stated, but it was thousands.
Human blood is intoxicating. An orgy set in which laughed at orders to
cease. Seven days it continued, and then died out for lack of
material. The provinces had caught the contagion, and orders to slay
were received and obeyed in all except two, the Governor of Bayonne, to
his honor be it told, writing to the king in reply: "Your Majesty has
many faithful subjects in Bayonne, but not one executioner."

And where was "his Majesty" while this work was being done? How was it
with Catharine? We hear of no regrets, no misgivings; that she was
calm, collected, suave, and unfathomable as ever; but that Charles, in
a strange, half-frenzied state, was amusing himself by firing from the
windows of the palace at the fleeing Huguenots. Had he killed himself
in remorse, would it not have been better, instead of lingering two
wretched years, a prey to mental tortures and an inscrutable malady,
before he died?

Europe was shocked. Christendom averted her face in horror. But at
Madrid and Rome there was satisfaction.

Catharine and the Duke of Alva had done their work skilfully, but the
result surprised and disappointed them. Tens of thousands of Huguenots
were slain, which was well; but many times that number remained, with
spirit unbroken, which was _not_ well.

They had been too merciful! Why had Henry of Navarre been spared? Had
not Alva said, "Take the big fish, and let the small fry go. One
salmon is worth more than a thousand frogs."

But Charles considered the matter settled when he uttered those
swelling words to Henry of Navarre the day after the massacre: "I mean
in future to have one religion in my kingdom. It is the Mass or death."

All the events leading up to that fateful night, August 24, 1572, may
never be known. Near the Church of St. Germain d'Auxerrois, which rang
out the signal and was mute witness of the horror, has just been
erected the statue of the great Coligny, bearing the above date.

The miserable Charles was not quite base enough for the part he had
played. Tormented with memories, haggard with remorse, he felt that he
was dying. His suspicious eyes turned upon his mother, well versed in
poisons, as he knew; and, as he also knew, capable of anything. Was
this wasting away the result of a drug? Mind and body gave way under
the strain. In 1574, less than two years from the hideous event,
Charles IX. was dead.

Catharine's third son now wore the crown