(1529.)
When Calvin passed through the capital on his way from Bourges to Noyon, on the occasion of his father’s death, he might have remarked a certain agitation among his acquaintances. In fact, the Sorbonne was increasing its exertions to destroy Berquin, who, forsaken by almost everybody, had no one to support him but God and the Queen of Navarre.
Margaret, who was at St. Germain-en-Laye, enjoyed but little repose. The brilliant court of Francis I. filled the noble palace with their pastimes.
Early in the morning every one was afoot; the horns sounded, and the king set off, accompanied by the King of Navarre, a crowd of nobles, the Duchess of Etampes, and many other ladies, and joined one of those great hunting parties of which he was so fond. Margaret, remaining alone, recalled her sorrows, and sought the one thing needful. Her husband sometimes indulged in gaming, and the queen entreated Montmorency to give him good advice. Henry, who thought his wife rather too pious, complained of this with all the impetuosity of his character. It was not Margaret’s only vexation. At first her mother had appeared to take part with the Reformation. One day, in December, 1522, Louisa of Savoy had said to her daughter, who was delighted to hear it: By the grace of the Holy Ghost, my son and I are beginning to know these hypocrites, white, black, gray, and all colors... May God, by his mercy and infinite goodness, defend us from them; for, if Jesus Christ is not a liar, there is no such dangerous brood in all human nature.’ fd95 But this princess, whose morality was more than doubtful, had now become reconciled, and even leagued with these ‘hypocrites black, white, and gray,’ and the king was beginning to give them his support. Thus Margaret saw the three objects of her tenderest affection alienating themselves from God; and remaining at
the palace while Francis with his lords and ladies and his hounds was chasing the wild animals, she walked sadly in the park, saying to herself:
Father and mother I have none;
Brother and sister — all are gone, Save God, in whom I trust alone, Who rules the earth from his high throne.
All these loved ones I would forget;
Parents and friends, the world, its joys, Honor and wealth however great,
I hold my deepest enemies!
Hence, ye delights!
Whose vanity
Jesus the Christ has shown to me!
But God, God only is my hope;
I know that he is all in all, Dearer than husband to the wife —
My father, mother, friend, my all!
He is my hope, My resting-place,
My strength, my being, and my trust, For he hath saved me by his grace.
Father and mother! have none;
Brother and sister — all are gone, Save God, in whom I trust alone, Who rules the earth from his high throne. fd96
Whilst Margaret was seeking consolation in God, there came a support which she had not expected. Erasmus was growing uneasy; the letters which he received were full of alarming news; he saw that Francis I., on whom he had so much relied, was stumbling and ready to fall. This would give the victory to the Sorbonne. Having a presentiment that the
ultramontanists were daring revolutionists, prepared not only to sacrifice literature and the Gospel, but royalty itself, he laid aside his usual
prudence, and resolved to tear the veil from the king’s eyes, which concealed the perverted designs of the Roman party, and to show him conspirators in those who called themselves the supporters of the throne.
‘These men,’ he wrote, ‘under the cloak of the interests Of the faith, creep into all sorts of dark ways. Their only thought is of bringing the august heads of monarchs under their yoke and of suspending their power. Wait a little. If a prince resists them, they call him a favorer of heresy, and say
that it is the duty of the Church (that is to say of a few apocryphal monks and false doctors) to dethrone him. What! shall they be permitted to scatter their poisons everywhere, and we be forbidden to apply the antidote?’ fd97
This epistle from the prince of letters, who with so much discernment placed his finger on the sore, soon became known; and when it reached the Sorbonne, the doctors, dismayed that a man so moderate and respected should reveal their secrets so boldly, saw no other means of saving their cause than by striking their enemies with terror. They dared do nothing against the sage of Rotterdam, who was besides out of reach; but they swore that his friend Berquin should pay for his master. The theologians of the Sorbonne demanded that this gentleman should be brought to trial;
Duprat, Louisa of Savoy, and Montmorency supported their petition.
