I Will Maintain
I Will Maintain PART I JOHN DE WITT, REPUBLICANCHAPTER I THE IDEALS OF M. DE WITTCHAPTER II THE INTRIGUERSCHAPTER III MASTER AND PUPILCHAPTER IV M. DE WITT’S SECRETARYCHAPTER V THE CHALLENGECHAPTER VI MIDDELBURGCHAPTER VII THE MANIFESTOCHAPTER VIII M. DE WITT AND HIS HIGHNESSCHAPTER IX AMALIA OF SOLMSCHAPTER X AT THE HOUSE OF M. LE MARQUIS DE POMPONNECHAPTER XI THE BALL IN THE BINNENHOFCHAPTER XII THE SPY OF FRANCEPART II THE PRINCECHAPTER I THE RETURN OF FLORENT VAN MANDERCHAPTER II AGNETA DE WITTCHAPTER III SCHEVENINGENCHAPTER IV THE DEFEAT OF M. DE WITTCHAPTER V THE DECLARATION OF WARCHAPTER VI THE CONSPIRATORSCHAPTER VII THE POLICY OF M. DE WITTCHAPTER VIII SOLEBAYCHAPTER IX THE EMBASSY OF M. DE GROOTCHAPTER X THE VICOMTE DE MONTBASCHAPTER XI IN TIME OF WARCHAPTER XII AFTER THE DEFEATCHAPTER XIII THE FANATICSPART IIITHE CRISISCHAPTER I THE CAMP OF THE CONQUERORCHAPTER II THE TEMPTERSCHAPTER III THE ANSWERCHAPTER IV THE WILL OF THE PEOPLECHAPTER V CORNELIUS DE WITTCHAPTER VI THE RESTORATIONCHAPTER VII “I WILL MAINTAIN”CHAPTER VIII THE STADTHOLDERCHAPTER IX IN THE ASSEMBLYCHAPTER X THE VICTOR VANQUISHEDCHAPTER XI THE FALLEN STATESMANCHAPTER XII AUGUST 20, 1672CHAPTER XIII WILLIAM OF ORANGECopyright
I Will Maintain
Marjorie Bowen
PART I JOHN DE WITT, REPUBLICAN
“
A man of unwearied industry, inflexible constancy, sound,
clear, and deep understanding and untainted integrity; so that
whenever he was blinded, it was by the passion that he had for that
which he esteemed the good and interest of the State.”—Sir William
Temple,Observations on the United
Provinces, 1672.
CHAPTER I THE IDEALS OF M. DE WITT
“There is one subject that we seldom touch upon,” said Sir
William. “And that is one upon which I am curious to hear you
speak.”John de Witt looked up quickly.
“Ah, sir,” he smiled faintly. “You are of a probing
disposition—what is this subject?”
“The Prince.”
“The Prince—” repeated M. de Witt, and an intent expression
that might have been trouble came into his full brown eyes. “What
is there to say of His Highness?” he added.The English Ambassador laughed in the soft and pleasant way
he had; he was standing by the long window, and, as he answered,
glanced out at the wych elms and pale sunshine that filled the
garden of M. de Witt.
“The situation is piquant—between good friends you must allow
it——”The Grand Pensionary rose.
“Between good friends, Sir William, the situation is
dangerous. I am aware of it—but the Prince—the Prince is only a
child.”Sir William moved from the window with a little
shiver.
“Your Dutch weather!” he said. “I think the damp has got into
my very bones——”
“But you like the house?” asked de Witt “It hath a large
garden for the children when they stay with me—and since it was not
possible to remain where I was, I thought I could do no
better.”Sir William answered gently, aware of the allusion, veiled
under commonplace words, to the late death of Wendela de Witt. It
seemed to him, composed and close observer as he was, even of his
friends, that the Grand Pensionary had changed more than a little
since he had lost his wife.
“It is a noble mansion,” he said. “I could be selfish enough
to wish this library at Sheen.”He looked, with the approval of a fine taste, round the lofty
apartment panelled in mellow-hued, carved wood, and lined with
shelves filled with rare and costly volumes; a few handsome
portraits hung above the bookcases, and over the high chimney-piece
a rich but sombre picture of fruit and flowers showed; on the
blue-tiled hearth were brass andirons, and on the table in the
centre of the chamber candlesticks were set, also brass, but
polished so that they shone like gold.At a small desk by the far window sat a secretary in a dark
dress, writing.
“The house hath been a palace,” continued Sir
William.
“Therefore should not be the residence of a republican?”
smiled John de Witt. “Nay,” he added simply, “the house is well
enough, but I took it for the garden; and now you look on my one
luxury—my books—for the rest the furnishings are simple—too simple
for Cornelia’s taste, as she will tell you if you stay to
dinner,—nay, I doubt not she tells my lady now.”Sir William crossed to one of the bookcases, took a volume
down and opened it at random. As John de Witt came up behind him,
he spoke in a low tone, looking at the book.
“Who is the new secretary?”The Grand Pensionary seemed slightly surprised.
“He?—a young man from Guelders.” He glanced to where the
person in question sat absorbed in writing. “He was recommended to
me by de Groot—he is diligent and silent—I like him.”Sir William’s white fingers slowly turned the leaves of the
volume he held.
“Then we may talk freely?”
“As always in my house.”The Englishman glanced up. His face, which was of a dark,
soft, luxurious style of indolent good looks, expressed a watchful
yet friendly kind of amusement and interest; his air was slightly
cynical, wholly pleasant, as if viewing follies that never tempted
him to participate in them he yet found them harmless and tolerated
them, good-humouredly.
“Well, then, of the Prince,” he said. “What are you going to
do?”John de Witt frowned.
“You think I am afraid of His Highness.”Sir William answered with the ready courtesy that took all
appearance of sincerity from his speech—
“All Europe knows that you are afraid of nothing—yet, for
Holland’s sake, you might tremble a little now.”The cloud did not lift from the Grand Pensionary’s noble
face. He put out his hand and rested it on the edge of one of the
bookshelves, and his delicate fingers tapped restlessly on the
polished wood.
“Diplomacy as well as friendship dictates frankness to me,”
he answered in his slow, stately, yet gentle way,—“nor is there
much I could conceal from such an observer as yourself, Sir
William. The Orange party have wearied me, have thwarted me, have
alarmed me; I find them unreasonable, powerful and dangerous—I
speak of the party, not of the Prince.”
“Why not of him?”
“I have no right. He has ever shown himself quiet, tractable,
obedient,” was the quick reply. “We have never had to complain of
his behaviour.”
“Yet he is the focus for much discontent,” smiled the
Englishman, “the magnet for much ambition.”The Grand Pensionary smiled also, uplifting his melancholy
eyes.
