-general showed himself a
shrewd politician. These Huguenots were industrious, thrifty people.
Now that they were left free in matters of faith, they had no grievance
against the king, and they became loyal subjects.

Richelieu’s third aim was to lessen the power of Marie de’ Medici and
of the nobles. The queen-mother was indignant because Richelieu did not
pay heed to her wishes, and she persuaded Louis to send the cardinal
away from court. Fortunately, it was made clear to the king that this
would be a great mistake. He and Richelieu had a talk together, and
Richelieu unpacked his goods. The cardinal now punished severely those
who had plotted against him, and the queen-mother left court.

This was a heavy blow to the power of the nobles; but they were
even more alarmed and astonished to discover that in the rule of
the cardinal all men were to be equal before the law. For instance,
fighting duels was terribly common. A careless word or look might lead
to a fight for life. There was a law against dueling, but no one paid
any attention to it. Richelieu made a new law against the practice; but
the number of duels became no smaller. Suddenly the nobles were amazed
and aghast to find that the survivor of a duel, a member of a wealthy
and powerful family, together with the seconds in the affair, had been
executed as murderers. It was quite in style to be reckless of one’s
life; but to be put to death by the common executioner was another
matter. It is no wonder that dueling went out of fashion.

The nobles were furiously angry, of course, but they were helpless,
and they soon learned that under Richelieu’s sway a man who broke a
law was reasonably sure of punishment, and that it would not make the
least difference whether he was a noble or a peasant. Another shock
to the notions of the nobles was the lessening of the number of their
fortresses; and still another was the appointment of officers to watch
over the various provinces and so make sure that the nobles in power
were governing them according to the laws of the land.

Richelieu died when only fifty-seven years of age, saying, almost
as his last words, “I heartily pray that I may be condemned if I
have ever had other intentions than the welfare of the religion and
of the state.” In the eighteen years during which he was the real
ruler of France he was always a friend to art and literature; he made
his country the most powerful state in Europe; and he increased the
royal power until the sovereign of France was almost unlimited in his
supremacy. Whether this was for the good of the country and its people
was left to later reigns to make manifest.




CHAPTER XX

LOUIS XIV AND VERSAILLES


Nearly three hundred years ago, a little boy not yet five years old,
with a mass of golden curls, sat in a great armchair and made a speech
to the French Parliament. He said, “I have come to show my good-will.
My chancellor will say the rest.” This was Louis XIV, son of Louis XIII.

Of course there had to be a regency until the little king should be
of age. His mother, the queen, was appointed. She chose as her chief
adviser an Italian named Mazarin. He had worked under Richelieu, and
Richelieu had recommended him to become his successor.

The small sovereign had come to the throne in the midst of the “Thirty
Years’ War.” This had begun in a struggle between the Catholics and
Protestants in Germany; but one country after another was dragged into
it; and as the years passed, people actually forgot what the war was
really about, but kept on fighting for power and territory. Fortunately
for France, she had a brilliant general, the Prince of Condé, and a
second almost equally brilliant, Turenne; and when the war finally came
to an end, in 1646, her territory stretched out on the east to the
river Rhine.

In spite of his great ability, Cardinal Mazarin was at first a very
unpopular man, because he laid such heavy taxes on the people. The one
that aroused them most was laid on all food brought into Paris by land
or water. The Parisians were indignant, and the Parliament of Paris
declared that this should not be permitted. In a day the streets of the
city were filled with angry mobs, and probably King Louis himself heard
them crying, “Down with Mazarin! Hurrah for our king!” Parliament told
the queen how dangerous this uprising of the people might become. “If
harm is done, you shall answer for it,” she retorted in a rage, and
rushed back to her room, slamming the door behind her. She and Mazarin
took the little king, now ten years of age, and went away from Paris to
a half-furnished palace a few miles away.

These street contests were the beginning of what is called the “War
of the Fronde.” At first the Parliament and the people of Paris were
on one side, and the queen and her friends on the other; but before
long, it turned into a wild tangle. There was a good deal of fighting,
and there was a good deal of calling one another hard names and making
absurd cartoons of one side and the other. The very name by which the
war is called is a jest, for “fronde” was the name of a little sling
which boys played with in the streets. All Paris sang,

    “A Fronde-ly wind
    Got up to-day;
    ’Gainst Mazarin
    It howls, they say.”

For the greater part of five years this absurd imitation of war
continued. It was often mere amusement for the nobles; but for the
peasants, whose harvests were trampled down, cattle stolen, and homes
burned, it was anything but amusement.

Meanwhile a real war between France and Spain was going on; and this
did not come to an end until the Peace of the Pyrenees, in 1659. Both
countries were tired of war, but to persuade them to agree on terms of
peace was not an easy thing to do, and even the enemies of the cardinal
recognized his rare tact and ability.

Mazarin, however, was planning more than the peace. Louis was sixteen
years old, and it was high time for him to be married, thought Mazarin,
but who should be his bride? Louis himself was much pleased with
Mazarin’s niece, but the wise cardinal knew that such a marriage would
not be suitable for the King of France, and the maiden was sent to a
convent. There was a certain princess of Savoy who had been proposed
for Louis’s queen, but the cardinal had not worked in vain, and one
evening late in 1659 he entered the queen’s room joyfully. “Good news,
Madame,” he cried. “Is it to be peace?” the queen asked. “More than
that,” replied the cardinal. “I bring you peace and the infanta.” A
paper was given to the disappointed princess of Savoy, promising her
the hand of the king, provided the Spanish marriage did not take place
within a year.

It did take place, however. Maria Theresa, the Spanish princess,
promised that neither for herself nor any child that she might have
would she make any claim to the throne of Spain. Spain agreed to pay a
large dowry, and all went on merrily.

The cardinal was at the height of his glory. He had brought about
peace, and he had joined in marriage the royal families of Spain and
France. But his health was failing rapidly, and within two years after
the Peace of the Pyrenees he died.

Louis was eighteen. He had been declared of age five years before, but
he had made no attempt to lessen the cardinal’s authority. “I put up
with it,” he had said long before, “because of the good service he has
rendered me; but I shall be master in my turn.” Mazarin’s last word of
advice to the king had been, “Manage your affairs yourself, sir,” and
Louis followed the advice. The first official who came to him after
Mazarin’s death and asked to whom he should go for orders was met by
the king with a decided “To me.”

Louis did not intend to rule ignorantly, and he set to work to
understand the business of being King of France. For eight hours a day
he gave close attention to public matters. The courtiers smiled behind
his back. “That won’t last long,” they whispered, but it did last.
He had faults enough for two kings, but all through his long reign
he was an industrious, persevering worker. If this work had been to
help the French people, he could have done a great deal for them; but
unfortunately Louis’s one care was to win glory for himself. It was his
business to command, and the business of every one else to obey, this
monarch firmly believed.

Louis was keen to see who could serve him well, and for minister of
finance he chose an honest man named Colbert, who had worked his way up
in the world by his own merits. Colbert’s chief business was to provide
money for the king by taxation. In France at that time the rich nobles
and clergy paid almost no taxes, while the poor were taxed to the last
penny. Colbert could not change all this in a moment, but he did much
to make life easier for the poor, for, just as far as possible he had
taxes laid on houses, lands, income, and luxuries. He introduced some
of the most famous manufactures of France, such as the making of china,
tapestry, lace, and rich materials for dresses. This not only increased
the revenues, but it gave employment to thousands of people, and thus
France became prosperous. He improved the roads, and they were sadly
in need of improvement. He made canals, and he built ships, both ships
of war and merchantmen. Colbert was working for the good of France and
its people, but Louis was working for himself and his own glory and
amusement.

In spite of Colbert’s excellent management, it was sometimes all that
he could do to provide money for the king’s demands. Louis spent a vast
amount in war, for to him victorious warfare was the greatest glory
on earth. He began with a war against the Spanish Netherlands on the
ground that as Spain had never paid Maria Theresa’s dowry, she was not
bound by her promise to claim no Spanish possessions. The two great
generals, Condé and Turenne, planned the campaigns, assisted by the
military engineer Vauban, and Louis was successful. More territory was
added to France, and the country became the most powerful in Europe.

Warfare was not the only way in which Louis was extravagant by any
means. He loved magnificence, and he determined to build a palace that
should be worthy of even so great a monarch as he thought himself to
be. This palace was the famous Versailles, in which the makers of the
Peace Treaty and the League of Nations met in 1919.

The best architects were employed to plan this palace. The best
artists decorated its walls. Tapestries, paintings, and carvings were
everywhere. Orange trees grew in silver tubs; silver candlesticks,
chandeliers, railings, and benches were to be seen, and a silver throne
eight feet high. Everywhere were statues and paintings of Louis in
different costumes. Mirrors reflected the magnificence of the endless
number of apartments.

Around this palace was an immense park, sixty miles or more in
circumference. Here were groves formed of large trees brought from
a distance. Here were lakes and fountains almost without number. At
first, force pumps supplied them with water from the Seine River; but
later a stream ninety miles away was turned from its course and brought
into the grounds. Colbert lectured the king in most daring fashion on
his extravagance. He said bluntly, “It has seemed to me that you were
beginning to prefer your pleasures and your diversions to everything
else.” But the king paid no heed to his wise minister.

Louis gathered to his court the most talented men of his time. Here
were not only the greatest nobles and public men, but also the most
illustrious poets, scholars, and artists of France. It was a glorious
society, but Louis’s chief enjoyment of it was in obliging all these
men of talent to pay him reverence. He taught them that it was an honor
to serve him in any way, even to hand him his shirt when he dressed in
the morning.

Life at Versailles was as extravagant as the palace itself. It was
always gorgeous, but at any fête the costumes were most magnificent.
Cloth of silver embroidered with silver, cloth of gold sprinkled with
diamonds, black velvet with great diamonds for buttons, head-dresses
covered with jewels--it reads like a tale from fairyland. Even the
every-day life of the king was full of ceremony, which he heartily
enjoyed. Ordinary dressing was with him a lengthy proceeding, for
each article had to pass through the hands of at least two persons.
It actually required two pages to carry away his slippers. A special
official presented him with his handkerchief, and another official gave
him his stockings.

But this _lever_, or arising, of the king was not in point of ceremony
to be compared with his public dinners. Merely spreading the table was
a matter of much form and state. To bring in the food required a long
procession. Guards, ushers, the “Gentleman Servant of the Pantry,” the
“Equerry of the Kitchen,” the “Chief of the Goblet,” the “Chief of the
Wine Cellars,” and a great number of other officials formed in line
and solemnly marched up staircases, along several corridors, through
vestibules and salons and ante-chambers, to the king’s apartments. It
was all very imposing, but the food must have been a bit cold before
it reached His Majesty; and even after it had come, every dish had to
be tasted before the king touched it, lest it should contain poison.
There was just as much formality in eating as in bringing in the food.
If the king wanted a sip of wine, the cup-bearer cried in a loud voice,
“The drink for the king!” and it took the services of four more people
before the wine could reach the royal lips. During the dinner, all
well-dressed persons were allowed to file through the room; and people
went to watch the king eat just as they go now to the circus or the
zoölogical gardens to watch the animals fed.