There was no means of evading it, and twelve judges were nominated by the pope and by the king. fd98 These men were greatly embarrassed, for Berquin’s irreproachable life, amiable character, inexhaustible charity, and regular attendance at public worship, had won universal esteem. However, as the first president De Selva, the fourth president Pailot, and some others, were either weak or fanatical persons, the Sorbonne did not lose all hope. One alone of the twelve caused any fear: this was William Budaeus, called by Erasmus ‘the prodigy of France;’ an enlightened man, who, while professing a great respect for the Catholic Church, had more than once betrayed certain evangelical tendencies to his wife and children. The twelve judges proceeded with their investigation, without requiring the accused man to be shut up in prison. Berquin went and crone as he pleased; he spoke to the judges and parliament, and convinced them of his innocence.
But terror began to paralize the weak minds among them; they were afraid of the righteous man; they would have nothing to do with ‘that sort of people,’ and turned their backs upon him.
Berquin now resolved to address the king and to get Margaret to support him. ‘It was generally reported,’ says one of the enemies of the Reform,
‘that the Queen of Navarre took wondrous pains to save those who were in danger, and that she alone prevented the Reformation from being stifled in the cradle.’ fd99 Berquin went to the palace, and made his danger known to the queen. He found in Margaret the compassion which failed him elsewhere. She knew that we ought not ‘to stand aside from those who
suffer persecution for the name of Christ, and would not be ashamed of those in whom there was nothing shameful.’ fd100 Margaret immediately took up her pen, and sitting down at that table where she had so often pleaded both in: prose and verse the cause of Christ and of Christians, she wrote the king the following letter: —
‘Monsignor, — The unhappy Berquin, who maintains that God, through your goodness, has twice saved his life, presents himself before you, to make manifest his innocence to you, having no one else to whom he can apply. Knowing, Monsignor, the esteem in which you hold him, and the desire which he has now and always has had to serve you, I fear not to entreat that you will be pleased to have pity upon him. He will convince you that these heretic- finders are more slanderous and disobedient towards you than zealous for the faith. He knows, Monsignor, that you desire to maintain the rights of every one, and that the just man needs no advocate in the eyes of your compassion. For this cause I shall say no more. Entreating Him who has given you such graces and virtues to grant you a long and happy life, in order that he may long be glorified by you in this world and everlastingly in the world to come.
‘Your most obedient and most humble subject and sister,
‘Margaret.’ fd101
Having finished, the queen rose and gave the letter to Berquin, who immediately sought an audience of the king. We know not how he was received, or what effect Margaret’s intercession had upon Francis. It would seem, however, that the king addressed a few kind words to him.
We know at least that Beda and the Sorbonne were uneasy, and that, fearing to see their victim once more escape them, they increased their exertions, and brought one charge after another against him. At last the authorities gave way; the police received orders to avoid every
demonstration calculated to alarm him, lest he should escape to Erasmus at Basle. All their measures were arranged, and at the moment when he least expected it, about three weeks before Easter (in March, 1529), Berquin was arrested and taken to the Conciergerie.
Thus then was ‘the most learned of the nobles,’ as he was termed, thrown into prison in despite of the queen. He paced sadly up and down his cell, and one thought haunted him. Having been seized very unexpectedly, he had left in his room at Paris certain books which were condemned at Rome, and which consequently might ruin him. ‘Alas!’ he exclaimed, ‘they will cost me serious trouble!’ fd102 Berquin resolved to apply to a Christian friend whom he could :trust, to prevent the evil which he foresaw; and the next day after his incarceration, when the domestic, who had free access to him, and passed in and out on business, came for orders, the prisoner gave him, with an anxious and mysterious air, a letter which he said was of the greatest importance. The servant immediately hid it under his dress. ‘My life is at stake,’ repeated Berquin. In that letter, addressed to a familiar friend, the prisoner begged him without delay to remove the books pointed out to him and to burn them.
