o a
delirium of passion; he swore by _la mort dieu_ to compass the death
of every Huguenot in France, that none might be left to reproach him
afterwards.

[Footnote 115: Felibien and Lobineau, 1725.]

[Footnote 116: Catherine was accustomed to treat of important state
matters requiring absolute secrecy in her new garden. The
_pourparlers_ between her and Lord Buckhurst, relative to the proposed
marriage of Queen Elizabeth and the Duke of Anjou, took place under
the trees in the Tuileries garden.]

[Footnote 117: "That to show pity was to be cruel to them: to be cruel
to them was to show pity."]

[Illustration: CATHERINE DE' MEDICI.

_French School, 16th Century._]

Catherine gave him no time for farther vacillation. The great bell of
St. Germain l'Auxerrois was rung, and at two in the morning of Sunday,
St. Bartholomew's Day, 24th August 1572, the Duke of Guise and his
followers issued forth to do their Sabbath morning's work. Cosseins
saw his leader coming and knew what was expected of him. Guise, who
believed the blood of his murdered father lay on Coligny's head,
made sure of his vengeance. The admiral's door was forced, his
servants were poignarded, and Besme, a German in the service of Guise,
followed by others, burst into his room. The old man stood erect in
his _robe de chambre_, facing his murderers. "Art thou the admiral?"
demanded Besme. "I am he," answered Coligny with unfaltering voice
and, gazing steadily at the naked sword pointed at his breast, added,
"Young man, thou shouldst show more respect to my white hairs; yet
canst thou shorten but little my brief life." For answer he was
pierced by Besme's sword and stabbed to death by his companions. Guise
stood waiting in the street below and the body was flung down to him
from the window. He wiped the blood from the old man's face, looked at
it, and said, "It is he!" Spurning the body with his foot he cried,
"Courage, soldiers! we have begun well; now for the others, the king
commands it." Meanwhile the bell of the Palais de Justice, answering
that of St. Germain, was booming forth its awful summons, and the
citizens hastened to perform their part.

All the Huguenot nobles dwelling near the admiral were pitilessly
murdered, and a similar carnage took place at the Louvre. Marguerite,
the young bride of Navarre, in her Memoirs, tells of the horrors of
that morning, how, when half-asleep, a wounded Huguenot nobleman
rushed into her chamber, pursued by f