For forty years King Louis had pretty much his own way. His courtiers
looked upon him as almost a god--or made him think that they did. His
wars were successful. France had become larger and more prosperous,
and he had in general much more money than was good for him. Then
came a change. Maria Theresa died, and the following year he married
Madame de Maintenon, a lady of good family but no fortune. She was his
wife, but she was never recognized as queen. She had been educated as
a Protestant, but had become a Roman Catholic; and she did much to
persuade Louis that he ought to permit no Protestantism in his kingdom.
He first tried to persuade the Huguenots to change their faith. Then
he commanded all women not of noble birth who were found at their
religious meetings to be whipped and branded. He quartered soldiers
in the homes of the Huguenots with orders to torment them as much as
possible. At length he revoked the Edict of Nantes. The Huguenots were
forbidden to leave the country, but two or three hundred thousand
contrived to escape. Most of these were skilled workmen, and other
countries were delighted to receive them. So it was that Louis made his
own country poorer, while Holland, England, and Germany became richer
through the labor of these industrious people.

In 1688, several of the countries which Louis had injured united
against him, and after a war of eight years he had to restore nearly
all that he had taken in his earlier attacks. The throne of Spain had
become vacant, and Louis placed his grandson upon it. Then Europe was
indeed aroused, for if France and Spain were united under one ruler,
no other country could stand against them. The Grand Alliance was now
formed, a union of Louis’s opponents, and warfare went on for twelve
years. At its close, Louis’s grandson, Philip V, was allowed to keep
the crown of Spain, but Louis had to give back the Netherlands to
Austria, and to give up to England the French colonies in Nova Scotia.

Two years after the close of this war, Louis died. He left his kingdom
deeply in debt, few of its people living in comfort, and many of its
people beggars. Commerce was ruined. Wide stretches of the country
were left barren. The time of Louis is spoken of as the greatest
age of France, but that is because so many famous men lived in his
day--writers, artists, generals, admirals, and ministers of state. The
heir to the kingdom was Louis’s greatgrandson, a little boy of five
years. The dying king realized some of his faults, and he said to the
little child: “I have loved war too much. Do not be like me in that,
nor in the useless spending of money. Try to improve the condition of
your people.”




CHAPTER XXI

THE FRENCH REVOLUTION


If Louis XV, successor of Louis XIV, had been a strong, upright man, a
vast amount of trouble might have been prevented. But with a helpless
little child for king, and powerful, vicious men for regent and prime
minister, poor France had a hard time.

As the years passed, matters grew worse and worse, abroad as well as
at home. In the “Seven Years’ War,” Quebec was captured by the English
general Wolfe, and thus France lost Canada. The French power in the
East was destroyed, and India fell into the hands of the English.
The French Government became so weak and uncertain that the citizens
despised it. They hoped that when the king should die, a change of
rulers would better things; but he lived on year after year, nearly
sixty years of misery for his people.

France in the eighteenth century was not a good country to live in.
Taxes were terribly high, and there were three which the peasants found
almost unendurable. One of these was the heavy tax on salt, especially
unfair because each family was forced to buy of the Government a
certain quantity, whether it was needed or not. One required them to
labor on the roads and other public works whenever they were called
upon, even though their crops might be spoiling in the fields. A third
tax was levied according to the amount that a man’s land produced. If
a peasant adopted wise means of agriculture and raised good crops, his
taxes increased. If two men, one industrious and one lazy, had the same
kind of land, the man who worked hard and raised a large crop had to
pay higher taxes than the lazy man.

This was bad enough, but it would not have been quite so hard to bear
if all the people had been treated alike. On the contrary, the nobles
paid hardly any taxes, neither did the bishops and archbishops nor the
wealthy monasteries. The peasants and the country clergy, who were
in general poor and needy, were almost the only ones to be taxed.
The nobles despised the peasants, and the peasants hated the nobles.
Meanwhile, a group of writers had much to say about freedom and justice
and the rights of men, and tried to make the French understand how
wrong and unfair all this was. People began to think.

When Louis XVI, grandson of Louis XV, came to the throne, he was only
twenty years old. He had never expected to become king and, like
other young nobles, he had spent most of his time amusing himself.
His amusements were innocent enough, for he read substantial books;
he liked geography and mathematics, and he especially enjoyed outdoor
exercises and making locks and keys at a forge which he had set up
in the palace. He had married when he was sixteen a young Austrian
princess, Marie Antoinette. She was bright and pretty and charming,
and if she had tried, she could have made every one love her. Instead
of this, she thought of nothing but amusing herself. The manners of
the ladies of the court were much more formal than she had been used
to in her Austrian home, and their dress struck her as comical and
old-fashioned. When they appeared before her, she made fun of them
almost to their faces. Their banquets were stiff and lengthy, and she
would not be bored by attending them. She liked to go on merry little
picnics with people who were amused by her witty speeches. She built a
country house called Petit Trianon, and there she used to make butter
like a farmer’s wife and, dressed as a shepherdess, to drive a flock
of well-washed sheep with blue ribbons around their necks. Her husband
sometimes played the game with her, and, pretending to be a miller,
ground grain into flour for her to use in her cooking.

This was harmless, to be sure, but the king and queen of France had
important duties to the nation, and these they were neglecting for
amusement. Then, too, many of Marie Antoinette’s entertainments cost
a great deal of money, so much that it was sometimes difficult for
the minister of finance to pay the bills. Her mother, the Empress of
Austria, wrote her anxious, motherly letters, warning her that trouble
would surely result; but the young queen went on in her own willful way.

Louis was upright and kind-hearted and desirous of doing all that he
could for his people, but he was weak, and thought one thing one day
and quite the opposite another day. Moreover, he was very fond of his
wife, and she had little trouble in leading him wherever she wished.

Before long there were stories that the queen was using the money of
the state for her extravagant entertainments. The French hated Austria,
and they began to speak of the young queen as “the Austrian.” Some even
whispered that she was sending good French money to Austria. Mobs in
the streets began to sing,

    “My little queen, not twenty-one,
    Maltreat the folk as you’ve begun,
    And o’er the border you shall run.”

Whatever might be the cause, the fact was certain that thousands of
people in France were hungry, and even the royal treasury was empty.
Louis had made a wise financier named Turgot minister of finance. He
planned to reduce expenses and to tax all at the same rate. Then there
was an outcry. The queen was indignant at the idea of reducing her
expenditures; the nobles were angry at the thought of having to pay
taxes; and even the peasants were annoyed at the changes which Turgot
suggested, lest these should result in even worse than had yet come to
them.

After a while the king gave up supporting Turgot, and a Swiss named
Necker took his place. This was in the time of the American Revolution;
and the money with which France helped the American colonies was
another strain upon her resources. Necker was dismissed, and matters
went from bad to worse. With an empty treasury and a hungry people, the
queen and court were amusing themselves as usual. Louis was unhappy,
but helpless.

Another minister of finance was tried, one De Calonne. His plan was
to raise money by borrowing--but he made no provision to pay even
the interest on this borrowed money. Necker was recalled, and he
advised the king to call a meeting of the States-General; that is,
representatives of the nobles, the clergy, and the “Third Estate,” or
commoners. The demand rang from one end of the land to the other, and
the meeting was called. It was a brilliant assembly, for king and court
came in their plumed hats and satin and velvet clothes embroidered with
gold and jewels. The clergy wore flowing mantles, the archbishops in
purple velvet, the others in colors varying according to their degrees.
The Third Estate were ordered to wear short black cloaks and white
cravats, and of course looked far inferior to the others in all their
gorgeousness.

The Third Estate were not in brilliant attire, but they had done some
thinking, especially on the question of how the voting should be
done. There were more of the commons than of the nobles and higher
clergy together; but it had been expected that each order would vote
separately. In this case, the one vote of the Third Estate could do
nothing against the two votes of the other divisions. The Third Estate,
however, demanded that all should vote together. This would give them a
majority, and naturally the nobles and higher clergy refused. The Third
Estate thereupon named themselves and those of the other two orders
who had joined them the National Assembly, took an oath not to dissolve
till they had given France a constitution, and proceeded to business.
At first Louis opposed, then he yielded; then, on his wife’s advice, he
called out some Swiss and German troops to protect him and keep order
in Paris.

There was certainly need of some power to keep order. The mob seized
bread, wine, and arms wherever they could be found. They put on
cockades of red, white, and blue as badges, and for three days they
raged up and down the streets of Paris. A report was spread, “The king
is going to break up the National Assembly and turn the guns of the
Bastille upon the city if there is any resistance.” And at this all
Paris went wild.

The Bastille had been built for a fortress, but from the time of
Richelieu it had been used as a prison, and here men who had offended
the king or some powerful noble had often been kept for years with no
trial and sometimes with no charge brought against them. Whenever the
French people looked at its massive walls, they thought of tyranny
and injustice, and now they declared that they would have no more of
it. They rushed roaring and howling through the streets, and after a
five-hours’ siege the Bastille was in their hands. The governor and
his officers were murdered and their heads placed on pikes and carried
about the city with wild shouts of rejoicing.

But where were the king and queen and nobles? They were in beautiful
Versailles, dancing and feasting and enjoying themselves. They knew
that there was trouble in Paris, but they had no idea that it would
affect them. After the king had gone to bed, a noble went to his room.
“Sire,” he said, “the Paris mob have taken the Bastille.” “Why, that
is a revolt!” said the king in bewilderment. “No, sire,” declared the
noble gravely, “it is a revolution.”

Only a few weeks passed before the frenzy broke out again. Some new
guards were sent to Versailles, and the old guards welcomed them with
a banquet. When the king and queen entered the room, the soldiers
cheered, tore off their red, white, and blue cockades and put on the
white ones that were the royal emblem. It was not long before the story
of this banquet reached Paris, and thousands of women caught up knives,
brooms, pikes, sticks--whatever they could find--and rushed off to
Versailles. “Take us to the king!” they cried. “Give us bread, bread!”
Louis promised to send bread to them in Paris, but that was not enough;
he must go with them, they declared. The National Guard, with the
Marquis de Lafayette at its head, arrived and did its best to protect
the royal family; but the mob was wild with excitement and hunger. Both
Louis and the queen stepped out boldly on a balcony. “I am ready to
die,” said Marie Antoinette fearlessly. Lafayette knelt before her and
kissed her hand. Even the rough crowd were touched, and she was saved.

But the mob were shouting, “The king to Paris!” and Louis could
not refuse. It was a strange procession--the king, queen, their two
children, and the king’s sister in a carriage, followed by a hundred
deputies. Behind them swarmed thousands of the worst rabble in Paris,
shouting, howling, screaming out coarse songs. A drizzling rain
was falling. So it was that Louis and his queen were taken to the
Tuileries. This palace had not been occupied for a long time. It was
forlorn and gloomy, but here the royal family spent a year. The king
hunted--though always in charge of some of the National Guards. The
queen and Madame Elizabeth, the king’s sister, sewed and taught the
children and cared for them, the little six-year-old dauphin and his
older sister Maria Theresa; and so the time passed slowly away in
anxiety and dread of what might come.

The National Assembly had now prepared a constitution according to
which the country should be governed. Lafayette, representing the
National Guards, took the oath to observe it. He was followed by the
National Assembly, and many other bodies of men; last of all by King
Louis himself.

