the side of the royalists, and Louis Nassau on that of the Huguenots, atoning by the steadiness and skill with which he covered the retreat, for his intemperate courage, which had precipitated the action, and perhaps been the main cause of Coligny’s overthrow.  The Prince of Orange, who had been peremptorily called to the Netherlands in the beginning of the autumn, was not present at the battle.  Disguised as a peasant, with but five attendants, and at great peril, he had crossed the enemy’s lines, traversed France, and arrived in Germany before the winter.  Count Louis remained with the Huguenots.  So necessary did he seem to their cause, and so dear had he become to their armies, that during the severe illness of Coligny in the course of the following summer all eyes were turned upon him as the inevitable successor of that great man, the only remaining pillar of freedom in France.

Coligny recovered.  The deadly peace between the Huguenots and the Court succeeded.  The Admiral, despite his sagacity and his suspicions, embarked with his whole party upon that smooth and treacherous current which led to the horrible catastrophe of Saint Bartholomew.  To occupy his attention, a formal engagement was made by the government to send succor to the Netherlands.  The Admiral was to lead the auxiliaries which were to be despatched across the frontier to overthrow the tyrannical government of Alva.  Long and anxious were the colloquies held between Coligny and the Royalists.  The monarch requested a detailed opinion, in writing, from the Admiral, on the most advisable plan for invading the Netherlands.  The result was the preparation of the celebrated memoir, under Coligny’s directions, by young De Mornay, Seigneur de Plessis.  The document was certainly not a paper of the highest order.  It did not appeal to the loftier instincts which kings or common mortals might be supposed to possess.  It summoned the monarch to the contest in the Netherlands that the ancient injuries committed by Spain might be avenged.  It invoked the ghost of Isabella of France, foully murdered, as it was thought, by Philip.  It held out the prospect of re-annexing the fair provinces, wrested from the King’s ancestors by former Spanish sovereigns.  It painted the hazardous position of Philip; with the Moorish revolt gnawing at the entrails of his kingdom, with the Turkish war consuming its extremities, with the canker of rebellion corroding the very heart of the Netherlands.  It recalled, with exultation, the melancholy fact that the only natural and healthy existence of the French was in a state of war—­that France, if not occupied with foreign campaigns, could not be prevented from plunging its sword into its own vitals.

It indulged in refreshing reminiscences of those halcyon days, not long gone by, when France, enjoying perfect tranquillity within its own borders, was calmly and regularly carrying on its long wars beyond the frontier.