In the dying season, the sun always burns crimson as it fades beyond the horizon. Forgotten are the days of the summer doldrums, when the earth was living, giving life, and life itself. The fall of an epoch, or the descent of a people, is never seen in the burning, bright days of midsummer: death is autumnal. It was so many ages ago, as the days of summer were fading to the dusk of fall – on the eve of the feast day of Saint Bartholomew.

Paris, 1572

It was a time of reverence and of revelry; it was a time of fellowship and of enmity. As in a fable from childhood, a great prince and a beautiful princess of rival noble families had been joined in marriage. Just a few days prior, a great procession of Huguenot nobility had entered the gates of Paris, long a bastion of the Roman faith, to see their prince wedded. The royal city had been for years a forbidden city; what few Protestants remained within its walls were forced to keep their faith secret, and, for fear of their lives, conducted their worship services in the dark forests outside the city limits. Yet now, as Henry de Navarre and Marguerite de Valois began the post-nuptial feasts, the city was silent.

Philippe de Mornay, dressed in all the finery of a nobleman, was walking swiftly down the dirty streets of Paris’ district Saint-Denis. Grey storefronts lined the narrow lane. Calling out advertisements for their wares, round-faced merchants appeared on street corners as far as the eye could discern. Laborers heading toward their long day’s work in grubby, ash-colored clothing, sauntered confidently past Philippe, casually jostling his shoulder. Ostentatious young women in their court dress paraded past, fixed on completing their shopping. But young Philippe noticed none of this.

All but prancing, the Huguenot nobleman found his way through the grubby alleys, until he came to a great square with grand apartments surrounding the spurting fountain at the center. Along the balconies of these apartments were hung ribbons and banners, all but a few bearing the royal fleur-de-lis. Bounding up the stairs to one of the residences, Philippe knocked rapidly on the door. After a few moments, a plainly dressed valet appeared at the entrance and smiled when he recognized the young man.

“Welcome, Monsieur! The Lady Charlotte has been waiting for you.”

The valet stepped aside and, after a brief acknowledgement, Philippe walked in and ascended a long flight of stairs to the upper balcony. The upper story was an open, elegant room, very comfortable and domestic. As he entered, Philippe saw a woman sitting by a large window overlooking the square below. She stood immediately when he walked into the room.

“My dear Philippe! It has been so long! Sit down, please. Sit down.”

She motioned him to a seat beside her. As he obeyed, he looked on the face which had never really left his thoughts since their last meeting.

Even as she sat on the divan, the Lady Charlotte seemed to be the embodiment of elegance. Fair in complexion and slender in form, her porcelain face broke into a wide smile as Philippe sat down next to her.

They sat for several hours conversing as the sun rose to the height of its glory at midday. It was all Philippe could do to not break out in giddy laughter. Hours of perfect delight. Sunlight pouring through the open window. A bright room warm with domesticity.

And outside, a city quiet as death.

After lunch had been taken, Philippe apologetically stood up and explained that his father, the Marquis de Mornay, required his presence for the afternoon council. Charlotte stood up and extended her hand. Gently, Philippe took it, and pressed his lips upon her delicate fingers. As he did so, he took from his cloak a small ring, set with a blazing ruby. He placed it on Charlotte’s finger and bowed.

“A token I hope you will accept.”

She again smiled and nodded slightly. “Mon amour.”

* * * * *

As usual, the council had been long and tedious. Taking his place beside his father, Philippe had listened as all the Huguenot nobles sat around a great table and argued about whether or not to leave the city. At the head of the table sat Admiral Gaspard Coligny, the leader of the Protestant minority. Just two days prior, the Admiral had been the target of a failed assassination. As he had been returning from a meeting with the King, the assassin – believed by the Huguenots to be a henchman of the queen mother – had fired a pistol at Coligny, who surely would have been killed had he not bent to refasten his shoe at that very moment. Many of the nobles took this as a portent of worse things to come. How could they be sure the attempt would not be repeated? Yet, Coligny had silenced them all. He argued that Prince Henry needed their support now more than ever. The nobles reluctantly acquiesced.

Philippe had a difficult time taking interest in the discussion. It was not that he was oblivious to the danger, or the barely restrained passions that simmered in the populace of Paris. He knew that Paris would like nothing better than to see the Admiral’s head posted on the city gates. No, he knew all this full well. But his thoughts were continually drawn back to the reflection of the Lady in the sparkling ruby. For him, just now entering into the full blossom of youth, it was hard to stay concentrated on anything less delightful than… than Charlotte. Though he knew Paris was bristling with hatred as the Huguenots took up residence within its walls, he saw the city as the very harbor of paradise.

Once the council had been dispersed, Philippe made his way with his father to their rooms in the wealthy side of the district. Walking in silence, they kept their eyes sharp for hidden figures in the deepening twilight. Even with the pledge of peace given by the King, no Huguenot remained entirely at ease while within the walls of Paris.

As they crested a hill overlooking their dwelling, the Marquis stopped suddenly.

He turned and whispered, “Did you see something, something moving?”

Philippe shook his head and peered into the grey dusk. After a few minutes, they both started again towards their apartment. As they walked under the archway and Philippe took hold of the door handle to walk inside, his father grabbed his arm and pointed to something etched just to their side. Squinting in the dim light, they saw what looked like a figure of a cross etched into the side of the archway with some sort of chalk.

After standing for several minutes, Philippe’s father said in a tense voice, “Get a bucket of water and a rag. Now.”