There was a great celebration, and all looked promising; but,
nevertheless, the royal finances were in as bad a condition as ever,
and there was no one who had the power and authority to make the people
keep order. A strong king would have enforced the laws, and thus made
his own position stronger and strengthened his country; but Louis was
not a strong king. Mirabeau, who was the real head of the National
Assembly, could have advised and helped him, but Marie Antoinette did
not trust Mirabeau. Then, too, she had not yet given up the hope that
by help of the other nations the old times might after a while be
brought back again.

Mirabeau had shown himself sensible and reasonable. By his eloquence
he had generally been able to bring the other members of the Assembly
around to his own way of thinking, and thus had prevented much
violence. As long as he lived, the king was safe; but he died the
year after the acceptance of the Constitution, and now Louis felt
that his life was in danger. Three members of the National Assembly,
Robespierre, Danton, and Marat, were now in power. They belonged to
what was called the Jacobin Club, because it met in an unused monastery
dedicated to Saint James. There were many clubs in those times, and the
Jacobin was the fiercest and most bitter of them all.

The king had good reason to fear, and he made up his mind to flee--or
Marie Antoinette made it up for him. Many nobles who had before this
fled from France had appealed to other kings to come to the aid of
their sovereign. The interest of these rulers needed no arousing, for
they had been anxiously watching the acts of the revolutionists lest
trouble of the same sort should arise in their own domains. A general
faithful to Louis was near the frontier with some troops. If Louis
could come to him, a foreign army would be at hand to help him regain
the power that had slipped from his hands.

Unluckily, the heads of the royal family knew about as much of the
proper way to manage their flight as did the little dauphin. Every hour
counted, but they made their preparations as leisurely as if they were
going on a pleasure trip. Then, instead of trying to slip away from
Paris in an ordinary carriage, they rode off in a large new coach of
gorgeous yellow, with attendants in yellow livery and troops posted
along the road. The harness broke more than once; the roads were muddy;
the relay horses were not found where they were expected; and the
fugitives spent twenty-two hours in going sixty-nine miles. Of course
every one gazed at the big yellow coach; and before long they gazed
straight into the face of the king, for he was so foolish as to show
himself at the window. The result was that a very sober royal family
were carried back to the Tuileries, and guards were placed about them,
even in their bedrooms.

No one knew when foreign troops might invade France, and volunteers
rushed to Paris. One company came from Marseilles, and as they marched
into the city, they sang a thrilling song which, because of the place
from which they came, was called the “Marseillaise.” Its chorus is,

    “To arms, to arms, ye brave!
    The avenging sword unsheath!
    March on, march on, all hearts resolved
          On liberty or death!”

The Jacobins determined to attack the Tuileries, and the royal family
fled to the Assembly for protection. The mad rabble fell upon the
beautiful palace. They destroyed everything that could be destroyed,
and killed every living creature within its walls. The king and his
family were carried to prison, and every one who was believed to
sympathize with them had the same fate. Danton was the leader of the
furious mob. “When we go forth to defend our country,” he declared,
“the Royalists within the prison walls will break out, and neither
mother, wife, sister, nor child will be safe from their revenge. Our
only safety is to destroy them now.” Then began a terrible massacre of
the Royalists, not only in Paris, but all over France. Swords and pikes
and guns did not do the work fast enough, and an instrument, known as
the “guillotine” was used for beheading people.

King Louis was summoned before what was called the National Convention.
He was quiet and self-controlled, and he answered all questions with
good sense and dignity. He was accused of treason, of misgovernment,
and of plotting against France with the enemies of the French people.
Many of the members of the Convention would have defended him if
they had dared; but Danton and the other Jacobins triumphed, and it
was voted that within twenty-four hours he should die. The one favor
granted him was to say good-bye to his family, from whom he had been
separated for some time. A few hours later, he was taken to the
guillotine. “Frenchmen,” he said, “I die innocent. I pardon my enemies.
I desire that France--” but the order was given to beat the drums.
“Son of Saint Louis, ascend to heaven,” said the priest who had heard
his last confession, and the heavy knife of the guillotine fell.

During reign after reign the people had suffered because of the crimes
and the mistakes of their rulers. This suffering had come to a climax
in Louis’s day, and it would have needed a far wiser man than he to
rescue the land from the horrors of the Revolution which was upon it.
Louis was kind and brave and meant to do his best, but he had not the
wisdom to save his country or himself.

Among those who voted for the king’s death were many who would, as
has been said, gladly have done otherwise. These and others who were
not so savage as the Jacobins were known as “Girondists,” because the
chief ones among them came from the Department of the Gironde. But
the Jacobins were the stronger. They threw into prison all whom they
suspected of disagreeing with them. When the prisons were full, the
prisoners were turned out, hundreds at a time, old and young, rich and
poor, innocent and guilty, and were guillotined. Even the guillotine
did not work fast enough for the slaughter, and crowds of prisoners
were made to stand between two great ditches. Cannon were fired at
them, and as they fell into the ditches, earth was shoveled over
their bodies, many still alive. It is said that fifteen thousand of
the inhabitants of a single city which ventured to resist the rule of
the Jacobins were put to death in these ways and in others still more
terrible.

The Revolutionists abolished the Christian religion, and declared
themselves worshipers of the Goddess of Reason. To show that the past
was entirely gone by, they gave up Sunday and declared every tenth day
a time of rest. The names of days and months were changed. The tombs
of the kings in Saint Denis were broken open and the bodies thrown
into quicklime. That of Henry IV, who had been so loved by his people,
was set upright to serve as a target for all who wished to stone it.
People were wild with a frantic rage for blood and destruction. Women
used to go early to the places of execution in order to get good seats
for watching the guillotine do its dreadful work. They carried their
knitting with them, and marked off in their stitches the number of the
slain. Such was the “Reign of Terror.”

Marie Antoinette, her golden hair turned to gray by the horrors through
which she had passed, was kept in prison. She was quiet and dignified
and patient. She taught her children and did needlework, and so the
dreadful days passed. Only a few months after the king’s death, her
children were taken from her. The dauphin, who had been so loved and
so tenderly cared for, was given over to a cruel, brutal man. Then
the queen was shut into a dark cell, her work taken away; and there
she sat, waiting for the end. It came before many months had passed.
She was condemned to die, and in a rough cart she was carried with
fast-bound hands to the guillotine. She walked calmly and firmly up the
steps of the scaffold. “Farewell, my children,” she said. “I am going
to your father.” The axe fell. “Long live the Republic!” shouted the
crowd. The mad revolutionists of France had murdered their king and
their queen. The little dauphin died from abuse and neglect. His sister
lived, but her life was always saddened by the memory of those fearful
days of suffering and terror.

[Illustration: MARIE ANTOINETTE IN THE CONCIERGERIE PRISON]

The three men who had been leaders in these awful scenes met the fate
that they deserved. A young girl named Charlotte Corday was convinced
that if Marat was only dead, the horrors would cease. She pretended
that she had important news for him, and he consented to see her.
In a moment her dagger had done its work. But Robespierre, the most
blood-thirsty of the three, still lived. In jealousy he had had Danton
put to death, and now he stood alone. But the time came when his
friends as well as his foes feared for their lives, and without regard
to party they united, and Robespierre himself died by the guillotine.

The worst of the mad fury had come to an end, but there were different
parties even in the National Convention, and whatever party was in
power for the moment seized the opportunity to behead all opponents. At
length, however, the country became more quiet. Many thousands still in
prison were set free; and the members of the Convention went to work to
make a republican constitution, for they had decided that France was
henceforth to be a republic.




CHAPTER XXII

LAFAYETTE, FRIEND OF THE UNITED STATES


In the court of Louis XV was a bright, gentlemanly boy who served
as a page. He also had the honor of being a commissioned officer in
the bodyguard of the king, to which none but descendants of the most
highly titled families were admitted. He was a marquis, he had a large
fortune, and altogether he was looked upon as being a most lucky young
man.

It was this same fortune, however, which stood in his way when it
was proposed that he should marry a little twelve-year-old countess.
“The Marquis de Lafayette has too much money,” the mother of the girl
objected. “He has neither parents nor near relatives, and he is free to
spend it as he likes. That is not good for a boy.” But after a while,
when she came to know the boy better, she very willingly gave her
consent. The young man of sixteen and the girl of fourteen were married
and, as the old story books say, “lived happy forever after.”

Two years later, 1776, was the year of the American Declaration of
Independence. Lafayette was intensely interested in the struggles of
the colonists, and he made up his mind to cross the ocean and put his
sword at their service. His plans had to be kept secret, for Louis XVI,
who was now on the throne, had not decided whether to help America or
not. He would have liked the Americans to win, and so prevent England
from holding the continent across the seas; but on the other hand, he
did not wish to join them if they were going to lose and leave him
entangled in a needless contest with England. Just then the Americans
had met with so many defeats and misfortunes that it seemed as if they
must lose the war.

It is no wonder that King Louis hesitated; but Lafayette did not. Mr.
Silas Deane, representative in France of the colonies, had already, in
the name of Congress, appointed him a major-general in the American
army; and although he was told frankly how hopeless affairs now seemed
and that the Americans could not even provide him with a passage to
America, he merely thanked the commissioners courteously and said that
he would purchase a vessel for himself. The king forbade his sailing,
and this meant that disobedience might bring about the confiscation of
his estates; but he sailed with eleven companions, and after a voyage
of two months landed near Charleston, South Carolina.

As soon as possible, he presented Mr. Deane’s letter to Congress, but
Congress was in a difficult position. Mr. Deane had given many such
letters, and it was not easy to determine whether a rich young fellow
of nineteen, who had come across in his own vessel, was in earnest in
wishing to lend a hand, or whether he was only an adventurer in pursuit
of cheap glory. Congress made a very natural mistake and told the
marquis that there was small prospect of an opening for him. A little
man would have turned the prow of his ship away from the American
shores, but this young Lafayette was not a little man. He dashed off
a note to Congress which said: “After the sacrifices I have made, I
have a right to exact two favors: One is, to serve at my own expense;
the other is, to serve as a volunteer.” Congress understood now with
what sort of man it was dealing. His services were gratefully accepted,
his appointment as major-general was confirmed, and before long he was
attached to Washington’s staff.

For four years and a half Lafayette worked eagerly for America. He
gave his money lavishly; he fought brilliantly; he was wounded in our
defense; he showed himself a wise strategist; and he was successful in
that most difficult piece of generalship, the skillful management of a
retreat. The British general Cornwallis declared that “the boy cannot
escape me.” But not many weeks later, “the boy” was publicly thanked by
Washington for his distinguished service in the capture of the British
general.

The friendship between Washington and Lafayette was most beautiful.
“I love him as a son,” said the commander to the surgeons who were to
care for Lafayette’s wound. To Lafayette himself the cool, reserved
Washington wrote, “I love everybody that is dear to you.” “In your
friendship I find a delight which no words can express,” Lafayette
wrote to his American friend. Who can tell how much the affection of
this devoted lover of liberty may have done to comfort and strengthen
the greatest of Americans in his almost impossible task?