“His Highness is but seventeen, immersed in study, brought up
as a republican—I think he is even ignorant of these agitations in
his name. He could not live more quietly.”But it did not escape Sir William that the Grand Pensionary
spoke like a man trying to reassure himself.
“The Prince is your pupil—forgive me, but, as I said, the
situation is curious. You, sir, a republican—for seventeen years
the head of a Republic which has been a fine nation, and a wealthy,
and a lesson to all of us—you undertake the education of a Prince
who is the heir of the House on whose ruin you founded your
Republic; you bring this young man up in your ideas, you teach him
this, that, as you will; you are not his master but his friend—he
is to regard himself as a mere citizen of the country that is his
heritage—well, it is a curious experiment, Mynheer de
Witt.”The Grand Pensionary answered quietly—
“I have done all I can—since we speak privately, not as
politicians, I will say that I have no hope to always exclude His
Highness from all power. I think that when he comes of age he will
obtain the command of the army; nor do I regret it—the House of
Orange has rendered such service to Holland that there should be
some gratitude, some trust shown this Prince.”Sir William closed the book he held and replaced it on the
shelf.
“Meanwhile I train him to serve his country,” continued de
Witt, with a faint smile.
“You serve your country well, Mynheer,” remarked the
Englishman, watching him.
“I serve my ideals,” said the Grand Pensionary.The Englishman very slightly shrugged his
shoulders.
“In these days!—you have been successful, but I should watch
this little Prince——”
“We stand firm—The Triple Alliance, the treaty of Breda—the
Perpetual Edict,” quoted de Witt.The diplomat who had framed the first had never approved of
the last.
“There you went too far,” he said.
“There I secured the liberty of Holland,” answered the Grand
Pensionary, still with that faint smile on his full, finely cut
mouth, “and made impossible a recurrence of 1650—this Prince’s
father brought his troops to the gates of Amsterdam, no man shall
do that again; by abolishing the office of Stadtholder I do away
with the fear of a king, and so, sir, secure my
Republic.”
“Amen to that,” answered Sir William. “You have the
confidence of the idealist. I love you for it, but I cannot be so
sanguine—the Prince, if he is heir to nothing else, hath the name,
the prestige, and that is a strange spell to work with the
people.”He looked, as he spoke, with the interest of the worldly man
at a noble simplicity he admires but cannot comprehend. John de
Witt was his friend, they had much in common, respected each
other’s character and talents, but Sir William Temple had never
ceased to marvel at John de Witt.The Grand Pensionary was silent; a deep thoughtfulness came
into his face. The Englishman watched him, smiling a little
coldly.
“Do you think that I am not loved in the United Provinces?”
asked de Witt suddenly.Sir William fingered the ends of his cravat. The other did
not wait for an answer so leisurely composed.
“This young man is popular—it sometimes seems, Sir William,
as if he was heir to the heart of the people——”
“He has the name.”
“The name!—and, with the people, is not that everything? I
think nothing weighs against the name. The Prince does little to
make himself beloved, but there are those who clamour for him as if
he owned his ancestor’s virtues with his ancestor’s titles.” And
again M. de Witt repeated, “the name!”Then, as if resolute to close the subject, he laid his hand
familiarly on Sir William’s velvet sleeve.
“Will you not come into the garden?—the gardens, I have two
that open into one. But you know too much, my poor trees will be
shamed.”They crossed the room and stepped out of the high window. The
young secretary from Guelders leant back in his chair and watched
them walking under the elms.Not a word of their conversation had been lost on him, and
now that he could no longer hear what they said he pondered, in his
quick yet laborious way, over their previous speech.He had been in M. de Witt’s service a week. It was in the
course of his duty to overhear diplomatic talk, to read, and make
notes on, political papers, and, though he had always considered
himself well informed, he began to find that what was knowledge in
Guelders was ignorance at the Hague.He reviewed, rather sourly, the change in his feelings this
week had brought about. He had been so proud of the post, so
grateful for de Groot’s recommendation, so confident of what his
own energy and industry would do for him; and now he did not feel
at all confident.Not that his trust in himself was diminished; but he had
already begun to doubt if he had taken his services to the best
market or pledged himself to the most profitable of
masters.He bit his quill and fixed his eyes on M. de Witt, who was
standing, not far away, on the gravel path talking to his
companion.The secretary marked with a calculating glance the Grand
Pensionary’s stately figure, clothed sombrely in black, his pale
oval face, under jawed, the full but curiously firm and clean-cut
mouth shaded by the slight moustache, the large, weary brown eyes,
the high brow over which fell the soft dark hair that was just
beginning to be touched with grey, and contrasted his melancholy,
noble air with the vivacious ease of the splendid Englishman whose
rich comeliness was enhanced by his elegant and costly
dress.As he looked, the young man from Guelders wondered. M. de
Witt had been Grand Pensionary of the United Provinces for
seventeen years; the secretary had long taken him for granted as
something always there, immovable as the law he represented, and
had no more questioned the authority than he had the power of this
first magistrate of the Republic.Only with difficulty and by forcing his mind back to his
childhood could he recall something of the famouscoup d’étatthat had made M. de Witt
head of the State.He recollected dimly the excitement that had filled the
country when the young Stadtholder, William the Second, had tried
to seize Amsterdam and the absolute power of a king. He remembered
going with other boys of his own age to break the windows of a
house that had sported Orange favours, and being rebuked by the
minister, and made to stay longer in the gaunt white church praying
for strength to curb his feelings.He remembered, too, the news of the sudden death of the
Prince who had threatened their liberties, and how they had thanked
God for it solemnly. After that there had been the Republic, which
he had taken unquestioningly. M. de Witt stood for the United
Provinces; as for the last Prince of Orange, born after his
father’s death, the heir of a fallen House, the secretary had never
heard much of him. There had been quarrels as to his education
between M. de Witt and his uncle the Elector, between his
grandmother and his mother the English Princess.…The secretary remembered hearing, without interest, of the
death of this lady in England, and of how her son, more than ever a
State prisoner, was being educated by M. de Witt.There seemed no reason why he, Florent Van Mander, of the
town of Arnheim, a prudent, able young Dutchman, honourably and
profitably employed in the service of the Grand Pensionary, should
be so laboriously recalling every detail he had ever heard of
William of Orange.But two things had taken hold of a nature naturally
observant, cautious, yet energetic and aspiring: the first was the
conviction that M. de Witt held a position by no means as secure as
it seemed, a position that, despite the treaty of Breda, despite
the Triple Alliance, was one that he, the new secretary, must watch
carefully if he would not be entangled in a falling cause; and the
second was the impression that this youth, the son of the late
Stadtholder, was a latent force in Holland that might one day
become tremendous, overwhelming.
