by Eugène Sue
“It will not seem strange to you, messieurs, if you do not find in me the mien, the countenance and the words, which I have been in the habit of being seen in and of using on previous occasions when I called you together. To-day, I do not address you as a King and Master addresses his subjects and servitors. I speak as being myself the subject and servitor of the King of Kings, of the Master of Masters — the All-powerful God.
“Some wicked blasphemers, people of little note and of less doctrine, have, contrary to the honor of the holy Sacrament, machinated, said, proffered and written many great blasphemies. On account thereof I have willed that this solemn procession be held, in order to invoke the grace of our Redeemer. I order that rigorous punishment be inflicted upon the heretics, as a warning to all others not to fall into the said damnable opinions, while admonishing the faithful to persevere in their doctrines, the wavering to become firm, and those who have strayed away to return to the path of the holy Catholic faith, in which they see me persevere, together with the spiritual prelates.
“Therefore, messieurs, I entreat and admonish you — let all my subjects keep watch and guard, not only over themselves, but also over their families, and especially over their children, and cause these to be so properly instructed that they may not fall into evil doctrines. I also order that each and all shall denounce whomsoever they may happen to know, or to suspect, of being adherents to the heresy, without regard to any bonds, whether of family or of friendship. As to myself,” added Francis I in a thundering voice, “on the same principle that, had I an arm infected with putrefaction, I would cause it to be separated from my body, so if ever, should it unhappily so befall, any child of mine relapse into the said damnable heresies, I shall be ready to immolate, and to deliver him as a sacrifice to God.”
The discourse of Francis I was listened to amid religious silence, and applauded enthusiastically.
The prostituted pack of clergymen, courtiers and warriors who surrounded the Very Christian King knew the trick how to inherit the property of heretics. To burn or massacre the reformers was to coin money for the royal pack, the sovereign having the right to transmit to the good Catholics the wealth confiscated from condemned heretics. But, to kill the heretics, to torture them, to burn them alive, that did not satisfy the pious monarch. Human thought was to be shackled. The sovereign proceeded with his allocution:
“It is notorious that the pestilence of heresy spreads in all directions with the aid of the printing press. My Chancellor shall now read a decree issued by me abolishing the printing press in my estates under pain of death.”
The Chancellor, Cardinal Duprat, read in a loud voice the decree of that Father of Letters, as the court popinjays styled Francis I with egregious adulation:
“We, Francis I, by the grace of God, King of France. — It is our will, and we so order, and it pleases us to prohibit and forbid all printers in general, and of whatever rank and condition they may be, TO PRINT ANYTHING, UNDER PAIN OF HANGING.
“Such is our good pleasure.
FRANCIS.”
Come! One more effort; listen to the end of this tale, O, sons of Joel. My hand trembles as I trace these lines, my eyes are veiled in tears, my heart bleeds. But I must proceed with my story.
After the reading of the edict which prohibited the printing press in France under pain of death, the Criminal Lieutenant stepped forward to receive the orders of the Chancellor. He turned to the King, and the King commanded that the heretics be put to the torture and death without further delay. The gallant chat among the courtiers was hushed, and the eyes of the royal assembly turned towards the pyre.
The Franc-Taupin and Odelin stood in the midst of the Mathurins, close to the spot of execution. Not far from them were ranked the Cordeliers. Standing between Fra Girard and the Superior General of his Order, Hervé seemed to be the object of the dignitary’s special solicitude. Both the sons of Christian Lebrenn were about to witness the execution. Their sister Hena, sentenced together with Ernest Rennepont to the flames as a relapsed and sacrilegious heretic, was to figure, along with her bridegroom, among the victims. The frightful spectacle passed before the eyes of Odelin like a vision of death. Without making a single motion, without experiencing a shiver, without dropping a tear, petrified with terror, the lad gazed — like him, who, a prey to some stupefying dream, remains motionless, stretched upon his bed. It was a horrible nightmare!
