The writers of biography and auto-or pseudo-autobiography who flourished and were so abundant in France during the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries made a great mistake by adding to the simple narrative a great number of romantic incidents which there is much reason to believe had no foundation in fact. Putting aside the morality or immorality of lying, they committed an artistic blunder. History is the best romance. Just in as much as a painter or sculptor can approach to the realities of the human form, so is the grace and interest of his design. Just in as much as a writer can approach to the truth of history, telling all the truth minutely, so is the romantic interest of his book,—only history is so very romantic that no one who writes it completely can obtain credence. Let us see whether the reader will believe a morsel of true history when it appears under the character of romance.

The fact of the capture of Lord Montagu spread rapidly through all France. Couriers carried it to Villeroy and Rochelle; rumor brought it rapidly to Paris; and thence, with concentric ripples, the knowledge was carried far and wide to all who were unwise enough to meddle with politics in those days.

The effect was very different upon different people. The great cardinal rejoiced at the success of his well-laid schemes; for he had long known, and watched with a keen eye, the negotiations which had been intrusted to the English nobleman. Perhaps, however, he rejoiced more at the hold which he doubted not the seized papers of the diplomatist would give him upon his own enemies in France itself than upon the means afforded of frustrating all the combinations which had been effected abroad against his country. His mighty mind feared foreign enemies much less than secret cabal at home. In fact, he knew that the fortress of his power was strong enough to resist a cannonade but might not be proof against a mine.

Nor was the spirit of the king dissatisfied to learn that Buckingham's agent had fallen into his power, with all his correspondence, compromising probably one-third of the nobility of France. We have not had time, we shall not have space, to dwell upon the character of Louis, though it well merits a treatise entirely to itself. His sports in youth had been cruel, his amusements low. His father had called him "that wicked boy;" and, though he possessed all that father's courage and much of his military skill, he had none of his kindness of heart, his clemency, or his gentleness. It may be that he did not feel pleasure in the shedding of blood, but it is certain that he never objected to shed it; and when his best friends and greatest favorites were condemned, often by unlawful tribunals, he consented to their death with coolness or a jest.

But there was one in France who heard of Lord Montagu's capture with very different feelings. Anne of Austria, the unhappy queen, the childless wife of the coldest-hearted monarch that ever lived, received the tidings with terror and confusion. It might be that the tales they tell of certain secret communications between her and the brilliant Duke of Buckingham were founded in truth. It might be that she had connived at schemes for the overthrow of a minister who persecuted her. But it is beyond doubt that she held dangerous correspondence with her own family in Spain, that Buckingham had been negotiating with that court, and that Montagu was his most confidential emissary. What letters might not be upon his person at the moment of his arrest?—what papers which might give a complete triumph to her enemies? and she had many. Happily, however, she had many friends, sincere, devoted, fearless. At the very moment when she was in the most profound agony of terror, one of these was near at hand.

It is well known that gentlemen of good family but small means were in those days proud to accept even what we consider menial offices in the household of princes or great men. A youth of the name of Laporte had been attached to the service of Anne of Austria, in the humble capacity of valet-de-chambre, almost ever since her entrance into France. In one of the many intrigues of the court he had incurred the anger of the king, but had been permitted to enter a corps of cavalry, known as the Gens d'armes de la Reine, as ensign. This corps, at the time of the capture of Lord Montagu, was serving on the frontiers of Lorraine, and was one of the first to be called toward the Chateau of Coiffy to form part of the escort of the noble prisoner on his way to Paris. But Laporte was not with his regiment. He was, when the news arrived, on leave of absence in the capital, and his presence had been known to the young queen. At midnight, and in disguise, he was brought to the Louvre; and Anne of Austria at once laid open to her attached servant the terrible apprehensions under which she suffered. To ascertain if her name was at all compromised in the correspondence of Lord Montagu was of immediate importance. It was, in fact, an affair of life and death. But to do so seemed utterly hopeless. All the papers of the prisoner were in the hands of his captors, and the utmost secresy was maintained as to their contents. Laporte, however, undertook the difficult task, and on the following day set out to rejoin his regiment at Coiffy. The way was long, and he did not reach the castle till the prisoner and his escort were already on the march to Paris; but he was near enough to witness the absurd gasconade of M. de Bourbonne, who, having gathered together a very considerable force, notified the Duke of Lorraine of the day and hour when he would commence his journey. A cannon was fired from the battlements to give notice that the French troops were in motion; and the whole body remained in battle-array for about half an hour, to give the duke, Monsieur de Bourbonne said, an opportunity of rescuing the prisoner if he could. When this comedy had been enacted, the worthy Laporte joined his regiment and fell into the ranks, resolved, as he states, to watch for some happy accident which might enable him to communicate with the captive. Fortune favored him sooner than he expected, and, indeed, beyond all expectation. In the midst of the troops, consisting of some nine hundred horse, rode the Counts of Bourbonne and Boulogne, with Lord Montagu between them, treated with every mark of profound respect, but disarmed, without spurs, and mounted on a small horse not very capable of competing in speed with those which surrounded him. Laporte marked all this well; but a much more easy and secure mode of communicating with the English nobleman than any effort in the open field soon presented itself. The Baron de Ponthieu, a gentleman of considerable distinction, was one of the officers of Laporte's company of Gens d'armes de la Reine; and, as soon as he saw a man whose leave of absence did not expire for some weeks suddenly rejoin his regiment, an instant suspicion crossed his mind that his inferior officer had some important object in view. The baron was one of the most devoted partisans of the queen. He knew that Laporte was a bird of the same color, and also that he came straight from Paris. Quick and clear-sighted, Ponthieu, it appears, in his conjectures came near the real object of his companion-in-arms. But he had the rare gift of discretion; and, after having sounded Laporte and found that he was unwilling to trust his dangerous secret even to him, he contented himself with losing no occasion to give facilities for communication between the queen's attendant and the English prisoner.