“He has the name,” Sir William Temple had said, and the words
had seized Florent Van Mander’s slow but not dull imagination. He
thought that the Englishman had expressed less than he felt, and
longed to hear him again on the subject.He had only seen Sir William twice, but there was something
in his easy, almost careless, manner, in the slightly disdainful
shrewdness of his remarks, that inspired the secretary with a
respect he did not entertain for John de Witt. He had an
uncomfortable feeling that the Grand Pensionary was a man who might
be, without much difficulty, fooled.
“I serve my ideals,” he had said.That annoyed Van Mander. He had not a very clear conception
of an idealist, but he was tolerably certain that no man could be
one and still be successful in a practical way, and it had struck
him as a pointless and rather weak thing to say—“I serve my
ideals.”He had noted other remarks, too, of the same trend; a certain
loftiness of outlook, an unworldly tolerance of detraction and
malice, that did not please him. He would have preferred a master
more eagerly alive to his own advantage, more conscious of evil in
others and prepared to fight it on its own grounds.Sir William had also said other things that remained in the
young secretary’s mind. He had spoken of the curious situation, the
Republican Minister instructing and watching the Prince—at once
tutor and jailer—and Florent Van Mander thought that it was indeed
curious, and a little foolish, too, on the part of John de
Witt.And there were yet other aspects of the situation that the
previous conversation had not touched on, but which were
nevertheless present to the roused mind of the
secretary.This Prince was cousin of the King of France, a figure of
dazzling and alarming greatness, and nephew of the King of England;
and both these were of an aspect menacing to the Republic,
true—there was the Triple Alliance, but——The young secretary became aware that he had bitten his pen
till it was split and useless, and he laid it down with a vexed
look. He greatly disliked to do anything careless or unmethodical,
or even to become absorbed in reflections not in themselves
necessary to present business.He took out another quill, mended it, and glanced again out
of the window.The Grand Pensionary and Sir William had been joined by
Agneta de Witt—a pale, graceful, fragile-looking child—and Cornelia
Van Bicker, the mistress of the house.Looking at these ladies moving under the shifting, pale
shadows of the trees, the young man’s rather hard eyes softened. He
had the Dutchman’s intense respect for domestic affections, and to
think of the recent death of Wendela de Witt moved him. He had
never seen her, but he knew that she had been good and gentle,
patient and adoring, like her daughter Agneta, and he guessed at
the great loneliness that her loss had left in the heart of John de
Witt. He thought of it whenever he saw her sister, Cornelia Van
Bicker, or one of her quiet, sweet-voiced children.As he watched, the little party turned towards the house, Sir
William in his blue-and-gold velvet ruffled with ribbon, his heavy
curls falling round his handsome face, walking beside the Grand
Pensionary, who had no relief to his black garments save his broad
linen collar, and between them the little figure of Agneta in her
white gown and prim cap, holding herself soberly, while before them
moved the sister of Wendela de Witt, self-contained, plainly
dressed, with the fading, changing, sunlight flickering over her
dark dress.Florent Van Mander returned to the letter he was copying, for
he observed the Grand Pensionary was leaving the others and
returning to the library.When M. de Witt opened the window and entered, he rose,
waiting his instructions.
“I have finished these documents, Mynheer,” he said, pointing
to some papers given him by another secretary. “Van Ouvenaller
thought they should be copied in case you care to submit them to
Their High Mightinesses.”
“What are they?” asked John de Witt. He always spoke gently
and courteously; to-night Van Mander found himself noticing
it.
“Letters from the Provinces, Mynheer,” he answered, “dealing
with the riots in the name of the Prince of Orange——”
“Ah, that.” The Grand Pensionary frowned thoughtfully. “The
burgomasters should be able to deal with it.”
“It seems in Zeeland——”
“You have a letter from Zeeland?”
“From Mynheer Van Teel—one Michael Tichelaer is inciting the
people to violence in Middelburg.”
“Michael Tichelaer,” M. de Witt repeated thoughtfully. “Yes,
I remember the man—I must write to Mynheer Van Teel.” He paused a
moment, then added, “I fear we are too lenient.”The secretary sorted and neatly arranged the papers. It was
not his place to offer comment, but there were many things that he
burned to say.Meanwhile the Grand Pensionary was regarding him with a
kindly if remote interest. The young man had been warmly
recommended for zeal and industry, and so far he had found both; he
saw too, for himself, resolution and capacity in the blunt, firm
features, in the alert grey eyes and erect figure.
“You are satisfied with your position, Mynheer Van Mander?”
he asked.
“Quite, Mynheer,”—the secretary precisely tied the ribbons of
the portfolio,—“is it not an enviable one?”
“You may make it so,” answered John de Witt quietly, yet with
a kind of glow in his voice, “—because you are in the way to serve
your country, and that is indeed an enviable thing.”Florent Van Mander was silent. His country was not much in
his thoughts; he meant to serve success.
“I think there is nothing more to-night,” said M. de Witt.
“You will be wishing to get home—have you comfortable lodgings?” he
added kindly.
“Yes, Mynheer, in the Kerkestraat.”
“You must dine with us soon. Will you leave out the letter
from Middelburg? I need not remind you to be early in the
morning—there is somewhat to do. Good-night, Mynheer.”
“Good-night, Mynheer.”M. de Witt smiled in his melancholy, half tender, half
distant fashion and left the room.Florent Van Mander put away the papers, setting aside in an
upper drawer the letter from Van Teel, locked the desk and placed
the key on his watch-chain.The sunlight in the garden was taking on a deeper hue and
flushing the walls of the library and the well-filled bookcases to
a red-gold colour; the leaves of the wych elms shook in a
trembling, joyous kind of life and motion in the strong yet gentle
breeze that was arising.The deep, solemn chimes of the Groote Kerk struck
six.It was later than the secretary had supposed; he usually had
his dinner at this hour. He took his eyes from the quiet beauty of
the garden and hastened to leave the house.The dining-room door was open as he passed down the hall, and
he had a glimpse of the company gathered round the plainly
furnished table. John de Witt at the head of it, saying grace with
an earnest composure; Cornelia Van Bicker standing with folded
hands, the bright English face of Lady Temple above her falling
lace collar; and Sir William, tolerant, good-humouredly amused and
placid.The young secretary passed out into the street. The sunshine
was pleasant down the Kneuterdyk Avenue, bright in the windows of
the houses opposite, and gay in the trees that were just turning a
faint tint of yellow. A saltish breeze touched Van Mander’s face,
it was blowing straight across the flat country, up from the sea at
Scheveningen, and brought with it memories of the dunes, the sand,
and the foam.An unnamable, an unreal excitement stole into the blood that
usually ran so coolly; just as if the young man had suddenly heard
commanding music or seen a flag flung out against the sky. This
feeling had been with him slightly ever since he had entered the
service of John de Witt; to-night it culminated.In the Englishman’s words, he thought—
“He has the name.”Florent Van Mander could not forget that remark nor the tone
in which it was spoken. It seemed to give the clue to his own
restlessness, his curiosity as to the Prince—his discontent with
his new master.The name!The sense of it, the power, were about him in the keen
breeze, in the sunlit trees, in the whole atmosphere of the royal
Hague.As he turned home he repeated it to himself—
“William of Orange.…”
CHAPTER II THE INTRIGUERS
Florent Van Mander, comfortable after his dinner, sitting at
his open window smoking, and watching the people pass up and down
the Kerkestraat, was surprised, not disagreeably, by the servant
entering his solitude to announce a visitor owning a foreign name
she stumbled over.Hyacinthe St. Croix—Van Mander had known him in Arnheim when
he himself was a magistrate’s clerk there, ambitious, with an eye
on the Hague, and the Frenchman a half disavowed agent of the
Marquis de Pomponne, some one who had travelled the Provinces
several times already, observing, noting, making acquaintances and
gathering information where he could.The young secretary called for candles—he had been sitting in
the dark—and closed the window.On the heels of the maid with the lights came St. Croix,
better dressed, more self-confident, more assured in manner than
formerly.The two greeted each other formally.