Lafayette’s services to America were not limited to the field of
battle. King Louis had at length yielded to the demands of his people,
recognized the United States as an independent country, and sent a
fleet to their help. Chiefly through the influence of Lafayette, who
had returned on a short furlough, he was persuaded to send also a land
force. Lafayette was received in France with the greatest honors, and
he used his popularity to win favors for America. “It is fortunate,”
said the prime minister, “that Lafayette did not want to strip
Versailles of its furniture for his dear Americans, for nobody would
have been able to resist his earnestness.”

In 1781, at the close of the American Revolution, Lafayette returned
to France. Marie Antoinette and her friends were enjoying themselves.
Necker’s attempts to induce her to be less extravagant had aroused
their wrath, and they were all rejoicing because Louis had put De
Calonne into his place. De Calonne was the borrower who planned no
means of payment, and when the treasury showed a deficit of millions
of francs, his only suggestion was to hold a “Convocation of the
Notables”; that is, men of rank or political prominence. Most of the
members thought only of how to continue their idle, useless lives, but
Lafayette reviewed the injustice and oppression of the peasants and
showed how the court squandered the money of the people. “The millions
which are thrown away are collected by taxation,” he declared, “and
taxation can only be justified by the real wants of the state”--rather
a venturesome speech, considering that the king’s brother was
presiding at the Convocation.

When the National Association was formed, Lafayette did his best to
persuade the nobles to unite with the commons, but in most cases he
failed. He himself took his place in the Association, however, and
there brought forward a Declaration of Rights which sounds much like
the American Declaration of Independence. In this he declared that
authority to rule was the gift of the nation, that the sole end of all
government was the public good, that all should be taxed in proportion
to their means, and at the same rate.

The weeks passed. News came that the king had called out troops to
defend himself, then that Necker, the people’s favorite, had been
dismissed. The attack upon the Bastille followed. After this the
National Guard was formed, and its command was placed in the hands of
Lafayette. The people looked upon him as so truly their friend that
they knew no one else so worthy to receive the key of the Bastille.
This he afterwards sent to Washington, and it is now at Mount Vernon.
With the key he sent the message: “Give me leave to present you with
the main key of the fortress of despotism. It is a tribute which I owe
as a son to my adopted father, as an aide-de-camp to my general, as a
missionary of liberty to its patriarch.”

Lafayette had not the slightest sympathy with riot and destruction
and murder. The king was the lawful sovereign of France, and much as
Lafayette would have been pleased to see his country a republic, he
stood firmly by King Louis. When the mad rush upon Versailles was made,
he at the head of several battalions of troops followed the mob to
defend the royal family; and to him they owed their lives.

Meanwhile the National Assembly was at work on a constitution, or body
of laws which should govern both king and people. They decreed that
rich and poor should be taxed at the same rate; that all men should
be alike before the law; that there should be no titles of rank, but
that every man should be addressed as “citizen,” and every woman as
“citizeness.” The Roman Catholic Church held an enormous area of land
in France, larger, it is estimated, than the whole of England, and this
was to be taken away for the use of the new government. Every person
was to be allowed to follow the religion of his choice, and, whatever
his faith, he could not be kept out of office because of it. The whole
country was to be divided into departments, and the governor of each
was to be elected by the people of that province. Some of the decrees
of this Assembly were good; others were not good; but at any rate a
constitution had been made, and the king had promised to accept it.

The fall of the Bastille had taken place July 14, 1789, and it was
determined to hold a great celebration of the new constitution on
the first anniversary of that day. A wide, open space often used
for drills, the Champ de Mars, was chosen for the place of the
celebration. The time was short and much was to be done to make this
ready. To set out with spade or pickaxe and work on the Champ de Mars
became the fashionable amusement. Members of the most aristocratic
clubs, beggars, priests, soldiers, dancing-masters, matrons and dainty
young maidens from families once ennobled, poets, painters, and monks
all hastened to show their delight, whether sincere or only politic, in
the change of government.

When July 14 had come, there stood on the Champ de Mars a beautiful
circular temple made of posts fifty or sixty feet high, each one wound
with either white drapery or evergreens, and surmounted by a vase of
white lilies. From post to post festoons of green foliage were drawn.
More than 300,000 persons were gathered in the temple, many coming
before it was fairly daybreak.

At ten o’clock cannon were fired, bells were rung, and a procession led
by a band of music marched into the temple. First came Lafayette at the
head of the National Guards. He was followed by the electors of Paris,
the deputies of the National Assembly, deputies from the different
departments, and a long line of men of prominence. In the center of the
building a broad flight of steps covered with handsome tapestry led up
to an altar adorned with white lilies, and on this lay a Bible and a
copy of the Constitution. Near the altar sat the king on his throne,
and not far from him was a pavilion for the royal family. Two hundred
priests robed in white linen and wearing the national colors, stood
on the altar steps. At their head was Bishop Talleyrand, who was to
administer the oath.

Mass was celebrated, then the trumpets sounded and the band played as
Lafayette ascended the steps of the altar. He laid his sword upon the
Bible and raised his right hand toward the sky. The music ceased, and
in the silence of the great multitude he said in behalf of himself
and the whole army, “We swear to be forever faithful to the Nation,
to the Law, and to the King; to maintain to the utmost of our power
the Constitution decreed by the National Assembly and accepted by the
King.” Again the trumpets sounded, and the people shouted, “_Vive la
Nation! Vive la Nation!_”

After all the representative bodies had sworn, the king rose in
his place, stretched forth his hand toward the altar, and swore to
maintain the Constitution with all the power given to him. Then the
people shouted, the bands played, the trumpets sounded, and the cannon
thundered. One would have thought that there would be nothing but peace
and harmony forever after.

But the king was practically a prisoner; the soldiers were ready to
mutiny; the popular Necker had to flee to save his life; and when
Lafayette tried to save the king from insult, the Guards refused to
obey. Lafayette was so disgusted with their behavior that he resigned
his command. This aroused the whole state. The Guards begged him to
resume his command, the departments begged, the city of Paris begged.
“I am thoroughly convinced,” said he, “that my comrades love me; but
I am still to learn how far they are attached to those principles on
which liberty is founded.” Finally the mayor of Paris and a deputation
from the common council represented to him that for him to resign
the command would endanger the state. At this, he yielded, and on
the following morning he led his troops to King Louis to make their
apologies. Thereupon Danton and Marat and their followers accused
Lafayette of having been bribed to stand by the king. Placards were put
up throughout the city and pamphlets were published, all to the effect
that Lafayette--who had put his life and fortune at the service of
liberty--was a supporter of tyranny! He was even accused of helping to
plan the king’s attempted flight.

Lafayette did all that was possible to keep order and strengthen the
government; but the Jacobins had now come into power, and slaughter
rather than order was what they wanted. Pictures and busts of Lafayette
were destroyed, the dies of the medal which Paris had decreed in his
honor were broken up by the common executioner, and a reward was
offered for his capture. He saw clearly that he could do nothing more
at that time for France. The only way to save his life for future
service was to flee.

Holland was then a neutral country, and he set out for Holland, but was
captured by the Austrians and kept a prisoner at Olmütz for five years.
His cell was most loathsome. A stagnant ditch lay under the tiny window
in a wall twelve feet thick. A broken chair, an old table, a heap of
straw were its furnishings. When it rained, the water poured in until
the captive was drenched to the skin.

In such dens as this, each one worse than those preceding, first in
Austria, then in Prussia, the fearless lover of liberty was kept for
five years; but he was not forgotten. Washington made a personal appeal
to the Emperor of Austria. Other friends, one of them a young man from
South Carolina, attempted his rescue. One sure way of liberty was
offered him. If he would join the King of Prussia in plotting against
France, he would be set free at once. “I am still Lafayette,” returned
the captive indignantly. His property had been confiscated, and the
money sent him by the American minister in France brought him many
little comforts, and may have saved his life.

Meanwhile the Reign of Terror was at its height. The mother,
sister-in-law, and niece of Lafayette’s wife were executed for the
crime of noble birth. She herself was imprisoned, but, chiefly through
the efforts of the American minister, she was set free. The young wife
of fourteen had developed into the strong, wise, determined woman of
thirty-two. She sent her son, named for Washington, across the ocean
to his father’s friend for safety; then she made her way to Vienna and
in disguise succeeded in gaining an interview with the emperor. He
would not free Lafayette; his wife and two daughters might share his
imprisonment if they chose; but if they once entered the prison, they
would never be permitted to leave it. Nevertheless, they entered, and
what a welcome they must have had! For twenty-two months they remained
with him. Then came release. Napoleon Bonaparte, in command of the
French forces warring against Austria, demanded as one of the terms
of a treaty of peace that Lafayette should be set free. He had been
threatened by the Jacobins as a royalist; he had been imprisoned as a
republican, whose influence in their own kingdoms was feared by the
kings of Europe. He was never tried, and no formal charges were ever
brought against him.

Lafayette could do nothing by returning to France; therefore he and his
family remained in Holstein from 1797 to 1799, and then made their home
a few miles from Paris. During the years of Lafayette’s imprisonment,
king and queen had been executed, the awful orgy of murder known as the
“Reign of Terror” had passed, and in the war with the other nations of
Europe the young Napoleon Bonaparte had become the most prominent man
in the state. Lafayette liked and admired Napoleon, and was grateful to
him for release from prison, but he did not believe that the supreme
power which he plainly sought was consistent with liberty. “A free
government with you at its head,” he said to Napoleon, “I should like
nothing better.”

During the latter years of his life Lafayette saw many changes in the
French government. In 1814, Napoleon was forced to abdicate. Now was
the time for the “emigrant” nobles who had left France in the time of
Louis XVI. They came back in full force, and by their aid a Bourbon,
the brother of Louis XVI, was set upon the throne. He was called Louis
XVIII, for the little dauphin, the son of Louis XVI, is counted as
Louis XVII, even though he never reigned.

Before long, Napoleon, who had withdrawn to the little island of Elba,
off the coast of Italy, made a sudden return to France. After he was
again driven from the throne, Louis XVIII returned from exile and
reigned for nine years. Then came his brother, who is known as Charles
X. But Charles X had no more sense than to think he could restore
things as they were before the Revolution. This brought about revolt,
and Charles was obliged to abdicate. The Chamber of Deputies then put
upon the throne a descendant of a younger brother of Louis XIV. He was
reigning at the time of Lafayette’s death.

Soon after the close of the American Revolution, Lafayette had come
to the United States for a short time. He begged Washington to visit
him in France, but unluckily Washington could not speak French, and he
declared that it would be “extremely awkward, insipid, and uncouth” to
talk through an interpreter.

Forty years later, Lafayette became the guest of the United States.
The country offered him the ship which, in 1777, it had been unable to
provide, but he preferred to come by public packet. He landed at New
York, then traveled--by carriage, of course--to Worcester, Providence,
Boston, and Portsmouth; then back to New York, to Albany, Philadelphia,
Trenton, Baltimore, Washington, and elsewhere. His friends tried to
arrange an itinerary, but they might as well have saved their pains,
for no one could live up to any itinerary when such crowds were eager
to do him honor with cheers and music and banners, triumphal arches,
fireworks, and cannon. There were receptions and banquets and addresses
and military reviews. There were trembling old veterans of the war
eager to shake his hand. In Providence the avenue leading to the
court-house was lined with what the old account calls “female youth,”
dressed in white, waving white handkerchiefs and strewing flowers in
his way, “a simple but touching arrangement,” the account declares.
While Lafayette was in Boston, the corner-stone of Bunker Hill Monument
was laid. Daniel Webster was the orator of the day. In the course of
his speech, when he addressed to Lafayette personally, as the “sole
surviving general officer of Washington’s immortal army,” words of
welcome and appreciation, Lafayette rose from his seat among the
Revolutionary officers and remained standing until the close of this
portion of the speech.