The servant, who did not possess the courage of a hero, departed
trembling. His emotion increased as he proceeded, his strength failed him, and as he was crossing the Pont au Change, and found himself in front of the image of Our Lady, known as la belle ymage, the poor fellow, who was rather superstitious, although in Berquin’s service, lost his presence of mind and fainted. ‘A sinking of the heart came over him, ‘and he fell to the ground as if in a swoon,’ says the catholic chronicler. fd103 The
neighbors and the passers-by gathered round him, and lifted him up. One of these kind citizens, eager to assist him, unbuttoned his coat to give him room to breathe, and found the letter which had been so carefully hidden.
The man opened and read it; he was frightened, and told the surrounding crowd what were its contents. The people declared it to be a miracle: ‘He is a heretic,’ they said. ‘If he has fallen like a dead man, it is the penalty of his crime; it was Our Lady who did it.’ — ‘Give me the letter,’ said one of the spectators; ‘the famous Jacobin doctor who is preaching the Lent sermons at St. Bartholomew’s dines with me today. I will show it to him.’
When the dinner-hour came, the company invited by this citizen arrived, and among them was the celebrated preacher of the Rue St. Jacques in his white robe and scapulary and pointed hood. This Jacobin monk was no holiday inquisitor. He understood the great importance of the letter, and, quitting the table, hastened with it to Beda, who, quite overjoyed at the discovery, eagerly laid it before the court. The Christian gentleman was
ruined.. the judges found the letter very compromising. ‘Let the said Berquin, they ordered, ‘be closely confined in a strong tower.’ This was done. Beda, on his side, displayed fresh activity; for time pressed, and it was necessary to strike a decisive blow. With some the impetuous syndic spoke gently, with others he spoke loudly; he employed threats and promises, and nothing seemed to tire him.
From that hour Berquin’s case appeared desperate. Most of his friends abandoned him; they were afraid lest Margaret’s intervention, always so powerful, should now prove unavailing. The captive alone did not give way to despair. Although shut up in a strong tower, he possessed liberty and joy, and uplifting his soul to God, he hoped even against hope.
On Friday, the 10th of April, 1529, the inquiry was finished, and at noon Berquin was brought into court. The countenance of Budaeus was
sorrowful and kind; but the other judges bore the stamp of severity on their features. The prisoner’s heart was free from rancor, his hands pure from revenge, and the calm of innocence was on his face. ‘Louis Berquin,’
said the president, ‘you are convicted of belonging to the sect of Luther, and of having written wicked books against the majesty of God and of his glorious mother. Wherefore we condemn you to do public penance, bareheaded and with a lighted taper in your hand, in the great court of our palace, asking pardon of God, of the king, and of justice, for the offense you have committed. You shall then be taken, bareheaded and on foot, to the Greve, where you shall see your books burnt. Next you shall be led to the front of the Church of Notre Dame, where you shall do penance to God and the glorious Virgin, his mother. Afterwards you shall have your tongue pierced — that instrument of unrighteousness by which you have so grievously sinned. fd104 Lastly, you shall be taken to the prison of Monsieur de Paris (the bishop), and be shut up there all your life between four walls of stone; and we forbid you to be supplied either with books to read, or pen and ink to write.’
Berquin, startled at hearing such a sentence, which Erasmus terms
‘atrocious,’ and which the pious nobleman was far from expecting, fd105 at first remained silent, but soon regaining his usual courage, and looking firmly at his judges, fd106 he said: ‘I appeal to the king.’ — ‘Take care,’
answered his judges; ‘if you do not acquiesce in our sentence, we will and
means to prevent you from ever appealing again.’ This was clear. Berquin was sent back to prison.
