On the 3rd of November, 1570, these two letters, ostensibly written by Don Eugenio de Peralta, were transmitted by Philip to the Duke of Alva.  They were to serve as evidence of the statement which the Governor-General was now instructed to make, that the Seigneur de Montigny had died a natural death in the fortress of Simancas.  By the same courier, the King likewise forwarded a secret memoir, containing the exact history of the dark transaction, from which memoir the foregoing account has been prepared.  At the same time the Duke was instructed publicly to exhibit the lying letters of Don Eugenio de Peralta, as containing an authentic statement of the affair.  The King observed, moreover, in his letter, that there was not a person in Spain who doubted that Montigny had died of a fever.  He added that if the sentiments of the deceased nobleman had been at all in conformity with his external manifestations, according to the accounts received of his last moments, it was to be hoped that God would have mercy upon his soul.  The secretary who copied the letter, took the liberty of adding, however, to this paragraph the suggestion, that “if Montigny were really a heretic, the devil, who always assists his children in such moments, would hardly have failed him in his dying hour.”  Philip, displeased with this flippancy, caused the passage to be erased.  He even gave vent to his royal indignation in a marginal note, to the effect that we should always express favorable judgments concerning the dead—­a pious sentiment always dearer to writing masters than to historians.  It seemed never to have occurred however to this remarkable moralist, that it was quite as reprehensible to strangle an innocent man as to speak ill of him after his decease.

Thus perished Baron Montigny, four years after his arrival in Madrid as Duchess Margaret’s ambassador, and three years after the death of his fellow-envoy Marquis Berghen.  No apology is necessary for so detailed an account of this dark and secret tragedy.  The great transactions of a reign are sometimes paltry things; great battles and great treaties, after vast consumption of life and of breath, often leave the world where they found it.  The events which occupy many of the statelier pages of history, and which have most lived in the mouths of men, frequently contain but commonplace lessons of philosophy.  It is perhaps otherwise when, by the resuscitation of secret documents, over which the dust of three centuries has gathered, we are enabled to study the internal working of a system of perfect tyranny.  Liberal institutions, republican or constitutional governments, move in the daylight; we see their mode of operation, feel the jar of their wheels, and are often needlessly alarmed at their apparent tendencies.  The reverse of the picture is not always so easily attainable.  When, therefore, we find a careful portrait of a consummate tyrant, painted by his own hand, it is worth our while to pause for a moment, that we may carefully peruse the lineaments.  Certainly, we shall afterwards not love liberty the less.