At Mount Vernon, Lafayette was taken to the tomb of Washington, where
he knelt in silent homage to the memory of his friend. He was received
by Congress, and at a banquet given him by that body, he gave the
toast: “Perpetual union among the United States--it has saved us in our
time of danger, it will save the world.”

Ten years later, in 1834, Lafayette died. Strange experiences he had
met in his life of nearly eighty years. He had known five sovereigns
of France, counting the little dauphin. He had known the execution
of one king and his queen. He had passed through revolutions and
counter-revolutions. He had seen his country ruled by a king and by
a mob. He had seen her as a consulate and as an empire. Across the
Atlantic he had beheld a little group of colonies win their freedom
from the most powerful country of Europe, and their population
increased from 3,000,000 to 12,000,000; and in each one of these events
he had borne an important and a manly part. Surely it was a worthy and
a wonderful life.




CHAPTER XXIII

NAPOLEON THE GREAT AND THE FIRST EMPIRE


A few years before Louis XVI and Marie Antoinette came to the throne,
a boy was born on the little island of Corsica who became, before many
years had passed, far more powerful than they, or any other sovereigns
of France ever thought of being. His parents, Charles and Letitia
Bonaparte, were Italians, but a few weeks before his birth, Corsica
became a part of France, and so the child, who was named Napoleon, was
born a French subject.

When Napoleon was ten years old, he was sent to a military school at
Brienne. He was small and thin. He had not money enough to dress as
well as the other boys. He did not speak French well, for all that he
knew of the language was what he had learned in a few months’ study.
He hated France, because she had conquered his beloved island, but of
course he had to keep this hatred to himself. He was proud and a little
gloomy, and for some time he kept away from the other boys. The story
is told, however, that one very cold winter he proposed building, not
a mere “snow fort,” but a complicated fortification, made according
to military engineering. He divided the school into besieged and
besiegers, and the struggle between them was so earnest and followed
military tactics so strictly that for many days it was the great
entertainment of the people of Brienne to watch the contest.

At fifteen, Napoleon was promoted to the military school of Paris. All
expenses here were paid from the royal treasury, and the boys had every
luxury, the softest of beds, the most dainty food, and a servant for
each to polish his weapons, groom his horse, and wait upon him in every
way. This boy, however, did not approve, and he wrote to the governor
urging that it would be better for young men expecting to undergo the
privations of army life not to attempt to prepare themselves by living
in such luxurious surroundings.

In 1785, when Napoleon was sixteen, he passed his examinations for
graduation, showing himself especially brilliant in mathematics, and
now he wore a sword in all the glory of being second lieutenant of
artillery. For some years, however, this was all the glory he could
claim, for he was stationed at one place and another in France with no
opportunity to show what he could do.

At length, however, his opportunity appeared. As the Revolution
progressed, the sovereigns of other countries began to be afraid, as
has been said, that it would affect their kingdoms and their thrones.
When Louis was put to death, England and Holland delayed no longer, but
at once declared war against France. Russia and Spain soon followed
their example. In 1793, the troops of the Convention determined to
attack the town of Toulon, near Marseilles, which was in the hands of
the English and Spanish. The general in command of the artillery was
ill, and the command was given to Napoleon. His years of study had
their reward. His management of the artillery was a success, and by a
plan which he proposed in a council of war, Toulon was taken.

The young soldier received praise in plenty, but when he asked for
an appointment, the reply was always, “You are not old enough.” His
salary could not be collected, and he actually thought of offering
his services to the Turks, then at war with Russia and Austria. “How
singular it would be,” he said to a companion, “if a little Corsican
officer should become King of Jerusalem!”

But the way was opening for him. The French armies were not succeeding
in driving the Austrians from Italy. Some one suggested that Napoleon
was well informed on the subject, and he was asked to meet with the
Committee of Public Safety. Here he showed such knowledge of the
Maritime Alps and such skill in planning that he was at length put
in command of the war to be waged in Italy against Austria. “The
troops are in need of everything,” he was told, “and we can furnish
you with no money for supplies.” “Only give me men enough,” responded
Napoleon, “and I will ask for nothing more.” This was a new kind of
commander; but he understood what he was about, and to the troops
themselves he said: “Soldiers, you are poorly fed and almost naked. The
Government owes you much, but can do nothing. I am about to lead you
into the most fertile country in the world. There, great cities and
prosperous provinces await you. There you will find honor, glory, and
riches. Soldiers of the Army of Italy, shall you lack courage for the
enterprise?” They did not lack.

Victory followed victory. One of the most famous was the crossing of
the bridge of Lodi under a terrific fire. “It is impossible,” said
one of Napoleon’s officers; but Napoleon retorted, “Impossible? There
is no such word in French.” The bridge was crossed, and the Austrians
were driven back, much to their wrath. “The blockhead knows nothing of
the rules of war,” declared an Austrian general. “Who ever saw such
tactics?” Nevertheless, they were the tactics that won the day. “The
boy has done so well,” said one of his generals in jest, “that he ought
to be promoted. Let us make him a corporal.” The troops heard of this,
and from that day dates their pet name of the “Little Corporal” for
their boyish-looking commander.

After his successes in Italy, Napoleon pushed on into Austria, and was
approaching Vienna so rapidly that the emperor asked for peace. The
treaty of Campo Formio was signed; and one of its conditions was that
Lafayette should be set free.

Not long before Napoleon received his appointment as head of the French
troops in Italy, and while he was still in Paris in charge of the
defense of the Convention, a winning boy of some twelve years came to
see him one day. Napoleon, obeying the orders of the Convention, had
taken away all arms from the people of Paris. This boy had come to
beg that his father’s sword might be given back to him. The father
had been guillotined. Napoleon ordered the sword to be returned, and
on the following day the boy’s mother called to thank the general
for his kindness to her son. She had had an eventful life. Some
years before, the Viscount Beauharnais had visited the island of
Martinique, in the West Indies, and had met the charming young girl
named Josephine Tascher. He had married her and brought her to the
court of Marie Antoinette. Then came the Reign of Terror, and only the
death of Robespierre had saved her from her husband’s fate. Beside the
boy Eugène who had come to Napoleon, she had also a little daughter,
Hortense.

Before long, Napoleon and the young mother of the two children were
deeply in love, and three weeks before he set out for Italy, they were
married. Throughout the campaign he wore her miniature on a ribbon
about his neck, and he never had too much on his hands to write her
most affectionate letters. One day he found that the glass over the
miniature was broken. This was a bad omen, he feared, and he could not
rest till a courier had been sent to make sure that she was well.

Meanwhile there was no government in France that any one could expect
to be permanent. The country was ruled by five “Directors,” but many
people would have been glad to see a king on the throne again or to see
almost any change giving them a strong and wise government that would
promise to last. But whether people wanted a kingdom or a republic,
they were all enthusiastic over the victories of Napoleon, and when he
returned, there was a great celebration, so great, indeed, that the
Directors felt rather uncomfortable. Authority had changed hands more
than once. It was quite possible that this brilliant young commander,
to whom the French people were so devoted, might even put the Directors
themselves out of office. Already shouts were heard in the streets,
“The Little Corporal shall be king! Long live the Little Corporal!”
This would never do. Napoleon must be kept out of sight, and then
perhaps he would be out of mind. They would order him to invade England.

Napoleon set out with three generals to study the coast of France
opposite England. For eight days he examined it; he talked with
fishermen and sailors, even with smugglers, and made himself familiar
with the whole coast. “It cannot be done,” he reported. “It is too
dangerous. I will not risk the fate of France upon an attack by sea.”

Napoleon had something else to propose, however--and for that matter,
he always had “something else” in mind, some bold plan which no other
person had thought of; and this time it was to attack England, not on
her own shores, but through her possessions in the East, Egypt first of
all. He planned not only to conquer, but to colonize, and thus to shut
England off from Eastern trade and monopolize it for France. Therefore
he wished to take with him a number of scientific men to study the
plants and minerals and other wealth of the country. The Directors
were ready to agree to almost anything, if they could only get out
of the way the man whom they feared, and Napoleon set sail, few, even
among the officers, knowing where they were to land.

The English knew that Napoleon had set out with his army for somewhere,
but where they could only guess. All they could do was to send Lord
Nelson to patrol the waters of the Mediterranean Sea in the hope of
meeting the French fleet. Nelson cruised along the Egyptian coast, and
then sailed to the northward. Two days later, while he was steering for
the Hellespont, the French troops landed safely in Egypt, rushed on to
Alexandria, and captured the city. In less than a week, Napoleon had
made just laws, had regulated the police system, and had put under way
many plans for schools, manufactories, etc. He left three thousand men
in charge of the city and set off through the desert for Cairo. It was
sixty miles to Cairo, sixty miles of burning, sandy desert; but who
could complain when the Little Corporal himself marched at the head of
the line, slept on the sand, and ate the same kind of rations that were
issued to his men?

Frequently the Mamelukes, the haughty Egyptian troops, mounted on
Arabian horses fleet as the wind, dashed down upon them; but Napoleon
was equal to even the Mamelukes. He trained his men to form hollow
squares at a moment’s notice and the word, “Scientists and donkeys to
the center!”--for donkeys carried the baggage. These squares, keeping
in perfect form, marched wherever they were commanded; but when the
moment came to fight, they faced in four directions, artillery at the
corners, and the outer ranks kneeling so those within could shoot over
their heads. It was not easy to attack a square mass of bayonets, and
even when the Mamelukes changed their tactics and made a determined
stand, Napoleon won the day. This battle took place in sight of the
pyramids; and just before it began, Napoleon made one of his most
famous speeches to his troops. He stood, pointing with his sword to
the mighty tombs of the ancient kings, and said, “Soldiers, from these
summits forty centuries are looking down upon you.” It is no wonder
that they were aroused to do their best.

In three weeks Napoleon had become master of Egypt, but he formed a
government in which the people themselves should rule. He taught them
the use of tools that were new to them; he established hospitals, set
up a printing press, planned two canals to connect the Red Sea with the
Mediterranean, and best of all, won the hearts of the Arabians, for
never before had they seen a conqueror who did not abuse them. More
than this, he actually seemed to care for them. A poor peasant was
slain and his flocks carried off by desert robbers. Napoleon ordered
an immediate pursuit and vengeance. “Was the poor wretch your cousin?”
asked one of the Arabian chiefs rather scornfully. “He was more than
that,” Napoleon replied; “he was one whose safety Providence has
entrusted to my care.”

But even Napoleon did not always have things as he would. His order to
remove the fleet from the Bay of Aboukir, at the mouth of the Nile, had
not been obeyed. Nelson came down upon it, and only four ships escaped.
This was the Battle of the Nile. Napoleon was deeply disappointed, but
all he said was, “We must do greater things than we intended,” and a
few months later he marched on into Syria. If he could have taken Acre,
he might have been able to win Persia and India; but the English and
Turks held on to Acre, and a regretful commander led his army back into
Egypt.

