Lord Montagu's Page Part 35

"G.o.d forbid!" cried Monsieur de Boulogne, eagerly. "There! take the paper and come with me. I will take this business on myself. Two such young, rash spirits may make mischief."

Edward followed, willingly enough; and the old count led him up the stairs from the dungeon to a tolerably comfortable room in one of the towers above, where he left him on his promise to remain till Monsieur de Bourbonne could be conferred with. In a few minutes the two n.o.blemen entered together, De Bourbonne evidently struggling--not very successfully--to keep up his dignity while forced to make disagreeable concessions.

"The Count de Boulogne informs me, sir," he said, "that you have really got a safe-conduct from his Eminence of Richelieu."

"Which you have known ever since mid-day," said Edward.

"Hus.h.!.+ hus.h.!.+" said the elder gentleman. "No more of that. Tell my son-in-law, young gentleman, what it is you demand of him in the circ.u.mstances."

"I demand that he shall respect the cardinal's safe-conduct," answered the youth.

But De Bourbonne waved his hand, saying, "I will respect it by sending you to his Eminence under guard on the very first opportunity. What more?"

"That I be no more put in a wet dungeon; that I be not fed on bread and water; that I have my baggage restored to me; and that I be treated in every respect as that safe-conduct gives me a right to expect."

"Granted," said the count, "but upon the clear understanding that you are a prisoner and remain such till I can send you to the cardinal."

"With the clear understanding added," replied Edward, "that you shall be called to a strict account for every hour you keep me prisoner without lawful cause, and for your manifest disobedience of the cardinal's written orders under his own hand and seal."

The count's face flushed, and he exclaimed, in evident embarra.s.sment, "What the fiend are you to the cardinal, or the cardinal to you?"

But Edward saw that, one way or another, he had got the advantage.

"That, sir," he said, in a cool tone, "you may have to learn hereafter, from other lips than mine. In the mean time you can do exactly as you think fit. Obey the commands you have received in the king's name, or disobey them, as seems expedient to you; but only do not put me in a damp dungeon or feed me on bread and water any more, for it is as unpleasant to me as it may be dangerous to yourself."

"But suppose the safe-conduct is a forgery," said De Bourbonne.

"It would be a curious one," replied the youth, with perfect composure,--"somewhat bold to devise and difficult to practise. Of that you can judge yourself; but take care you judge right. I have but one other demand to make; namely, to be permitted to visit my Lord Montagu."

"He has gone to bed," said De Bourbonne, sharply, "and I shall consider of the matter further till to-morrow. I have now one more question. How much liberty in this castle do you want? It will depend entirely upon whether you do or do not give me your parole of honor that you will not attempt to escape."

"Now, this is strange!" said Edward, with an irrepressible laugh. "One moment I am suspected of forgery, and the next my word of honor is to be relied upon implicitly. However, Monsieur le Comte, as I have no intention of leaving you quite so soon, and as, if I did escape, I should run straight to his Eminence, to whom you say you intend to send me, I will give you my parole. But would you allow me to insinuate that I am exceedingly hungry, and that I have always considered a little good wine of Beaugency better than a draught of cold water out of a pitcher not over-clean?"

Both the counts laughed; and old Monsieur de Boulogne, taking his son-in-law by the arm, led him away, saying, in a low voice, "Come, come! I shall make you two better friends before I have done."

"You will need to do so, father," said M. de Bourbonne; "for, on my life, it shall be long enough before that keen boy sees the cardinal. If what he says is true,--as I suppose it is,--the tales he has to tell might ruin us; and, if it is false, he well deserves a good long spell of imprisonment."

CHAPTER x.x.xV.

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 Roch.e.l.le; 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 n.o.bleman. 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 n.o.bility of France. We have not had time, we shall not have s.p.a.ce, to dwell upon the character of Louis, though it well merits a treatise entirely to itself. His sports in youth had been cruel, his amus.e.m.e.nts 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 n.o.ble 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 secrecy 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 n.o.bleman 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 a.s.sist 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 a.s.sist 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 unembarra.s.sed 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.