“I did not know that you were at the Hague,” said Van Mander.
“How did you find me?”The Frenchman laid his hat and gloves on one of the
high-backed chairs.
“I was passing through Arnheim the other day—I called upon
your uncle and he told me. You have a good post.”Florent put a chair for his guest and took one himself the
other side of the small dark table; between them stood the two
heavy branch candlesticks, glimmering each in the light of the
other candles that illuminated the small, neat room with its deep
window-seat, polished wood furniture, plain engravings on the walls
and Delft pottery on the chimney-piece.Florent refilled his pipe and invited the other to smoke. The
two long clays soon filled the chamber with slow, fragrant
smoke.
“So you are in the service of M. de Witt,” remarked St.
Croix.
“Yes.”The Frenchman smiled as he pondered on the best means of
getting what he wanted from the laconic Dutchman; it was
astonishingly difficult, he found, to deal with a nation so blunt
and so reserved.In the silence that followed Florent stared at him stolidly,
marking every detail of his appearance, his short red jacket of the
newest French fashion showing the laced shirt beneath, the cravat
and ruffles of lace, the silk stockings and shoes with ribbon
rosettes, the frizzled, fair hair that framed the small-featured,
rather insignificant face of Hyacinthe St. Croix.Van Mander had the national contempt of foreign luxury, but
these signs of prosperity annoyed him in a slow kind of way. He
knew St. Croix was of the small gentry, no better born than
himself, and not so long ago no better dressed; now he contrasted
this gay attire with his own serviceable grey and worsted hose, and
wished he had been the one to find such profitable
employment.
“How do you like M. de Witt?” asked St. Croix
suddenly.
“Very well,” said Florent.The Frenchman regarded him out of narrowed eyes, and asked
again, with equal abruptness—
“Have you seen the Prince of Orange?”
“No.”
“But you have heard, since you have been at the Hague, a
great deal of him?”
“I have heard of him,” answered Florent.St. Croix laid down his pipe.
“You have drawn your own conclusions, of course,” he said.
“You were always shrewd.”Florent was flattered and excited; he managed to show neither
feeling.
“I have drawn some conclusions,” was all he
admitted.
“On the position of the Prince—and of M. de
Witt?”
“I have only been at the Hague a week——”But Hyacinthe St. Croix knew fairly well the man he dealt
with.
“Come,” he said in an intimate tone that swept aside evasion,
“you know as well as I do that this Government must
fall.”The words gave the young secretary a shock. He sat silent,
sucking his pipe, not wishing to admit that he was
startled.The Frenchman leant back calmly in his chair.
“The whole feeling of the country is against M. de Witt,” he
continued. “You must have seen it.”It occurred to Florent, in a vague, impersonal sort of way,
that the Grand Pensionary’s secretary had no right to be listening
to these things, or even to be speaking at all to a Frenchman
intriguing for his Ambassador; but he told himself that he served
success, and success did not seem to lie with M. de
Witt.
“Yet we are at peace at home and abroad,” he remarked, to
probe the other.St. Croix smiled.
“You think of the Triple Alliance,” he said.
“True—only signed this year,” returned Florent. “Still there
is always France.”
“Also do not be too sure of England,” said St. Croix.
“Despite the Triple Alliance—she stands very well with France—I
could tell you something——”Florent Van Mander looked him straight in the
face.
“Do you mean that France and England might combine for the
restoration of the Prince of Orange?”The Frenchman lifted his eyebrows.
“Upon conditions—they might. If there were a war what could
M. de Witt do?”Van Mander thought a moment.
“He beat England in ’56—but now——”
“He could do nothing against France—that is
obvious.”
“Yes, it is obvious,” admitted Florent.
“And the prospect is threatening.”
“I know——”
“Well, you see the part the Prince will play?”There was a little pause, then the Dutchman said
slowly—
“He is King Louis’ cousin and King Charles’
nephew——”
“You take me,” replied St. Croix, “the Prince is related to
their Majesties—and he has no cause to love M. de
Witt.”Florent drew a quick breath.
“You think he … would work for France?”
“Can there be a doubt of it?” smiled St. Croix.There was no answer from Florent. He laid down his pipe and
sat still, considering.Rumours, whispers, hints were taking at last tangible form:
this young prisoner, pupil of M. de Witt, was to be the instrument
to deliver the country into the rapacious hands of France. Well,
there was little cause to wonder; indeed he had almost guessed it.
The Prince had, as St. Croix said, little cause to love either M.
de Witt or his Republic.He raised his grey eyes and looked into the Frenchman’s
face—
“These are strange things to say to a Dutchman and a servant
of M. de Witt.”St. Croix answered quickly—
“But you serve success.”At these words, that he did not recall having ever uttered to
this man, Florent was again silent. It was perfectly true; he was
at the beginning of his career and ambitious; he had no desire to
follow a falling cause. The Republic was no more to him than the
Prince, he told himself; and there was no reason that he should
not, out of the crisis that threatened, earn a place and
distinction for himself.St. Croix observed him closely. He was not afraid of having
said too much, for he had read his man, some years before, in
Guelders.