It had now been many months since Napoleon had heard from France. Sir
Sidney Smith, the defender of Acre, either from courtesy or to show
that opposition was useless, sent him a great bundle of newspapers.
He learned now the story of the year. He learned that almost all the
countries of Europe had united against France; that the French had been
driven out of Italy; and that all the efforts of France could hardly
keep her enemies from her own soil. What should they do? What strong
hand could take control? People were asking, “But where is Napoleon? He
is strong and wise; he could save us.” He might have been slain in the
East--no one knew--but France was longing for him, and he was soon on
his way to her. With only a little handful of men for a guard, he left
the army in Egypt and sailed for France.

When the vessel came near the shores of France and signaled that
Napoleon was on board, the whole populace was wild with delight. The
people had been fearing an Austrian invasion, but Napoleon would
save them. They swarmed over his ship. “The vessel has just come from
Alexandria; it may bring the plague,” they were warned; but they only
shouted jubilantly, “Better the plague than the Austrians!” When
Napoleon reached Paris, bells rang, cannon roared, and the streets
echoed with his name. In the theaters there was a pause in each play
for the announcement, “Napoleon is here!” What he would do, no one
could say; but somehow, he would defend them and give them a strong,
just government.

The government of France consisted of the five Directors; a
senate, which was called the “House of Ancients”; and a house of
representatives, or “Council of Five Hundred.” In a little more than
three weeks, Napoleon had prepared his way. The people and the army
were with him, some of the Directors resigned, others favored him.
Of the House of Ancients, he demanded the right to draw up a new
constitution, and they made no objection. The Council of Five Hundred
was then in session. Suddenly they heard proclaimed from the door, “In
the name of General Bonaparte, this Assembly is dissolved.” There stood
Napoleon, and his grenadiers with bayonets lowered, ready to charge.
This was Napoleon’s _coup d’état_, or blow at the state; that is, a
sudden change in the form of government.

By the new constitution France was still a republic, but all power was
really in the hands of three consuls, of whom Napoleon was chief. But
neither England nor Austria would accept Napoleon as properly the
ruler of France. They still declared that a younger brother of Louis
XVI was the rightful sovereign. Evidently this must be fought out.
Austria was beaten, both in Italy and on her own soil, and she had to
sign a treaty agreeing that the Rhine should be the eastern boundary of
France. The English were successful in Egypt, but they, too, were ready
to sign a treaty the following year.

Now that there was a little freedom from war, Napoleon set to work
to care for home duties. The most famous of his works is his Code
Napoleon, a revision of the laws of France. It harmonized those that
did not agree, and struck out the unfair, oppressive laws. Best of all,
it made it clear that in law a man was a man, and that all men were to
be treated alike.

Napoleon was now made consul for life. A year or two later, in 1804,
the people were asked to vote whether he should be made emperor or
not; and in all France there were not three thousand persons who
opposed. France was no longer a republic; it had become an empire, and
the little boy from Corsica sat upon its throne. To make his position
doubly sure, he now asked the Pope, who was quite in his power, to come
to Paris and crown him. There were magnificent ceremonies at the Church
of Notre Dame, and the Pope anointed the new emperor with the holy oil;
but when it came to placing the crown upon his head, Napoleon did that
for himself, and then crowned Josephine as empress.

But what did the rest of Europe say to this? How were they pleased
to see on the throne of France this man in no way related to royalty?
Of course, they united against him--England, Russia, Austria, and
Sweden--all determined to bring back the Bourbon family and put the
boundaries of France where they had been in the good old times of the
monarchy. Napoleon was longing to invade England, but he had too much
to do on the Continent. He made a quick march into Austria, and at the
end of 1805, he won a great victory at Austerlitz over the Austrians
and the Russians. This brought about many changes in the map of Europe,
and sixteen of the German States formed the “Confederacy of the Rhine,”
with Napoleon for protector. As for England, Napoleon had again decided
that he could not cross the “wet ditch,” as he called the English
Channel, for England was protected by her ships; and already Lord
Nelson, off Cape Trafalgar, had destroyed most of the French navy.

War followed war. Napoleon overpowered Prussia and Russia. England
stood firm, but there were other ways to attack her than with cannon
balls. She had forbidden direct trade between France, Spain, Holland,
and their respective colonies. Napoleon now forbade the Continental
powers to admit English vessels to their ports or to send ships to
England; and this caused an immense loss to English commerce. Portugal
did not obey. Thereupon Napoleon seized Lisbon, and then Spain. The
King of Spain fled, and Napoleon put one of his brothers on the Spanish
throne. Indeed, this conqueror of Europe played with kingdoms and
thrones as if they were checkers in a game. One brother he made King of
Holland. A brother-in-law was put upon the throne of Naples. Dukedoms
and principalities were arranged just as he chose, and were put under
the rule of his favorite generals.

But in all of Napoleon’s triumphs there was one deep disappointment.
The French people had given him the right to name his successor, and
he had no child. Between his ambition and his love for Josephine he
long hesitated. Then he divorced her, and soon afterwards married Maria
Louisa, daughter of the Emperor of Austria--for the emperor did not
venture to refuse this powerful suitor. The following year a son was
born to them, and to him Napoleon promptly gave the title of “King of
Rome.”

Except for Spain, Napoleon ruled the Continent from Austria to the
Atlantic, and he had an heir to inherit his glory. What more could he
ask? But some of those who were watching his career saw here and there
little cracks in the mighty structure that he had reared which made
them doubt whether his power would last. The kingdoms and dukedoms
and principalities which he had formed were not going on as smoothly
as he could wish. Of course the princes who had lost their thrones
were indignant, and many of their former subjects were restless
and discontented. Even in France, Napoleon’s power showed signs of
weakening. The French gloried in his conquests, but the country was
drained of men to fill up the lines of his armies, and the pockets
of even the thrifty French people were drained to pay the cost of
these wars. Then, too, Josephine was so gentle and tactful that all
the people loved her and they were indignant at the divorce. They had
looked upon Napoleon as one of themselves, sorry for their troubles,
and bound to do his best to help them; but now that he had allied
himself with the imperial family of Austria, they felt that he had
deserted their cause and was striving for nothing but his own greatness.

[Illustration: NAPOLEON AT THE BATTLE OF FRIEDLAND]

France was tired of war, but Napoleon still saw fields to conquer. The
Spanish had not yielded, and the English under the Duke of Wellington
had come to help them. It is easy now to look back and see that
Napoleon ought to have made sure that Spain was subdued, but Russia, as
well as Portugal, had not obeyed his trade laws, and he was bent upon
punishing the disobedient country. Straight into Russia he and his army
of half a million men marched. He was eager for a great battle, but
the Russians had other plans. They slowly withdrew to the northward,
burning all foodstuffs as they went. Napoleon followed until he was at
Borodino. Then he had his wish. Moscow was only seventy miles away, and
the Russians decided to try to overpower the French at Borodino. There
was a battle great enough to satisfy Napoleon, and the Russians had to
retreat.

Napoleon pursued, for in Moscow there would be food and treasures; but
when he came to Moscow, all was dead silence. The food was gone, and
the people were gone. In the course of an hour or two, fires broke out
in different parts of the city. The wily Russians had kindled them and
had carried away or broken up the fire engines. The climate fought for
Russia. Napoleon had to retreat as best he could. The cold was intense,
and as he and his men ploughed through the deep snowdrifts, half fed
and only half clothed, they were attacked by the Russians. Bullets,
cold, and hunger did their terrible work, and out of every five men who
had gone into Russia, only two ever saw their homes again.

For the sixth time the countries of Europe were united against
Napoleon. Wellington had driven the French out of Spain. The allies
defeated them at Leipsic, and soon forced their way into Paris. The
great Emperor Napoleon was forced to abdicate. The allies were willing
to let him keep the title of emperor; but a small empire he reigned
over, for he was sent to the tiny island of Elba, eighteen miles long,
just off the coast of Italy.

Now was the chance for the friends of the exiled Bourbons. They seized
the opportunity to put a younger brother of Louis XVI on the throne,
and he took the title of Louis XVIII. But the nobles were as proud and
selfish and insolent as they had been in the days of Louis XVI, and the
people began to wish that Napoleon was in power again. He was closely
watching what was going on in France. He escaped from Elba and landed
on the French shores. The troops that had sworn to be faithful to the
Bourbon king deserted in a moment and joined the train of Napoleon,
and the people were jubilant. Louis XVIII fled, and again Napoleon was
Emperor of France.

But again the European countries poured their armies into the empire.
Napoleon hurried into Belgium to strike the English and Prussians
separately before they could unite. He met the Prussians under
Blücher and was victorious, though Blücher’s army was not destroyed.
At Waterloo, he met Wellington and the English. All day long the
fight went on. Grouchy was coming to aid Napoleon; Blücher to aid
Wellington. Blücher arrived first. Napoleon made one last charge, but
it was useless, and he had to flee to Paris and then to abdicate for
the second time. He wished to go to America, but the allies would not
permit this. Then he asked to be allowed to live quietly in England;
but they knew that, as long as he was in Europe, there would be plots
to restore him to the throne of France. He was carried on a British
vessel to the little island of Saint Helena, about half as large as
Elba. Even here, far away in the South Atlantic, he was carefully
guarded and watched lest some plot should be formed to rescue him. Six
years later he died with a whispered “Josephine” on his lips. She had
died just before he was sent to Elba, and he was glad that she had not
seen his final downfall. Maria Louisa had returned to her father’s
court at Vienna. Napoleon believed that some day his son would rule
France, and just before his death he dictated a long letter of advice
and affection to be given to him. But the Austrian grandfather did not
wish the child to have any connection with France, and he was brought
up strictly as an Austrian and was not allowed even to have a French
attendant. The baby “King of Rome” was only three years old when he was
separated from his father. He worshiped his father’s memory, but his
questions about him were not answered, and he was never permitted to
read his father’s letter. At twenty-one he died.

Napoleon had asked to be buried either in France or in Corsica; but it
was not until nineteen years after his death that his conquerors would
permit his body to be taken from the island of his banishment. It now
lies under the dome of the Invalides, in Paris.




CHAPTER XXIV

“NAPOLEON THE LITTLE”


After Napoleon was forced to abdicate in 1814, one Bourbon after
another sat on the throne until France was thoroughly tired of both
them and the monarchy. First came Louis XVIII, who has been mentioned
before. A new charter was made, and Louis was perfectly willing to
rule according to its provisions. Indeed, he was more willing than the
nobles who had now returned to France. Most of them had had rather
a hard time in their exile, and they thought they ought to have
privileges enough now to make up for it. They were still afraid of
Napoleon, even though he was so closely guarded at Saint Helena, and
before long a law was passed that none of the Bonaparte family should
ever be allowed to enter France. Much good it did, as will be seen
later.