Margaret began to fear that her brother would withdraw his support from the evangelicals. If the Reformation had been: a courtly religion, Francis would have protected it; but the independent air that it seemed to take, and, above all, its inflexible holiness, made it distasteful to him. The Queen of Navarre saw that the unhappy prisoner had none but the Lord on his side. She prayed:
Thou, God, alone canst say:
Touch not my son, take not his life away.
Thou only canst thy sovereign hand outstretch To ward the blow. fd107
Everything indicated that the blow would be struck. On the afternoon of the very day when the sentence had been delivered, Maillard, the
lieutenant criminal, with the archers, bowmen, and arquebusiers of the city, surrounded the Conciergerie. It was thought that Berquin’s last hour had come, and an immense crowd hurried to the spot. ‘More than twenty thousand people came to see the execution,’ says a manuscript. fd108 ‘They are going to take one of the king’s officers to the Greve,’ said the
spectators. Maillard, leaving his troops under arms, entered the prison, ordered the martyr’s cell to be opened, and told him that he had come to execute the sentence. ‘I have appealed to the king,’ replied the prisoner.
The lieutenant, criminal withdrew. Everybody expected to see him followed by Berquin, and all eyes were fixed upon the gate; but no one appeared. The commander of the troops ordered them to retire; the archers marched back, and ‘the great throng of people that was round the court- house and in the city separated.’ The first president immediately called the court together, to take the necessary measures, ‘We must lose no time,’
said some, ‘for the king has twice already rescued him from our hands.’
Was there no hope left?
There were in France at that time two men of the noblest character, both friends of learning, whose whole lives had been consecrated to doing what was right: they were Budaeus on the bench, and Berquin in his cell. The first was united to the second by the purest friendship, and his only thought was how to save him. But what could he do singly against the parliament and the Sorbonne? Budaeus shuddered when he heard of his
friend’s appeal; he knew the danger to which this step exposed him! and hastened to the prison. ‘Pray do not appeal!’ said he; ‘a second sentence is all ready, and it orders you to be put to death. If you accept the first, we shall be able to save you eventually. Pray do not ruin yourself!’ Berquin, a more decided man than Budaeus, would rather die than make any
concession to error. His friend, however, did not slacken his exertions; he desired at whatever risk to save one of the most distinguished men of France. Three whole days were spent by him in the most energetic efforts.
fd109 He had hardly quitted his friend before he returned and sat down by his side or walked with him sorrowfully up and down the prison. He entreated him for his own safety? for the good of the Church, and for the welfare of France. Berquin roads no reply; only, after a long appeal from Budaeus, he gave a nod of dissent, Berquin, says the historian of the University of Paris ‘sustained the encounter with indomitable obstinacy.’
fd110
Would he continue firm? Many evangelicals were anxiously watching the struggle. Remembering the fall of the apostle Peter at the voice of a serving-maid, they said one to another that a trifling opposition was sufficient to make the strongest stumble. ‘Ah!’ said Calvin, ‘if we cease but for an instant to lean upon the hand of God, a puff of wind, or the rustling of a falling leaf, is enough… and straightway we fall!’ It was not a puff of wind, ,but a tempest rather, by which Berquin was assailed. While the threatening voices of his enemies were roaring around him, the gentle voice of Budaeus, full of the tenderest affection, penetrated the prisoner’s heart and shook his firmest resolutions. ‘O my dear friend,’ said Budaeus,
‘there are better times coming, for which you ought to preserve yourself.’
Then he stopped, and added in a more serious tone: ‘You are guilty towards God and man if by your own act you give yourself up to death,’
fd111
Berquin was touched at last by the perseverance of this great man; he began to waver; his sight became troubled, Turning his face away from God, he bent it to the ground. The power of the Holy Spirit was
extinguished in him for a moment (to use the language of a reformer), and he thought he might be more useful to the kingdom of God by preserving himself for the future, than by yielding himself up to present death. ‘All that we ask of you is to beg for pardon. Do we not all need pardon?’