“It seems I serve the wrong master now,” said Florent at
last, with a grim set to his mouth. “I must not look out for
fortune in the train of M. de Witt.”The Frenchman answered slowly and with meaning—
“There is fortune, and great fortune, to be found in the
service of M. de Witt, by men like you who know how to look for
it.…”Once more Florent was silent. He kept his eyes fixed on the
dark surface of the table, where the reflected lights of the
candles glimmered. He thought that he understood.
“The Prince,” continued St. Croix, “and the power behind the
Prince, can be very well served by one in the pay of M. de
Witt.”Florent was now sure that he understood. Not by being loyal
to his master, but by betraying him was he to satisfy his
ambitions. The way of success lay not with the Grand Pensionary—but
with the Prince, who was another name for France.For the moment his instinct was to resent this calm
suggestion that he was the willing instrument of foreign intrigue,
but quick reflection showed him the folly of it. St. Croix knew
him; some time past, in Guelders, he had taken money for such
information of Dutch politics as he could command. His hesitation
took another form.
“How am I to know that this Prince of yours is worth
serving—at a risk?” he said.
“You know that France is worth serving.”
“Buat died,” remarked Florent dryly, “for tampering with
France.”
“Buat was a fool,” returned St. Croix; “and we do not want
any knight-errantry from you—one of M. de Witt’s secretaries cannot
fail to be useful—you will see how.”
“Yes, I see how,” answered Florent; “but at present M. de
Witt represents the Government and the law, and the Prince is a
powerless cipher——”
“Not so powerless; we are in touch with him, he commands a
section of the nobles—and he has the name.”Florent, hearing again the words used by Sir William Temple,
started inwardly. It was curious that the name that owed its
prestige and its weight to the fact that it was the name of the man
who had first given Holland her liberty was to be used now to aid
in her downfall.
“He is a boy,” said Van Mander quickly. “He has been brought
up by M. de Witt—educated as a republican——”St. Croix smiled.
“Is M. de Witt clever enough to train a prince into a
commoner? I do not think so.”Interest shone in Florent’s grey eyes.
“How far has the Prince gone—with France?”
“He is of an extraordinary caution—he will not commit himself
while he is in the power of M. de Witt, but take it from me that he
does not love him.… Has he cause to?—after the Act of Exclusion?…
His only hope lies in England and France, and he knows
it.”
“You confirm what I have ever heard,” answered Florent. “The
Prince is only a figure-head,—a cloak to cover the designs of
France.”St. Croix nodded.
“Put it so if you will. And now,” he instinctively lowered
his voice, “I come to the main object of my visit.”A little colour flushed Florent’s face. He had wondered from
the first what particular meaning there could be in St. Croix
seeking him out. His position was one of power certainly, if put to
a traitorous use, but De Pomponne must have many agents and spies.
He waited.
“You will understand,” continued St. Croix, leaning forward
across the table, “that the Prince is kept very close. His
governor, his tutors, his gentlemen, are all M. de Witt’s men and
practically his jailers. He cannot go abroad unattended nor receive
any one alone; his letters are read—his movements, his speech,
watched. It is almost impossible for us to convey to him any
message—M. le Marquis de Pomponne’s audiences are formal, and
always under the eye of some creature of M. de Witt,—here you can
help us.”Florent still waited. He would not, on the first asking, have
betrayed M. de Witt wholesale, but he was not averse to some
service to the other side.The Frenchman smoothed down the ruffles at his wrist, keeping
his eyes on his listener.
“M. de Witt visits the Prince almost every day—Tuesday
afternoons he devotes to instructing him in politics, afterwards
going to the assembly in the Binnenhof. It is his practice to take
one of his secretaries with him—it would be possible for this man
to convey a packet to the Prince.”Florent answered quietly, but his eyes shone—
“You want me to try?”
“Yes.”
“A servant of the Prince whom we have used,” St. Croix went
on, “as a go-between has lately been suspected, and dismissed by M.
de Witt; we are hard put to it for a means to communicate with the
Prince.”Florent straightened himself in the stiff chair. To-morrow
was Tuesday.
“Van Ouvenaller accompanied M. de Witt last week,” he said.
“I think it very likely that M. de Witt will request me to do so
this—but I shall be left in the antechamber.…”St. Croix shrugged his shoulders.
“As to that—you must find your chance—better wait than risk
detection.… I leave it to your discretion.”
“I am not imprudent,” smiled Florent. “Give me the packet—if
I go I will attempt it; if not I can, as you say,
wait.…”The Frenchman took a thick, folded letter from the inner
lining of his red coat and laid it on the table between
them.
“If that reach His Highness safely it will be a service M. de
Pomponne will not forget,” he said impressively.
“I will do my best,” answered Florent, “but I still value my
place; while M. de Witt is Grand Pensionary I think it worth while
to be in his good graces.”Hyacinthe St. Croix rose.
“France has her heel on Europe,” he said. “With the help of
this little Prince she will have the United Provinces—” he began to
pull on his fringed gloves—“I give this Government two—three
years—no more.”
“There is England,” remarked Florent, still thinking of the
Triple Alliance.
“England—like Sweden—may take her price,” returned St.
Croix.Florent rose too.
“The politics of this land are shaken up and down like sand
tossed in the palm,” he said, as if he had suddenly roused himself.
“I am in the employ of the Government, but in no way bound to any
master—tell M. le Marquis de Pomponne so—as M. de Witt’s secretary
I know something.…”
“How much?” asked St. Croix, lacing his gloves.Florent answered steadily—
“I know that M. de Witt is afraid.”
“Of France—of England?”
“Of William of Orange.”
“He hath good cause,” answered St. Croix. He picked up his
hat with the fine buckle, his satin-lined cloak. “I think if His
Highness once gave the signal the whole country would be in arms.
There is a strange revulsion of feeling against this ideal
republic, is there not?”Florent was taciturn again. He raised one of the brass
candlesticks.
“The stairs are very dark,” he said, and opened the door. He
made no show of friendliness or hospitality, no attempt to draw the
Frenchman. He wanted to be alone. “When shall I see you again?” he
asked.St. Croix hitched up his sword-belt.
“Better not meet here again, nor at the house of M. le
Marquis where I stay.… There is a small tavern kept by a Frenchman
near the Nieuwe Kerk—the Nieuwe Doelen he calls it—we may meet
there—say Wednesday evening—six of the clock.”Florent came out on to the landing with his visitor and held
the candle so that a flickering radiance was cast down the sombre
stairway.
“I will come if I can,” he answered slowly.
“ Au revoir,” said St. Croix, and
added some laughing commonplace for the benefit of any maid-servant
who might be in hearing.Florent waited with the light until the gay feather and
mantle had disappeared round the bend of the stairs, then he
returned to his room and took up the letter left by St. Croix. It
was sealed in three places with the Marquis de Pomponne’s signet,
and addressed formally to: “His Highness William Henry, Prince of
Orange Nassau,” etc., as if the scribe had enjoyed writing out the
fine titles.Fine titles indeed to belong to an insignificant tool of
France—but Florent at once checked that foolish reflection. The
Prince was behaving prudently, much in his way as he, Florent Van
Mander, was, in following success and securing his own ambitions.