When Louis XVIII died, in 1824, Charles X, another brother of Louis
XVI, became king. He had no liking for the charter, and meant to rule
just as far as possible in “the good old way.” This was the way because
of which Louis XVI had lost his head; but Charles did not worry about
that. When he saw that his subjects criticized him, then, in the
old-fashioned style, he quietly forbade any articles contrary to his
views to appear in print. He even punished poets for writing poems in
praise of Napoleon, who had now been dead for some years. He ought to
have taken a hint from the fact that the National Guards had ceased to
cry, “Long live the King!” and now cried, “Long live the freedom of
the press!” but no Bourbon ever could take a hint. He disbanded the
National Guard, and thought that he had thus quieted all opposition.
Then the Chamber of Peers and the Chamber of Deputies made it plain
that they did not approve of his acts, and he dissolved them both.

The badge of the empire had been the red, white, and blue cockade; and
before long the empire flag was planted over great barricades in the
Paris streets, and fighting began. The king understood at last that
this rebellion over which the flag of the empire waved, showed that
France had had all it would endure of Charles X, and he wisely took his
family and boarded a ship bound for England.

There was now a vacant throne, not a very comfortable one, to be sure,
but yet a throne, ready for an occupant. Who should it be? Several men
whose veins contained more or less of the blood royal were discussed
as candidates. The most promising one was a certain Duke of Chartres,
afterwards Duke of Orleans, a descendant of the brother of Louis XIV.
Lafayette was sent to talk the matter over with him and find out how he
was likely to behave if he should be made king.

This Duke of Orleans, Louis Philippe, had made a good record for
himself. He had served with honor in the French army until, because of
his drop of Bourbon blood, he had been forced to leave France to save
his life. He took refuge in the mountains of Switzerland. His money
gave out, and he became a teacher in a school. He gave an assumed name,
and the boys who listened to his lectures on geography, mathematics,
and history had no idea that “Monsieur Chabaud-Latour” would ever be a
candidate for the throne of France. When he left the school, he carried
away with him enthusiastic testimonials for the good work that he had
done.

He wished to go to the United States, but he was too poor. He wandered
about Norway and Sweden, and even made journeys on foot with the
Laplanders. At length the way opened for him to go to America, and he
landed at Philadelphia. He visited George Washington, went through
much of New England, then for several years lived in old England. When
Louis XVIII was put upon the throne, he returned to France. He had
seen much and thought much. Moreover, he alone of all the Bourbons had
learned by what he had seen. He was delighted to find that the French
had not forgotten his early services. His large estates, which had
been confiscated, were given back to him, and he now devoted himself
to a quiet life with his family and the literary men who enjoyed his
charming conversation and his hospitable home.

Such was the man whose ideas of what a government should be Lafayette
went to find out. Both agreed that the Constitution of the United
States was what they would like to see adopted in France, but that the
country was not yet ready to become a republic. “It must be in form a
monarchy--a popular monarchy,” said Lafayette, “but the institutions
must be altogether republican.” The duke agreed. A few days later he
was formally invited to become King of the French. Both chambers of
government met together, the cannon were fired and the “Marseillaise”
sung. The crown was offered him, and he accepted it and took a solemn
oath to obey the charter. He was now a full-fledged King of France, and
he moved into the Tuileries.

The throne of France was a rather slippery seat, and to keep on it the
new king had to struggle against three parties. One party was satisfied
to have the land ruled by a king, but they wanted to choose the king,
and they preferred to see the grandson of Charles X on the throne. The
second party would have nothing but a republic; and the third would
have nothing but an empire with the “King of Rome,” whom his Austrian
grandfather had made Duke of Reichstag, for emperor.

The Duke of Reichstag died, but not the hopes of the Napoleonists. The
head of the Bonaparte family was now Louis Napoleon, son of Hortense
and Napoleon’s brother. He tried to bring about an uprising in his
behalf, but it failed, and the Government sent him off to America.
Again he tried, and this time the Government sent him to a fortress at
Ham, and sentenced him to remain there for life.

It began to look as if Louis Philippe, and after him his son, would
rule France, but a runaway horse changed this prospect, for the son
was killed, and _his_ little son was only four years old. The chances
were that at the death of Louis Philippe--who was now seventy-four--the
country would be left with a child for king. This was a condition of
affairs which did not please even Louis’s strongest friends.

Another difficulty, and the most important of all, was the system of
voting, for the result of this was that representatives were elected,
not by the whole nation, but only by the wealthy people. The party
that wanted a republic set to work to bring about a reform. They took
rather original means to arouse the people to see what was needed,
for they held great banquets in various towns of France, and at these
banquets made speeches explaining what ought to be done. After a while
the Government realized what an influence the banquets were having,
and when an especially large one, to which fifteen hundred people were
invited, was announced to be held in Paris, it was suddenly forbidden.

Now there was uproar, indeed. Mobs gathered in the streets. People
armed themselves, threw up barricades across many of the highways,
and demanded of every passer-by whether he favored reform or not.
The regular troops in trying to keep order fired upon the rioters.
This only made matters worse, and on the following day a savage mob
surrounded the Tuileries. Even the National Guard now joined the
uprising. King Louis Philippe was seventy-five years old; he had
neither desire nor power to rule under such circumstances, and he
fled. He was more skillful in his flight than Louis XVI, for he did
not depart in a big yellow coach, but ordered a cab, put his wife in,
and very sensibly and comfortably drove away from the city and its
troubles, and entered England as “Mr. Smith.”

Here was a whole country without a government. Paris was running wild,
and many feared that the awful scenes of 1793 were to be repeated. What
was to be done? It was not a politician, but a poet named Lamartine
who came to the rescue. He scolded the people good-naturedly and he
laughed at them. Best of all, he made them laugh at themselves. Then
the victory was won, and they were ready to listen to whatever he had
to suggest. Lamartine proposed that a number of men, whom he named,
including himself among them, should rule for the time being until a
government could be formed. That suited the people. This provisional
government decreed that every man, whether rich or poor, should have
the right to vote for members of an Assembly. This was fair and just,
and nine hundred members were elected. They decided that they had
had enough of kings, and that what was wanted was a republic and a
president. This president was to be elected as the members had been,
that is, by the votes of all the people. Who should it be?

Now when people are wildly excited, if one man keeps calm and serene
and has a definite plan, the chances are that the others will accept
it. In this case, although there were several prominent candidates for
the presidency, there was one man who had long been planning to become
ruler of the French, and that man was Louis Bonaparte. He had been
sent to Ham for life, as has been said, but in 1846 he had cut off his
mustache, made himself four inches taller by wearing high-heeled boots
inside wooden shoes, put on a blouse, loose pantaloons, an old blue
linen apron, a cap, and a wig of long black hair. He stained his hands
red, swung a shelf from his bookcase over his shoulder, and quietly
walked out of prison as a carpenter, leaving a dummy in his bed to
personate the invalid whom he pretended to be, and so delayed pursuit.

This was the man who appeared in Paris when Louis Philippe abdicated.
His special agent set under way a real Napoleonic “propaganda.”
Pictures, sketches, medals of the first Napoleon and his nephew were
scattered throughout France; so were books and pamphlets about the
great Corsican. The whole country was made to think of Napoleon, of his
greatness and his devotion to France and the interests of the people.
It was not then difficult to get the nephew elected to the Assembly,
and a little later, to elect him as President of France for four years.
Thus was the Revolution of 1848 carried out and for a second time a
republic established.

The new president made himself as popular as possible. He wandered
about among the workshops of the city with a single attendant, helping
with his purse and with kind words wherever he found need, and winning
friends everywhere. He put his chief supporters into important offices,
and strengthened his power in every possible manner. Before three
years had passed, there was heard among the shouts of “Long live the
President!” with which he was greeted, an occasional cry of “Long live
the _Emperor_!” The minds of the people had been prepared.

One morning when the Parisians awoke, they found the whole city
plastered with proclamations. These declared that the Assembly was
dissolved and that a new constitution was to be formed. A little later
in the day, seventy-eight prominent opponents of the president were
arrested, most of them in their beds, and safely stowed away in prison;
the National troops took possession of the Hall of the Assembly; and
armed forces were stationed at different places in the city. Of course
barricades were erected, and bloodshed followed; but within three days
the whole affair was over. Louis Napoleon had had a _coup d’état_ as
well as his uncle. He asked the people to vote whether he should be
president for ten years, with what was in reality absolute power.
They voted for him--who would not when votes could not be dropped
into ballot boxes, but must be given publicly, and when the voter had
to march up between two rows of bayonets which were devoted to the
service of the new chief? A few months later, the president had himself
proclaimed Emperor of France. He was now Napoleon III.

Victor Hugo, the French novelist, declared scornfully that once France
was ruled by Napoleon the Great, but now she was ruled by Napoleon
the Little. As a whole, however, matters went on fairly well. To be
sure, the highest aristocracy of the land were inclined to keep away
from the court of the new empire, no matter how brilliant it might be;
but, to make up for this, was the fact that the other countries of
Europe, delighted to see France in order, recognized, one by one, Louis
Napoleon as emperor.

This third Napoleon, however, was as eager as the first Napoleon had
been, not only to rule, but to establish a ruling family; and therefore
he set about finding himself a wife. Of course he would have been glad
to get one from some royal family, but no royal family was anxious to
get him. Perhaps this was all the better, he thought, for what was
more fitting in the emperor of a democracy than to marry a bride quite
without royal blood? The daughter of one of the officers of Napoleon I,
Eugénie de Montijo, was beautiful and charming, and soon she became the
choice of the emperor. In announcing to the senate that she was to be
his wife, Louis shrewdly reminded the senators that the future empress,
being partly Spanish, did not possess in France a family to whom it
might be necessary to give honors and fortune.

The marriage was celebrated with great brilliancy. Then Napoleon set
to work to make France the model state. In Paris he reared splendid
buildings, planned a wonderfully excellent system of sewers, made parks
and wide, handsome streets and boulevards. He and his empress took
many journeys about the empire, noting where a new bridge or a better
road or a bit of drainage would be of special advantage. Three years
after the marriage, the Prince Imperial was born; and now there seemed
nothing more for the ambitious ruler to ask.

In the bottom of his heart, however, this peace-loving emperor was
eager for warfare. War would give people something to talk about. A
victory or two would arouse the enthusiasm of his people for their
ruler. It might even win over some of those who were opposed to him. At
the very least, the opportunity to gain distinction and promotion would
bind the army more strongly to its commander. Then, too, if France
could become the ally of some other country of the first rank, his own
standing at home and in other lands would be much strengthened.

Just at that time, Russia and Turkey had a quarrel. England was opposed
to the Czar of Russia, and so supported Turkey, and Napoleon gladly
joined England. At the close of the war, he succeeded in having the
peace conference held at Paris. He was, of course, the most prominent
figure, and both French army and French people as a whole gloried in
their leader. Everything was going Napoleon’s way. He and the empress
visited the English court, and Queen Victoria and Prince Albert visited
him. The sovereigns were really becoming quite friendly with the
prisoner of Ham.

The next chance for the French army was in Italy. When the European
powers rearranged boundaries after Napoleon I was overcome, they gave
much of Italy to Austria. One of the Italian princes, Victor Emanuel,
and his minister Cavour urged the Emperor of the French to help them
against Austria. Napoleon agreed. France and Italy were successful
everywhere. One of the battles was that of Magenta; and in America a
new color to which the name of “magenta” was given became promptly a
favorite.