The order to proceed having gone from Francis I and been transmitted to the Mathurin monks, several of these proceeded to the portico of the Basilica of Notre Dame, whither the culprits had first been taken to make the amende honorable on their knees before the church. One of the patients had his tongue cut out for preferring charges against the Catholic clergy on his way from prison to the parvise. The Mathurins led the victims in procession to the pyre. As they approached, all the religious Orders intoned in a sonorous voice the funeral psalmody —
De profundis clamavi ad te, Domine!
The heretics, to the number of six, marched two by two, bareheaded and barefooted, holding lighted tapers in their hands. John Dubourg and his friend Etienne Laforge led; behind them came St. Ernest-Martyr supporting the architect Poille. The wretched man had his tongue cut out. Blood streamed from his mouth, and dyed his long white shirt red. Mary La Catelle and Hena, called in religion Sister St. Frances-in-the-Tomb, came next. Their feet were bare, their hair hung down loose upon their shoulders. They were clad in long white shifts held at the waist with a cord. Hena pressed against her heart a little pocket Bible which Christian had printed in the establishment of Robert Estienne, and which she was allowed to keep. It was a cherished volume from which the Lebrenn family often read together of an evening, and which recalled to Hena a whole world of sweet remembrances.
Hervé recognized his sister among the condemned heretics. A thrill ran through his frame, a deadly pallor overcast his countenance, and, turning his face away, he leaned for support on the arm of Fra Girard. The executioners had set fire to the fagots, which soon presented the sight of a sheet of roaring flames. As the prisoners arrived at the place of their torture and death, and caught sight of the seats swaying over the lambent flames, they readily surmised the cruel torments to which they were destined. In her terror, poor Hena began to emit heartrending cries, and she clung to the arm of Mary La Catelle. The taper and the little pocket Bible which she held rolled to the ground. The holy book fell upon a burning ember and began to blaze. One of the executioners stamped out the fire with his heels and threw the book aside. It fell near the Franc-Taupin. Josephin stooped down quickly, picked up the precious token and dropped it into the pocket of his wide frock. Petrified with terror, Odelin only gazed into space. The frightful cries of his sister were hardly heard by him, drowned as they were by the buzz and throb of the arteries in his own temples. The executioners were at work. Hena and the other five martyrs were seized, placed in their respective seats, and chained fast. All the six levers were then set in motion at once, and dipped over the fire. It was a spectacle, an atrocious spectacle — well worthy of a King! The victims were plunged into the furnace, then raised up high in the air with clothes and hair ablaze, to be again swallowed up in the flaming abyss, again to be raised out of it, in order once more to be precipitated into its fiery embrace!
Odelin still gazed, motionless, his arms crossed over his breast, and rigid as if in a state of catalepsy. The Franc-Taupin looked at his unhappy niece Hena every time the lever raised her in the air, and also every time it hurled her down into the abyss of flames. He counted the plungings, as the Superior of the Mathurins humorously called them. He counted twenty-five of them. At the first few descents poor Hena twisted and writhed in her seat while emitting piercing cries; in the course of a few subsequent descents the cries subsided into moans; when she disappeared in the burning crater for the sixteenth time she was heard to moan no more. She was either expiring or dead. The machine continued to dip twenty-five times — it was only a blackened, half naked corpse, the h
ead of which hung loose and beat against the back of the seat. The Franc-Taupin followed also with his eyes Ernest Rennepont, who was placed face to face with Hena. The unhappy youth did not emit a single cry during his torment, he did not even utter a wail. His eyes remained fixed upon his bride. Etienne Laforge, John Dubourg and Mary La Catelle gave proof of the sublimest courage. They were heard singing psalms amidst the flames that devoured them. Of these latter, only Anthony Poille, whose tongue had been cut out, was silent. The death rattle finally silenced the voice of the heretics. It was but charred corpses that the executioners were raising and dropping.