He was doing, in fact, the one thing there was for him to do—a
bargain with France or England was his one means of
escape.Florent turned the letter over. He was curious to know
exactly what it contained; he wished that he had asked St.
Croix.He was curious, also, to see the Prince, to judge him for
himself. He thrilled with unreasonable excitement at the thought of
meeting him.A distant, threatening noise coming from the street below
made him quickly put the letter into his pocket and go to the
window.He was not in much doubt of what it was—another of those
noisy, useless Orange riots, dispersed by the train-bands and
always ignored by M. de Witt; a handful of discontented people
headed by boyish enthusiasts like the young student Jacob Van der
Graef. Florent was not greatly interested in them.He leant out of the window.Everything had faded into the heavy grey of a cloudy night;
the straight lines of the houses opposite the great tower of the
Groote Kerk, the poplar tree that rustled so persistently; a new
moon, clear out, hard, shone through the hurrying
vapours.By the street-lamps’ feeble glow Florent could see some
people running up the street towards the scene of the riot; they
carried sticks and swords, and some wore Orange
favours.He smiled cynically to himself, reflecting how little they
knew that the Prince whom they shouted for as an embodiment of all
patriotic virtue was in reality sacrificing them to their greatest
enemy, bargaining away their liberty for his personal
advancement.They are mostly fools, he thought, and shivered back from the
sea wind, closing the window.For a long while he sat silent in his comfortable room,
smoking, and staring at his own shadow the candlelight cast over
the dark walls. Once or twice he took the letter given by Hyacinthe
St. Croix out of his pocket and fingered and scrutinised it,
thinking the while—thinking.And from without came the remote sounds of the students
fighting, shouting, tussling with the train-bands in the name of
William of Orange.Florent Van Mander almost envied men who could be so
simple.
CHAPTER III MASTER AND PUPIL
“Do you accompany M. de Witt to-day?” asked Van
Ouvenaller.Florent replied without looking up—
“Yes.”
“I think he will be out of humour,” remarked the other
secretary,—“I do not mean angry, like other men, but
sad.”The note of admiration in his voice was marked. Florent
continued docketing the papers, letters from England, before him;
Van Ouvenaller, who had just entered the library, stood against the
desk looking down at him.
“It is this pastor,” he continued. “He has very ill repaid M.
de Witt’s courtesy.”
“Mynheer the Pastor Simon Simonides?” inquired Florent. “I
saw him—why did he come here?”
“By the order of Their High Mightinesses,” answered the
other, with some satisfaction, “to ask M. de Witt’s pardon for a
sermon he preached some days ago—before you came to the
Hague.”Florent glanced up.
“A treasonable sermon?”
“He strove to stir the people into sedition by accusing them
of ingratitude to the Prince of Orange, and spoke very burningly
against the Republic.”
“He looked sour and fierce,” said Florent, “but M. de Witt
was very gracious to him.”
“Too gracious,” returned Van Ouvenaller, with some heat. “He
said as sole reproof—‘Mynheer, you have outstepped your duty, which
is to heal, not to create, discord,’ and with that made him stay to
dinner. But the old man was not softened; he left as hot against us
as he had come.”
“Why should M. de Witt care?” asked Florent.Van Ouvenaller slightly smiled.
“You do not know him; he cannot bear to feel any against
him—if he thinks the people dislike, distrust him, it strikes at
his heart. It is the same with the Prince. I swear that since
Mynheer took over His Highness’ education his one idea has been to
gain his friendship.”The speaker’s worn, plain face lit; it was clear he admired
his master—to a foolish extent Florent thought.Van Ouvenaller spoke again.
“You have not seen the Prince?”
“No—I am curious.”The older secretary made no answer. He fixed his eyes on the
picture of the garden seen through the straight window, with the
afternoon sunshine in the trees and the figure of Agneta de Witt
seated in the shade, spinning, her brass-bound Bible beside
her.Florent gazed too.
“This must be dull for M. de Witt’s children.”Van Ouvenaller answered quickly—
“They do not live here, but with M. de Witt’s sister, at
Dordt. This is a visit.”
“Then without them,” smiled Florent, “this great house must
be very dull indeed.”
“It is quiet,” said Van Ouvenaller simply, “but one is too
immersed in affairs to notice it; and M. de Witt will always live
quietly now Madame de Witt is dead.”Then he drew out his watch and added, in a changed
tone—
“M. de Witt will be waiting for you—have you the
papers?”Florent put them into the red velvet bag that went daily to
and fro in the Hague, containing, as a foreigner remarked, half
scornful, half admiring, “the most important documents in Europe,”
took his hat and cloak from the wall, saluted Van Ouvenaller and
stepped into the hall. He did not need to betake himself to the
Grand Pensionary’s private cabinet, for John de Witt came down the
wide, pleasant stairs with his hat on.
“You are punctual.” He smiled, drawing on his gloves slowly.
He was entirely in black save for his falling lace collar, and
looked pale and tired. “I have been a little delayed to-day. We go
first, Mynheer Van Mander, to His Highness’ house”—he avoided
pointedly the word “palace,”—“afterwards to the
Binnenhof.”Florent ventured on no comment. He half resented the notable
simplicity with which the Grand Pensionary of the United Provinces
walked through the streets of the Hague attended only by himself
carrying the famous red bag. Of what use was power, he thought, if
it but meant the taking up of an enormous weight of cares and
anxieties and receiving in return the treatment of an ordinary
burgher citizen?John de Witt did not speak as they went along, and it was
with an absorbed, though courteous, air that he returned the many
salutations bestowed. Florent wondered what he was reflecting upon,
and if the grim unfriendliness of the old Calvinist pastor still
troubled him. Then, as they reached the low buildings of the
Palace, he snatched his own thoughts to the moment. He must have
his wits about him—there was St. Croix’s letter.They were received by Mynheer Van Ghent, the Prince’s
governor, in a fine but gloomy chamber with a painted
ceiling.Half the Palace, considered now the property of the State,
was locked up, and the Prince allowed but the use of one wing. To
Florent the room had an air of mournful splendour—built for a
palace and used as a prison—there was a sense of sombre dreariness
over the whole building; the furniture was scant and plain, there
were no pictures on the walls, and the bookcases, plain and
austere, held volumes of a severe look and character, mostly on
mathematics or tactics.A gloomy place for a young man to live in, watched by
enemies; a dreary place for a Prince to be brought up in,
surrounded by cold faces, by suspicion, distrust, and enmity; a
cheerless habitation for the heir to a ruined House, friendless,
early orphaned, and forced to guard his every word and
look.M. de Witt’s policy might be that of conciliation and
concession; he might hold out his hand sincerely, and with his
heart in it, but it was not easy to imagine life as very pleasant
for the young Prince in these stern environments.Mynheer Van Ghent talked a little with the Grand Pensionary.