A few years later, Italy and Prussia made war upon Austria. Prussia
won, and now Prussia was much the strongest of the German states.

For twelve years, from 1848 to 1860, Napoleon had had his will. He
had reached the height of his glory; the rest of his reign was a slow
downfall. The climax of his troubles came in 1870. Prussia was becoming
stronger every year. Bismarck, prime minister, the man of “blood
and iron,” was determined that the many German states should unite,
and that Prussia should be at their head. France could not endure
the thought of so strong a union of hostile countries being formed
at her very doors. Worse yet, the throne of Spain was vacant, and a
Hohenzollern prince had expressed himself as willing to accept it if he
should be chosen. This would unite Prussia and Spain--possibly against
France, and would never do.

France made her objections clear to the Prussian Government, and the
prince agreed not to become a candidate for the throne. The French
ambassador then urged King William to make a formal agreement to the
effect that no Hohenzollern prince should ever occupy the throne of
Spain. This the king refused to do. He telegraphed an account of the
interview to Bismarck, allowing him to make the telegram public or
not, as he thought best. Bismarck rewrote it, leaving the facts, but
changing the tone, and, as he himself said, “The original was an order
to retreat, now it is a summons to charge.” He had so “edited” the
telegram that France felt insulted and declared war. This was just what
Bismarck had been working to bring about. He had seen to it that the
Germans were well prepared for war, and he knew that the French were
not.

The emperor was seriously ill and often suffered intensely. He felt
no enthusiasm for battle, but he and the crown prince of fourteen
years at once joined the army. Only six weeks later came the battle of
Sedan, and he had to telegraph to Eugénie, “The army is vanquished and
in captivity. I am myself a prisoner.” The tutor of the young prince
succeeded in getting the boy safely to England.

Then the German army marched straight through France and besieged
Paris. For four months her brave people bore cold and hunger; but
only actual starvation could make them yield. In January, 1871, they
surrendered. The Germans were already in possession of beautiful
Versailles. In the superb Hall of Mirrors, King William I of Prussia
was proclaimed German Emperor. Bismarck had his wish; the German states
had united, Prussia was the chief among them, and the King of Prussia
and his children after him would rule the German empire. The victors
allowed a three-weeks’ armistice so that a government might be formed,
and there might be some authority with which they could treat. France
was now obliged to agree to pay $1,000,000,000 as indemnity, and
to surrender Alsace and the greater part of Lorraine, which she had
captured in the days of Louis XIV.

For everything that had gone wrong the French blamed the Empress
Eugénie even more than the emperor, and she had had to flee from the
Tuileries to escape from a furious mob. “She was always extravagant,”
they declared. “She is not a born Frenchwoman, and she cares nothing
for France.” By the help of her American dentist, she escaped from
Paris and made her way to England. Queen Victoria showed her all
sympathy and kindness. Her husband was kept a prisoner for a few
months, then he joined her, but lived only two years after the end of
the war. The Prince Imperial, whose birth had been such a delight to
the Napoleonists of France, was trained in an English military school
and graduated with honors. When the Zulu War broke out in South Africa,
he joined the English army and was slain. The Empress Eugénie still
lives in England (1920), a sad, fragile woman of ninety-four, but with
what a life to remember!




CHAPTER XXV

IN THE DAYS OF MARSHAL FOCH


It was one of the terms of peace at the close of the Franco-German
War that the German army should march into Paris in triumph. They
marched in, to be sure, but there was not much triumph about the march,
for there was no one to see it. The Parisians not only kept off the
streets, but they pulled down the curtains.

The more the French people thought of their defeat, the more indignant
they were. They blamed everybody. They were furiously angry with
the Assembly for making such a peace, and with the president of
the Assembly for signing it. He was Thiers, the historian, and in
stupid revenge the mob burned his valuable historical library. They
established a government of their own, which they called the Commune,
they shut the city gates against the Assembly, and they burned the
beautiful Tuileries and many of the most stately buildings of the city.
At length, the troops of the Assembly forced their way into Paris and
established order; but only barely in time, for the people were beside
themselves with anger and disappointment, and they were about to set up
a guillotine and repeat the horrors of the Reign of Terror. To bring
such a mob to order was not an easy thing to do, but it was done.
Another thing which was not easy was paying the enormous indemnity.
Thiers, and, indeed the rest of the world, did not think it would be
possible to make up the sum within the three years allowed; but the
thrift of the French people paid the final franc in less than half the
time, and they saw with great pleasure the last soldier of the German
army of occupation march over the border.

The French could pay this enormous sum of money, and they could rebuild
some of the structures torn down by the Paris Commune, but they could
not recover the lost Alsace and Lorraine. German laws were at once put
in force in the two provinces, and it was strictly forbidden to use
French in the schools.

France was now a republic. A new constitution was prepared, and in
1875 it was formally accepted by the country. There were no more
revolutions, and for thirty-nine years France prospered. Like other
countries, she had her troubles, but she had also her glories, and
she was making a steady progress in all lines when suddenly the World
War, the most terrible conflict of all time, was sprung upon her.
The Prussian military party had long been eager for war. Germany was
perfectly prepared. Every able-bodied man in the land had been trained
as a soldier; guns and ammunition were ready; even large quantities
of hospital supplies. Her plans were carefully laid. She would attack
France through Belgium, then subdue Russia and England; she would
open the way “from Berlin to Bagdad” and the conquest of the East;
she would make a wide strip through Europe, from the Baltic Sea to
the Mediterranean, her own domain; then she would cross the ocean and
extort ransom from the large coast cities of the United States; the
rest of the world could be conquered at her leisure.

Germany alone was prepared for war, but Belgium, France, England,
and Russia did their best. At the end of 1914, after five months of
warfare, the most that could be said was that Germany had not conquered
Europe. At the end of 1915, the report was not so very much better.
Germany’s opponents had taken some of her colonial possessions, but on
the Continent she had not lost a foot of land, and had been successful
in several places to the east of Austria. In 1916, the powers allied
against Germany had held Verdun in spite of every effort made to
conquer it. They had been successful on the Somme, in Armenia, and on
the sea. On the other hand, they had failed in the East.

In 1917, the United States entered the war. The piratical U-boat
warfare of Germany had destroyed much shipping, but it had brought
in this new ally. Germany had made gains in Italy, and Russia had
crumbled; but the Allies had captured Bagdad and Jerusalem. And so
the news came. The side that gained one day lost the next. The whole
struggle had come to a deadlock. Germany must yield in time, but when?
How long must the terrible slaughter continue?

Now in every war in which different nations are allied, there is one
lesson which has to be learned afresh, and it is that there must be
one supreme commander. Thus far the Germans had had a great advantage
in that they were under one control. The Allies coöperated, but the
army of each nation had its own commander, and unless two commanders
were near enough to consult, every one went in great degree his own
way. It was now agreed that one man must be in supreme command, and the
man chosen was Ferdinand Foch.

He was born in 1851, in a little village in the Pyrenees, not so
very many miles from where the knight Roland laid down his life in
Charlemagne’s day. The boy’s grandfather had been one of the guards of
Napoleon I, and his favorite great-aunt was the widow of a general who
had been viceroy of Holland in the days of the First Empire. Stories
upon stories of warfare the small boy heard, and he delighted in them
all, even when his forgetful great-aunt insisted upon his remembering
events that had happened long before he was born.

The little Ferdinand and his brothers and sisters were taught to
obey without a question, and there is a rather pathetic story of his
struggling to be obedient and eat peas, which he disliked, and saying
tearfully, “My heart comes right up in my mouth when I crack them; but
I really want to obey, and so I swallow them at one gulp.”

At eighteen, he went to a college at Metz, and two years later he
had something harder to endure than eating peas, for the Germans had
triumphed over France in the Franco-German War. The victors took
possession of the city and even of part of the college; and the young
student, who had just spent six months in the French army, was obliged
to live in the same building with them, and submit to their demands and
insults with outward deference and inward wrath.

Long afterwards he said that in those days he vowed that Alsace and
Lorraine should be once more in the hands of France, and that the
French should not remain a conquered people. His aim was to prepare to
help in the rescue of his country, whenever the time should come, and
he did fine and earnest work at the Polytechnic School in Paris. After
graduating, he held one military position of honor after another for
several years, and then was made professor at the War School in Paris.

This new professor had not forgotten his boyish vows. The young
officers who listened to his lectures were to become, not merely part
of an army, but the brains of the French army, authorities in whose
hands would rest making plans for the forces that might some day be
called on to defend France. It is no wonder that he taught with an
eagerness to give them his best. He taught them that, although the
commander-in-chief _is_ the commander-in-chief and all others must
obey him, yet difficulties will arise in carrying out the commander’s
orders, and therefore, to obey efficiently, an officer must be able
to think for himself. He taught them that they must study the enemy,
learn to guess what he is about to do, and watch for his weak points.
He taught them that victory is first of all a matter of belief; that
the army which firmly expects to win the fight is well on the way to
success. He taught them to be cheerful. “Depression is a confession of
intellectual weakness,” he said. “Depression has lost more battles than
any other cause.”

The great menace to France was Germany, and Foch analyzed with his
students the war of 1870, noting carefully the mistakes on both sides,
and making plan after plan to oppose any German invasion. He had
not expected Germany to toss her agreements aside and march through
Belgium, but he had a plan carefully thought out to oppose her even
there. The Germans said sneeringly that Foch learned all his strategy
from them. Even if this had been true, it is not what a man learns, but
how he uses it that counts.

Such was the man who, in March, 1918, became commander-in-chief of
the Allied armies. He had already made a fine record at the Marne and
at Ypres. Every one knew the story of his famous dispatch to Marshal
Joffre at the Marne: “My right wing has been driven back; my left wing
is crushed; I shall attack with my center.” Another tale is that, when
one of his officers hesitated to advance because his men were worn out,
Foch responded, “So are the Germans. Attack!”

For the spring of 1918 the Germans had prepared to make a gigantic
offensive on the Western Front. They made it, but unluckily for them
the methods of this new commander-in-chief were different from theirs.
They believed in elaborate preparation, then a drive, then more
preparation, then another drive, and so on. Foch believed in “keeping
on going on,” in hammering away at them steadily, first in one place,
then in another, wherever they showed signs of weakness.

The Americans came just in time to turn the tide that threatened to
overwhelm Paris; and at Sedan, where, half a century earlier, Napoleon
III had been obliged to give up his sword to William of Prussia, the
final blow was struck. The French were at work west of the American
troops; the English were striking hard in Flanders; in Siberia,
Palestine, on the Italian Front, and in the Balkans the Germans were
losing. Turkey and Austria were out of the war. Germany begged for an
armistice, which was in reality an unconditional surrender. The terms
of this surrender, severe, but just and strictly in accordance with
military rule, were read to the German representatives by Marshal
Foch. He had kept the vow of his school-days. Alsace and Lorraine were
rescued; France was no longer a conquered nation. Foch rarely talks of
his victories, but when he does, he always ends reverently with, “We
were the instruments. God was there.”


THE END




  The Riverside Press
  CAMBRIDGE . MASSACHUSETTS
  U . S . A




TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES


Author’s spelling of “Jeanne Darc” retained.

Illustrations have been moved for readability. The page numbers in the
list of illustrations remain as originally published.



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