When the frightful vision ceased, Odelin dropped to the ground, a prey to violent convulsions. Two monks helped the Franc-Taupin carry the young novice into a neighboring house. But before leaving the spot of Hena’s torture and death, Josephin stopped an instant before the brazier which was finishing the work of consuming the corpses. There the Franc-Taupin pronounced the following silent imprecation:
“Hate and execration for the papist executioners, Kings, priests and monks! War, implacable war upon this infamous religion that tortures and burns to death those who are refractory to its creed! Reprisals and vengeance! By my sister’s death; by the agony of her daughter, plunged twenty-five times into the fiery furnace — I swear to put twenty-five papist priests to death!”
After Odelin recovered consciousness, uncle and nephew resumed their way to the place of refuge on St. Honoré Street, where Robert Estienne was found waiting for them. The generous friend was proscribed. The next day he was to wander into exile to Geneva. It was with great difficulty that Princess Marguerite had obtained grace for his life. He informed Odelin of his father’s flight to La Rochelle and of Bridget’s death. He pressed upon Josephin the necessity of leaving Paris with Odelin and proceeding on the spot to La Rochelle, lest he fall into the clutches of the police spies who were on the search for them. At the same time he placed in Josephin’s hands the necessary funds for the journey, and took charge of notifying Master Raimbaud should he also be willing to take refuge in La Rochelle.
It was agreed between the three that the Franc-Taupin and his nephew would wait two days for Master Raimbaud at Etampes. The directions of Robert Estienne were instantly put into execution. That same night Odelin and Josephin left Paris, and reached Etampes without difficulty, thanks to the monastic garb which cleared the way for them. At Etampes Master Raimbaud and his wife joined them before the expiration of the second day, and the four immediately took the road to La Rochelle, where they arrived on February 17, 1535. The four fugitives inquired for the dwelling of Christian Lebrenn. His family, alas! was now reduced to three members — father, son and the brave Josephin. The Franc-Taupin delivered to his brother-in-law the pocket Bible which he picked up near the pyre, the tomb of Hena — that Bible is now added to the relics of the Lebrenn family.
END OF VOLUME ONE.
PART II. THE HUGUENOTS.
INTRODUCTION.
THIRTY-FOUR YEARS HAVE elapsed since the martyrdom of Hena Lebrenn, Ernest Rennepont and the other heretics who were burned alive before the parvise of Notre Dame, in the presence of King Francis I and his court on January 21, 1535. To-day, I, Antonicq Lebrenn, son of Odelin and grandson of Christian the printer, proceed with the narrative broken off above.
Safely established at La Rochelle, Christian was joined in that city by his son Odelin and Josephin, the Franc-Taupin. Already shattered in body on account of the profound sorrow caused by the death of his wife Bridget and the revelation concerning the incestuous attempt made by his son Hervé, the news of the frightful death of his daughter Hena overwhelmed my grandfather. He did not long survive that last blow. He languished about a year longer, wrote the narrative of which the following one is the sequel, and died on December 17 of the same year at La Rochelle, where he exercised his printer’s trade at the establishment of Master Auger, a friend of Robert Estienne. The latter himself ended his days in exile at Geneva.
Odelin Lebrenn, my father, devoted himself, as in his youth, to the armorer’s trade. He worked in the establishment of Master Raimbaud, who also settled down in La Rochelle in 1535. The old armorer drove a lucrative trade in his beautiful arms, with England. Thanks to their energy and their municipal franchises, the Rochelois, partisans of the Reformation by an overwhelming majority, and protected by the well-nigh impregnable position of their city, experienced but slightly the persecutions that dyed red the other provinces of Gaul until the day when the Protestants took up arms against their oppressors. The hour of revolt having sounded, the Rochelois were bound to be the first to take the field. Having married in 1545 Marcienne, the sister of Captain Mirant, one of the ablest and most daring sailors of La Rochelle, my father had three children from this marriage — Theresa, born in 1546; me, Antonicq, born in 1549; and Marguerite, born in 1551. I embraced the profession of my father, who, upon the death of Master Raimbaud, deceased without heirs, succeeded to the latter’s business.