Florent had heard that the Prince hated his governor; it was common
knowledge that he had fallen ill of chagrin when forced to part
with his former tutor, his uncle Mynheer de Zuylestein. Florent
therefore observed Mynheer Van Ghent closely, and found in him
nothing displeasing, but rather a kind of melancholy austerity and
a gentle demeanour.He stood a little apart from him and his master, and could
not hear what the two were saying; their voices were low and
guarded. He wondered where the Prince was; if he would see him; if
he would, possibly, be able to convey Pomponne’s
letter.…The heavy door at the end of the room, which was not far from
him, opened quietly; a young man stepped into the apartment and
closed the door after him.Florent was startled, taken aback, confused. The young man
regarded him out of a pair of remarkable eyes, gave him a slow,
mournful, unsmiling glance, and seemed to hesitate.Florent was not sure. The youth was plainly, even shabbily
dressed, and looked too grave and tall for seventeen.But de Witt turned and held out his hand.
“I find Your Highness well?” he inquired.William of Orange crossed the room.
“I am very well,” he answered respectfully. He bent his head
to his governor and to the Grand Pensionary. “Will you come into
the other room to-day, Mynheer?” he added. “I have desired a fire
there.”Florent Van Mander was studying him greedily now, cursing
himself, too, for a lost chance. That moment when the Prince
entered he could have slipped the package into his very hand if
only he had known him at first sight. He drew the letter out of his
pocket, watching the Prince the while.M. de Witt had his back to him.Certainly His Highness was tall for his age, and with none of
the awkwardness of boyhood; he was elegant rather, delicately made,
and carried himself with an air of unnatural, almost dangerous,
quiet and control.Despite his plain dress and subdued manner, he was not in the
least insignificant, but of a noticeable and princely appearance.
To Florent, even at this first glance, a personality masterful and
attractive.The three came down the room towards the secretary, the
Prince a little in advance.Florent could note his face, pale and clear complexioned,
with a high-arched nose and curved lips set firmly, wonderful eyes,
hazel green, large and brilliant under dark reddish brows, and a
low white forehead shaded with heavy auburn curls that fell on to
his linen collar,—M. de Witt’s secretary had that swift impression
of the Prince and as swift an inspiration. He stooped as if to pick
something up.
“Your Highness dropped this,” he said as the Prince reached
him. He held out his handkerchief, concealed in it the Frenchman’s
letter.William of Orange turned his head. There was a look about his
brow and mouth as if he controlled incessant pain, but neither that
nor the expression of gravity that made him appear old for his
years could destroy the charm of his youth. His eyes fixed on
Florent.
“Thank you, Mynheer,” he said, and put out his small,
aristocratic hand.Florent thrilled as their fingers touched. The Prince slipped
the handkerchief into his pocket and passed on.Now that it was done Florent marvelled that he had had the
temerity to venture it. The Prince, though he must have known that
it was not his handkerchief, and have felt at once the packet
inside the cambric, gave not the slightest sign of discomposure. It
was perfectly done; Florent saw in it the training of one brought
up amid spies and enemies—but he had risked something in taking
this youth’s prudence so for granted.The Prince did not look at the secretary again, but passed
into the next chamber with M. de Witt.As he closed the door he gave a sharp glance at the Grand
Pensionary, then crossed to a little table by the window and seated
himself there.They were in a small room, lit by a fire that burnt
pleasantly between the andirons on the blue-tiled hearth. The walls
were hung with stamped leather; in one corner stood a globe, and
beside it a desk covered with maps and plans.M. de Witt took the chair by the fireplace and turned so that
he faced the Prince. His sad, tender eyes were fixed with an almost
yearning expression on the graceful figure of the young man who,
half leaning against the desk, sat waiting, in an expressionless,
quiet attitude.The Grand Pensionary loosened his heavy cloak.
“We will have no lesson to-day, Highness,” he said. “I have
to speak of practical politics—and am here to talk gravely with
you.”
“That is as you wish, Mynheer,” answered William. He had a
voice naturally changeful and musical, but, like his eyes and his
movements, it was controlled to a cold
expressionlessness.
“I hope that it will also be your wish,” said M. de Witt,
“when I tell you that it is of the affairs of Holland I desire to
speak.”
“I am always at the disposal of Their High Mightinesses,”
replied William, with the slightest inflection of
sarcasm.John de Witt made an open gesture with his fine right hand as
if to sweep aside all formality and convention.
“It must not be like this between us, Highness,” he said,
with great gentle sweetness. “Of late you have met me somewhat
coldly. Why?”William sat up slowly, his eyes were averted.
“I have often assured you, Mynheer,” he answered, “of my duty
and affection. Have Their High Mightinesses anything to complain
of?”Again there was that faint stress on the pompous
title.M. de Witt regarded him steadily.
“I spoke for myself, Highness, thinking that the services I
have rendered you, the affection I have always felt for you might
have kept me some place in your esteem.”Still the Prince would not answer the appeal in the words,
even by raising his eyes.
“I have always striven,” he said, “to express my gratitude to
you, Mynheer, for your constant care.”There was a look almost of wonder on the noble face of M. de
Witt, as if he could hardly credit the unmoved composure of this
boy.
“I have not come, Highness, to exchange with you the language
of diplomacy,” he said.William looked up now.
“It is the only language I have had the chance to learn,
Mynheer.”John de Witt gazed at him gently and sadly.
“I have never taught you anything but frankness, Highness—I
have deserved both your trust and your affection. It has been my
dearest wish, my most cherished hope, that I might educate you to
become my friend, my ally in the government of the United
Provinces.”The Prince made the slightest movement and again averted his
eyes.
“You are no child now,” continued M. de Witt; “and must
fairly well understand your position … and mine.”
“I understand both, Mynheer,” answered William.
“You have been educated as a citizen of Holland, and it is to
the citizen of Holland that I have come to speak to-day.” M. de
Witt paused a moment. He was slightly flushed, and his voice was
full of emotion. “I have striven to make you worthy of your
grandfather and of that ancestor of yours who secured us our
liberty, and it is my wish to obtain for you those dignities that
are the heritage of your House—all that are compatible with the
safety of this Republic.”William, still looking away, spoke slowly—
“The Republic has nothing to fear from me, Mynheer. I,
surely, am of but little account in the State.”M. de Witt was observing him very closely.