CHAPTER x.x.xVI.

And where was Edward Langdale all this time? On the day which saw Lord Montagu a prisoner in the Bastille, the poor lad had been just a month in the Chateau de Coiffy; and his captivity was not yet at an end. Care had been taken that he should have no opportunity of seeing Lord Montagu; and, though he was well treated, and his personal liberty seemed but little abridged within the walls, there was a cold, silent guard kept over him which tended a good deal to subdue his impatient spirit. If he spoke to any one, he received a civil answer; but it was confined to two or three words, and never afforded any information. If he asked for writing-materials, they were promised, but never came. If he walked on one of the ramparts, there was a soldier at each end, who never lost sight of him; and his own chamber, with one or two of the pa.s.sages near, was the only place where he found himself free from supervision. His princ.i.p.al resort was the walls, where on fine days he would sit and think, and gaze over the undulating country round, for hours,--pondering his own fate, dreaming of Lucette, or asking himself what the conduct of Monsieur de Bourbonne could mean.

It certainly had its meaning; and the secret was a very simple one. The reader has already the key in the few words spoken by the count on the first night of Edward's captivity. He had determined that the youth should have no communication with Richelieu till he himself had reaped the reward he expected for the valuable services he believed he had rendered.

For many reasons, however, the cardinal was slower in bestowing that reward than the count antic.i.p.ated. In the first place, his mind was profoundly occupied with matters which we shall have to touch upon hereafter. In the next place, the service of the count was not so great as he imagined. Lord Montagu was a prisoner, it is true; the treaty with Spain, Lorraine, and Savoy was in the minister's hands; and the schemes of the external enemies of France were dissipated or deranged; but there were few names in France itself implicated by the papers which had been seized, and fewer letters found which could bring home to Richelieu's foes the treason which many of them had certainly meditated. Thus, day after day pa.s.sed without bringing to Monsieur de Bourbonne the expected recompense; and it suited well with the cardinal's policy to keep the n.o.bility of the kingdom expectants upon the bounty of the minister, as they were now daily becoming, rather than dictators to the Government, as they had too long been. Poor Edward suffered without the minister knowing it, and, at the end of three long months, the youth determined to endure but a few days longer. He contrived, with some oil and the soot of his lamp, to fabricate a sort of ink. A leaf torn out of one of the books which were amongst the baggage returned to him served him for paper sufficient to write on; and with such rude materials he contrived to indite a letter to Monsieur de Bourbonne, which will explain itself.

"Sir," he said, "you informed me that you would send me to the cardinal prime minister by the very first opportunity; and on that understanding I gave my parole not to escape. You have broken your word; and I might be held justifiable in breaking mine: but the word of an English gentleman is too sacred to be trifled with. I therefore give you notice of my intention to leave the Castle of Coiffy as soon as I find an opportunity of doing so after this letter has had full time to reach you and you have had full time to take your measures accordingly. Your men have debarred me the use of pen and ink and cut me off from all communication with others. They may neglect or refuse to carry this letter; but I shall give it to one of them for that purpose, and if it do not reach you the fault is not that of EDWARD LANGDALE.

"_Postscriptum_.--I shall not set out for fourteen days."

This epistle was given to the servant who brought his food, with an injunction to have it given to the post-courier. At first the man hesitated to take it; but, on seeing that it was directed to his master, he ultimately consented; and Edward applied all his thoughts to devise the means of carrying the resolution he had expressed into execution, let Monsieur de Bourbonne take what precautions he would. The fourteen days pa.s.sed without any answer, and all seemed dull and tranquil as before; but some messengers had been coming and going, and Edward little doubted that one of them bore directions in regard to himself. To test the fact, on the fifteenth morning he walked out upon the walls and approached quietly one of the little flights of steps that led down from the ramparts toward some of the outworks. Instantly the sentinel presented his musketoon, saying, "You cannot pa.s.s here."