About four years ago, the hardship of the times brought to La Rochelle, where, together with other Protestants he sought refuge, Louis Rennepont, a nephew of Brother St. Ernest-Martyr, the bridegroom of Hena, who was burned together with her. Informed by his father of the tragic death of the Augustinian monk, Louis Rennepont conceived a horror for the creed of Rome, in whose name such atrocities were committed, and after his father’s death he entered the Evangelical church. An advocate in the parliament of Paris, and indicted for heresy, he escaped the stake by his flight to La Rochelle. One day, as he strolled along the quay before our house, my father’s sign — Odelin Lebrenn, Armorer — caught his eye. He stepped in to inquire into our relationship with Hena Lebrenn. From us he gathered the information that Hena was his uncle’s wife, married to him by a Reformed pastor. Louis Rennepont, from that time almost a relative of ours, continued to visit the house. He soon seemed smitten with the grace and virtues of my sister Theresa. His love was reciprocated. He was a young man of noble heart, and of a modest and industrious disposition. Stripped of his patrimony by the sentence of heresy, he earned his living at La Rochelle with his profession of advocate. My father appreciated the merits of Louis Rennepont, and granted him my sister Theresa. They were married in 1568. Their happiness justifies my father’s hopes.
My youngest sister Marguerite disappeared from the paternal home at the age of eight, under rather mysterious circumstances which I shall here state.
Since his establishment at La Rochelle, my father was animated by a lively desire to take us all — mother, sisters and myself — to Brittany, on a kind of pious pilgrimage to the scene of our family’s origin, near the sacred stones of Karnak. The journey by land was short, but the religious war included in those days Brittany also in its ravages. My father feared to risk himself and family among the warring factions. His brother-in-law Mirant, the sailor, having to cross from La Rochelle to Dover, proposed that my father take ship with him on his brigantine. The vessel was to touch at Vannes, the port nearest Karnak. Our pilgrimage accomplished, we were to set sail for Dover, whither my father frequently consigned arms, and where he would have the opportunity of a personal interview with his correspondent in that place. After that, my uncle Mirant was to return to France with a cargo of merchandise. Our absence would not exceed three weeks. My father accepted the proposition with joy. Shortly before the day of our departure my sister Marguerite was taken sick. The distemper was not dangerous, but it prevented her from joining in the trip, the day for which was set and could not be postponed. My parents left her behind in the charge of her god-mother, an excellent woman, the wife of John Barbot, a master copper-smith. We departed for Vannes on board the brigantine of Captain Mirant. My sister Marguerite recovered soon after. Her god-mother frequently took her out for a walk beyond the ramparts. One day the child was playing with other little girls near a clump of trees, and strayed away from Dame Barbot. When her god-mother looked for her to take her home, the child was nowhere to be found. The most diligent searches, insti
tuted for weeks and months after the occurrence, were all in vain. The child had been abducted; the kidnappers remained undiscovered. Marguerite was wept and her loss grieved over by us all.
Our pilgrimage to Karnak, the cradle of the family of Joel, left a profound, an indelible impression upon me. I shall later return to some of the consequences of that trip. Captain Mirant, my mother’s brother, a widower after only a few years’ marriage, had a daughter named Cornelia. I loved her from early infancy as a sister. As we grew up our affection for each other waxed warmer. Our parents expected to see us man and wife. Cornelia gave promise by her virtue and bravery of resembling one of those women belonging to the heroic age of Gaul, and of approving herself worthy of her ancestry. Having lost her mother when still a child, my cousin occasionally accompanied her father on his rough sea voyages. The character of the young girl, like her beauty, presented a mixture of virility, grace and strength. At the time when this narrative commences, Cornelia was sixteen years of age, myself twenty. We were betrothed, and our families had decided that we were to be united in wedlock three or four years later.