become the wife of the heir of the Bourbons; and that-Jean d'Albret having meanwhile died of poison, as was suspected-Margaret de Valois was wedded to Henry of Navarre, at the portal of the ancient Cathedral of Notre Dame. Margaret, after this illomened marriage, grew reckless of her reputation, and, united to a man for whom she had no affection, she sought consolation in transient amours.

The King of Navarre was indeed a personage who might well have consoled a beautiful and ambitious woman for the loss of a Duke of Guise, grand and stately as the latter was. But, in all probability, the royal beauty saw merely a Béarnese peasant in the young warrior to whom she gave her hand at Notre Dame. She did not perceive that he had the poet's heart, the hero's soul, the soldier's genius, and the statesman's intellect. She did not dream that he would be known to posterity as the bravest captain, the greatest prince, and the frankest gentleman of his age.

The bridal ceremony was performed with extraordinary magnificence; and four days later a suborned ruffian wounded Coligni as he was riding home. Charles, who was playing tennis when the news reached him, exclaimed, "Am I, then, doomed for ever to witness new troubles?" Throwing his racket furiously down, the King went to the Admiral's house, loaded him with caresses, and expressed the utmost indignation. This was mere dissimulation; for already

that diabolical massacre, never to be mentioned without a shudder, had been resolved on. Katherine had convinced her son that the time for striking a decisive blow had arrived; and, after remaining for a while irresolute, Charles, in a fit of gloomy anger, exclaimed, "Perish, then, the Huguenots! but on this condition, that not one of them shall be left to reproach me with the deed!"

The appointed time-the morning of the 24th of August drew nigh; and, as the hour approached, the young King became so agitated that the perspiration ran down his face, and he trembled like a leaf in the wind. Fearing that her son would relent, Katherine forced from him an order to commence the slaughter, and lost no time in having it put into execution.

It was the feast of St. Bartholomew; and at break of day a dismal tolling from the church of St. Germain l'Auxerrois was the signal for the work of murder. The Catholics, known to each other by white crosses in their hats, and scarfs on their arms, sallied forth to imbrue their hands in blood. The young Duke of Guise led a band of ruffians to the house of Coligni, and waited in the street till his followers had dealt with the aged victim. The gates were opened at a summons in the King's name, and the murderers, ascending to the Admiral's chamber, found him at prayer. "Art thou Coligni?" asked a German, named Besme, who served Guise. "Yes, I am he,” replied the Admiral ; and the German approached with a drawn sword.

"Young man," said the Admiral, "you ought to respect my grey hairs; but do as you think fit: my life can be shortened only by a little." The German replied by striking Coligni with the sword, and other assassins aided in despatching him with their daggers.

By this time death was raging throughout Paris; and when morning dawned, the King, laying aside all scruples, called for his fowling-piece, and fired from a window at the flying Huguenots. A window on the first floor of the Louvre, with a balcony overlooking the river, is still pointed out as that from which Charles aided in the assassination of his own subjects.

Gaining courage from the excitement, Charles summoned to his presence Henry of Navarre, and his cousin the Prince of Condé, whose lives had been in a fearful danger. "Death or the mass!" cried Charles, in threatening tone, and with the look of a maniac. Henry, young as he was, had hitherto borne himself with the wariness of age, and on this occasion his equanimity did not desert him. Bending to the storm, which he could not control, but perhaps dreaming of an Ivry, he muttered a feigned abjuration, and was with Condé committed to prison.

For three long days the massacre of St. Bartholomew lasted; and when the slaughter was over, Charles, with a brilliant cortège, repaired to feast his eyes at Montfaucon. Seeing on one of the gibbets the halfconsumed remains of Coligni, the young monarch is