"Why not?" asked the youth. "I have pa.s.sed before."

"The orders are changed," answered the man, gruffly. "Keep off, I say."

Edward was satisfied. Monsieur de Bourbonne had received his letter: his parole was at an end; and he felt almost as if he were already free. Two days pa.s.sed without his making any attempt to escape; but he carefully selected every thing from amongst his baggage which was most valuable, including money, and packed it in the smallest compa.s.s. Sometimes, indeed, he was tempted to leave all behind him, for he foresaw that he should have to swim the ca.n.a.l; but the absolute necessity of money in almost every transaction of life he had learned early, and he remembered that he had a large piece of France to traverse. His attention was next directed to ascertain if, by pa.s.sing boldly through the interior of the chateau, he could not turn the position of the sentinels upon the walls just in face of his windows, and emerge upon the opposite ramparts, which, from all he recollected of the approach to the castle, and from various other circ.u.mstances which had come to his knowledge during his long stay, he imagined were neither very high nor very well guarded.

Away he went, then, along the pa.s.sage through which he had always been allowed to pa.s.s, to a door at the end on the left-hand side, where there had usually sat a servant, and which he had understood,--believed would be the better word, for he knew not what had led him to the conclusion,--which he believed led to the apartments of the Countess of Bourbonne. But now no servant sat there, either to question or let him pa.s.s. The door, however, was shut; and when he tried it he found it locked.

It was a great disappointment; for the servant who usually sat there was sometimes male, sometimes female, and he had calculated that he could devise some means of getting either out of the way. The ramparts before his windows were too steep for him to attempt the leap. Had the fosse been immediately below, he might have risked it, trusting that the water would soften his fall; but a ridge of dry ground ran along under the wall, and the breaking or dislocation of a limb, with his consequent recapture, was inevitable. He returned to his room, then, disappointed but not disheartened, and instantly applied himself to form some new scheme. The first thought that struck him was that a rope ladder might be constructed from the ropes which in those days garnished every bedstead in France. It would be short, indeed, but at all events it might diminish the distance between the parapet and the ground, and by dropping from the last round he would not, he thought, have more than eight or ten feet to fall. He instantly set to work to detach the ropes from the sacking; but he had not unlaced a yard before he asked himself how, when it was constructed, he was to fasten the upper end of his ladder to the parapet. With all his ingenuity, he was puzzled. There was nothing in the room of which he could make a hook,--nothing in the world, except an ancient pair of tongs for putting wood upon the fire; and he might as well have tried to make a hook out of the Colossus of Rhodes. He looked round and round in vain, when suddenly, as his eyes rested upon the heavy key in the lock of the door, he thought that keys would sometimes fit more locks than one. He took it out at once, greased it well with oil from the lamp, and walked quietly along to the door at the end of the pa.s.sage. It was still locked, and by applying his eye to the key-hole he saw that there was no obstruction. The key had been taken away,--probably to prevent any tampering with the servants on the part of the young prisoner. But he saw also three persons sitting by a large fireplace in the long gallery before him. They were a lady of two or three and twenty,--probably Madame de Bourbonne,--a very beautiful child, three years old perhaps, and another woman, whose dress betrayed the soubrette.

Edward had to return to his room again and wait with impatience for the trial of the key. As he meditated by the remains of his fire, he remembered having heard that, but a year or two before, the famous Duke of Buckingham himself, while amba.s.sador in Paris, in a wild frolic had pa.s.sed through the whole of the royal palace disguised as the White Lady.

"Some sort of disguise might not be amiss," thought Edward. "Each of these old chateaux has some superst.i.tious tale attached to it. A sheet and a little lampblack will make a very good ghost. But it is not yet time."

His impatience had wellnigh ruined all, however; for, just as he was about to take one of the sheets from the bed to tear a hole for his head to pa.s.s through, the servant entered his room with a fresh supply of wood.