What marks the age as especially an age of faction is the fact that men usually sensitive on the point of honor had not the slightest scruple in violating their most sacred obligations and most solemn oaths in favor of the party to which they belonged. No shame, no remorse, attached to such acts; but, on the contrary, they were looked upon, both by actors and observers, as proofs of chivalrous daring and skilful diplomacy. Ponthieu and Laporte, though serving in what was called the "Queen's Gens d'armes," were the soldiers of the king, bound by solemn oaths to obey and serve him against all and every one; but they had not the least hesitation in betraying their trust and violating their promise when it was to assist the queen or thwart the minister. It was not dishonest or disloyal in their eyes: it was honorable and chivalrous. There is too much of this in the world even now; but there was much more then, and the wars of the Fronde both brought the abuse to its height and in some degree wrought its cure.

Monsieur de Bourbonne had received secret instructions to treat Lord Montagu with every sort of consideration, while taking all measures to prevent his escape; and at each halt upon the long march the officers of the various corps which escorted him were invited to bear him company during the evening, and various devices were formed for amusing the prisoner. Ponthieu, divining, as I have said, Laporte's object, invited his young comrade to partake his quarters, which were always near those of De Bourbonne, and took care that he should be at all the parties given in the evening for Montagu's entertainment. At the very first interview, Montagu, who never forgot a face, remembered having seen the young officer when he had visited Paris some years before; and mutual looks of intelligence conveyed the information that Laporte was not there without a purpose. Cards were introduced, and the ensign of the Queen's Gens d'armes contrived to slip a pencil across to the captive. On the succeeding night, Laporte sat at the same card-table with Montagu, Monsieur de Bourbonne, and Ponthieu. But in shuffling the pack the young officer let it fall, scattering the cards upon the floor. He stooped instantly to remedy the effects of his awkwardness. Montagu stooped also with an easy grace to assist him; and, before he rose, a note was in his pocket, beseeching him to inform the writer if amongst his papers there had been any matter which could compromise the queen, and desiring him to be very careful of even mentioning her name.

On the following evening, Lord Montagu, with a free and unembarrassed air, held out his hand to the young officer when they met, and, with better skill than the Signor Morini, contrived to slip into the hand of Laporte an answer to the note of the preceding night, without being seen by any one.

It conveyed the joyful news that the queen's name had never been mentioned in the papers which had fallen into the hands of the captors, and that Montagu himself would rather die than compromise her in any way.

Nevertheless, although he knew the anxiety and suspense of his royal lady, Laporte did not venture to trust the billet out of his own hands, nor again to quit his regiment to carry the intelligence himself. He was forced, therefore, to accompany the prisoner's escort by slow marches to Paris, and to see Montagu lodged in the Bastille. As soon as that was done, however, he found his way secretly to the Louvre, and easily explained to Anne of Austria the causes of his delay and the complete success of his mission. He tells the story himself; but, with the usual fate of zeal, intelligence, and devotion, his services were but poorly rewarded, though they were highly praised.