Philippe did so, and when he came back with the bucket and rag to his father, the older man began to furiously scrape at the chalk etching. Once the figure could no longer be seen, both men walked into the apartment.

Having left his wife and two young daughters at home in southern France, the Marquis had decided months ago that his son should begin to learn what was the duty of a nobleman. Ever since arriving in Paris about a week ago, father and son had sat by the hearth discussing matters of state and religion. Now, as a servant brought two glasses of burgundy to the Marquis and Philippe, the old nobleman sat down and buried his head in his hands.

Staring, Philippe watched as his father’s face contorted into a grimace of uncertainty. Night had now completely overtaken the city, and in the candlelight, the Marquis peered over his glass at his son. Both men sat looking at each other, neither knowing quite what to say or think. Philippe finally became restless and went to a window overlooking the city below. Swirling his glass, he took a long sip and looked down upon the brooding city. It seemed to be alive with lights. Having been raised in a rural village, Philippe was not familiar with all the noise and light that continued even past the setting of the sun in this metropolis. The flickering lights down below stretched to the horizon, seeming to move through the alleyways and courtyards.

Or was it more than just the semblance of movement? Were these really stationary street lamps? No. The river of lights below was moving in waves. It was not the luminosity of street lamps, but of torchlight.

The Marquis had stood and was now looking with Philippe down on the swarms of torches moving through the alleyways. He reached down and opened the window as a dark-hooded rider galloped past. In a hoarse screech, he was yelling, “It is the King’s decree! Kill them, kill them all!”

In a moment, the Marquis was rushing out the door, Philippe just behind him. They stood outside, heard screams and gunshots, and started running down the streets to where the Admiral and his council had taken up residence. Staying in the shadows, they both made their way slowly down the darkened haunts of the district Saint-Denis. As they ran, Philippe unsheathed his sword. He heard his shoes click on the cobblestone at his feet. After an eternity, they rounded a corner and saw the house in which Coligny and his retinue had been staying.

It was then they saw the mob. Grungy peasants clothed in lice-ridden rags with daggers, grubby round-faced merchants with butcher’s knives, and laborers from the mill in ashen clothing with an assortment of blackened weapons – all stood shouting and screaming as the body of the Admiral was dragged to the middle of the street. As Philippe stood, jaw loose in an expression of horror and revulsion, the mob began to attack and mutilate the body. The head was torn away with multiple slashes, the arms and legs hacked off with axes and kitchen knives, and the insides torn out by blood-stained hands.

Philippe began to retch. As he did, his father ran forward, sword in hand, at the screaming mob. Kneeling, heaving, weeping on the cobblestone street, Philippe did not see his father fall. He only saw the mob start to move toward him. More out of instinct than of will, his legs began to carry him swiftly away, the mob at his heels.

He ran for miles, doubling back, and sprinting down empty alleys. Often, he would see a peasant or dragoon wearing a white sash on their arm run past, while he hid in the shadows. Continuing to run in shocked unconsciousness, Philippe found that he was making his way toward the opposite side of the district, which just this morning he had considered the heart of all happiness, the harbor of delight. As he came again to the square with the ribboned apartments, he saw in the lamplight that the fountain at the center of the courtyard was now vomiting blood. Piled in heaps inside the pool were bodies of Huguenots, some slain and some groaning in agony. Drawn by some unknown foreboding, Philippe passed through the square littered with dismembered bodies and bounded up the stairs to the familiar apartment.

The door had been broken down, and the stairs leading up to the balcony were strewn with bodies of the Parisian mob. As he made his way up, a hand from one of the bodies suddenly grabbed at his leg. A grimy, bloody face looked up, grinned, and cackled at him. He kicked the creature away and ascended the rest of the stairs. There at the top was the valet, faithful to the end, sword in hand, face mutilated almost beyond recognition. Yet Philippe hardly noticed the corpse, just one among many.

No longer did the wide open room look comfortable or inviting. No sunlight streaked through the window. The table was overturned, the divan split in two, the curtains were torn down.

And she lay motionless on the floor.

His face damp with sweat and tears, his mouth edged with his own vomit, Philippe knelt down beside the figure. Her eyes opened.

“Philippe?”

He was shaking. With his trembling hands, he took Charlotte’s head and pressed it to his breast. Her broken limbs were splayed around him, her uncovered body red with blood. His mouth moved, but no words came forth. Time halted, and they both wept.

Soon, her breathing began to sound labored. With a terrible effort, she raised her face to look at Philippe and with her one unbroken arm pressed a white sash to his breast. Her eyes told him what she wanted.

Outside he could hear the noises of the Parisian rabble looting the adjacent apartments. They would soon return to this wreckage to take what was left. If they found him here without the mark of the sash, they would certainly kill him.

Charlotte’s eyes blinked back tears and she again pressed the sash to his bosom. With a sigh which came from both relief and sorrow, he shook his head. He cradled her in his arms and threw the white sash to the other side of the room.

As she took her last breath, she saw Philippe lay aside his sword and take out a psalter which he kept in his breast pocket. He chanted:

Thou art my hiding place;
Thou shalt preserve me from trouble;
Thou shalt compass me about with songs of deliverance.
Amen and amen.

Her eyes closed, and she smiled. As Philippe heard heavy footsteps on the stairs, he took Charlotte’s hand and saw the ring on her finger, the ruby reflecting the moonlight on her face. No longer able to stop himself, he heaved with tears and pressed her fingers to his lips.

“Mon amour.”