The Duchess of Alençon’s gratitude immediately burst forth. Calling Montmorency by a tenderer name than usual, she said: ‘I thank you, my son, for the pleasure you have done me in the cause of poor Berquin. You may say that you have taken me from prison, for I value it as a favour done to myself.’[543] ... ‘My lord,’ she wrote to the king, ‘my desire to obey your commands was already very great, but you have doubled it by the charity you have been pleased to show towards poor Berquin. He for whom he suffered will take pleasure in the mercy you have shown his servant and yours for your honour; and the confusion of those who have forgotten God will not be less than the perpetual glory which God will give you.’[544] As soon as Berquin was free he began to meditate on his great work, which was to destroy the power of error. His liberation was not in his eyes a simple deliverance from prison--it was a call. He cared little (as Erasmus entreated him) to indulge in sweet repose on the banks of the Somme; his earnest desire was to fight. He held that the life of a christian man should be a continual warfare. No truce with Satan! Now, to him, Satan was the Sorbonne, and he had no more doubts about the victory than if the war were ended already. Berquin was universally known, loved, and respected. To Farel’s decision and zeal he added a knowledge of the world, which was then most necessary. Margaret clung to him at least as much as to Roussel. It was generally thought among christians that God had brought him forth from prison in order to set him at the head of the Reform in France: Berquin himself thought so. The friends of the Reformation rejoiced, and an important circumstance increased their hopes. Another joy was in store for Margaret. Francis perceived at last that Henry VIII. preferred Anne Boleyn to his illustrious sister, whose maid of honour she had formerly been. From that hour he no longer opposed the wishes of the King of Navarre, and in November consented to his union with Madame of Alençon. On the 24th of January, 1527, a brilliant throng filled the chapel of the palace of St. Germain, where the marriage of the king’s sister was to be solemnised, and every mouth extolled the genius, grace, and virtues of the princess. Margaret of France and Henry d’Albret were united, and for a week there were magnificent tournaments. Francis made very fine promises to the married pair. ‘Make your mind easy,’ he said to Henry; ‘I will summon the emperor to restore your kingdom of Navarre, and if he refuses, I will give you an army to recover it.’[545] But not long after, this prince, when drawing up a diplomatic paper by which he bound Charles V. to restore his two sons, then hostages at Madrid, inserted this clause: ‘_Item_, the said king promises not to assist or favour the King of Navarre in recovering his kingdom, although he has married his beloved and only sister.’[546]