“You have the name, Highness,” he said; “you must know that.
And it is a power, you must know that also. You are the heir of the
family that once ruled Holland, and you are used as the rallying
point of all the malcontents.”William glanced up with a curious, intense
expression.
“You speak very frankly, Mynheer.”
“I have no object to serve by dissimulation,” answered John
de Witt. “I come to you single-mindedly. I can claim to have always
spoken openly to you, Highness, since you first were of an age to
understand these matters.”He paused, bending his eyes on the Prince. His manner and
speech were weighty. His entire thought, his entire energy seemed
concentrated on what he said; as if he, the great and lofty
statesman, strove by sheer force of strength of character to
overwhelm, rouse, and conquer the impassive youth before
him.
“Openly I spoke to you once before, Highness. When Their High
Mightinesses passed the Perpetual Edict I told you that we
abolished the office of the Stadtholder out of regard for the
liberty of the country. I assured you of my friendship—but I told
you plainly that we would risk no recurrence of 1650.”The Prince coughed slightly and lowered his
eyes.
“I remember, Mynheer, very well.”
“And now, again, I have to speak of the safety of the United
Provinces, Highness.”William answered without moving—
“What have I to do, Mynheer, with the safety of the
State?”
“I will make that clear to you,” said John de Witt gravely.
“I cannot tell how much you know of what this party does in your
name; I refuse to believe that you encourage them——”
“Could I have been more dutiful to the State, more quiet than
I have been?” interrupted William. He gave no sign of any feeling
or agitation save that the wild-rose colour of delicate health had
deepened in his thin cheeks.
“You have been too quiet,” answered the Grand Pensionary. “I
want you to act, Highness.”He waited a second, but the Prince did not
speak.
“I am greatly troubled,” continued M. de Witt, with a stately
simplicity, “by these men who strive to hinder and oppose the
Government. You know their names, Count Frederick William, M.
Beverningh, M. Zuylestein, M. Fagel——”
“None of these are my friends save M. Zuylestein,” returned
the Prince; “and you have good cause to know, Mynheer, that I see
nothing of him——”
“M. Zuylestein left your service because I doubted his
loyalty to the Republic,” said John de Witt sternly; “and now he
works discord in Zeeland. And for the others, whether you know it
or not, they traffic in your name, Highness.”
“In what manner, Mynheer?”
“In what manner?—they meddle with France and England, they
sow dissension in the town councils, in the Assembly itself; they
riot in the street—I think that you must know it, Highness.… Every
reasonable concession hath been made, but no reasonable concession
will content them. It was agreed that the question of the
Captain-Generalship, of the seat in the Council of State, should be
postponed until you were of age; they agitate for these honours
now—you must know this also, Highness.”The Prince glanced at him sideways, then looked very quickly
down again.
“In Zeeland, where you are premier noble, your partisans make
the excuse of your titles of Ter Veere and Flushing to demand your
appearance in their council now they consider you of age.” And for
the third time he added—“You must know this,
Highness.”He paused impressively, and his eyes were dark and ardently
commanding on the Prince.William put his hand to his brow as if he made a mechanical
movement to ease a constant pain there.
“What do you wish me to do?” he asked quietly.M. de Witt answered at once—
“I want you to disown this party—they may act without your
sanction, they cannot act in face of your disapproval—I want you as
an ally, as a friend——”
“I am powerless as either, Mynheer,” returned the Prince;
“and,” he suddenly turned his wonderful eyes on the Grand
Pensionary, “since you designate these you speak of as my friends,
to what in me do you appeal to act against them?”There was a flash of imperiousness in his tone new to M. de
Witt. It was almost the manner of a king to a subject; it gave the
Grand Pensionary the bewildered sense that he, with twenty years’
experience of affairs and the management of men, was not equal to
this boy whom he had seen grow up, whom he had himself
educated.
“I appeal to you as a citizen of the Republic,” he said. “I
have not brought you up to put yourself before your country—” he
hesitated a moment before continuing, “I have always thought you of
too great a nature to prefer the phantom of personal aggrandisement
to the good of the Commonwealth——”It seemed as if, on an impulse, William was about to speak,
but he checked himself, and M. de Witt went on—
“Will you let yourself, Highness, be used to stir up faction
in the State?—will you be an instrument in the hands of ambitious
place-seekers?”
“I cannot help my birth, Mynheer,” answered the Prince, “nor
prevent the people from using my name.”He had not lowered his clear, brilliant glance, and the two
pairs of eyes met across the small, firelit room. John de Witt’s
met a fathomless, inscrutable look, and a horrible mistrust of this
too composed youth crept into his mind—a distrust he had known
before and always fought against and dismissed—But William of Orange was the nephew of Charles of England
and the cousin of Louis of France.
“I believe France meditates the destruction of the United
Provinces,” De Witt said suddenly. “Colbert envies our commerce and
King Louis is mad for conquest.… I do not trust
England.”The Prince, never altering his easy attitude, nor changing
the level tones of his voice, nor in any way taking heed of the
feeling that surged behind de Witt’s words, put his hand slowly to
his breast, where, in the pocket of his black waistcoat, lay the
letter wrapped in Florent Van Mander’s handkerchief.
“What has this to do with the object of your coming,
Mynheer?” he asked.The Grand Pensionary found the almost unnatural composure and
control of this boy agitating him; the colour came into his
face.
“France might seize any pretext,” he said. “Any pretext—if we
are to stand we must be united——”William slightly raised his fine red brows.
“So distinguished a statesman as yourself, Mynheer—will know
how to meet any misfortune that threatens you.”M. de Witt regarded him earnestly. Had he failed—had the
royal breed been too powerful for all his careful training? He
thought he traced in the commanding eyes and curved mouth of the
Prince the arrogance, the hauteur of regal blood, not so easy to
quench or overcome—had he failed?… Many had foretold he would. Had
he undertaken too confidently the task of making into a staunch,
loyal republican the heir of the oldest House in Europe, the son of
a man who had risked all in an attempt at sovereign power and of a
woman too proud to speak to a commoner.…
“You speak as if with hate of me,” he said, and there was a
half sad confession of failure in the words. “But for Holland—you
love Holland?”William was leaning against the side of his chair, resting
his hand on the arm of it.
“Both you and my country, Mynheer,” he replied, “have my duty
and my affection; my position makes me powerless to help
either.…”M. de Witt gave him a flashing glance.
“You can serve your country, Highness, by withdrawing from
all association with these noisy partisans of yours—by letting it
be known that you do not desire to be regarded as the Prince of
Orange, heir to an extinct office, but as a citizen of the United
Provinces.”The Prince coughed, and again put his hand to his head. The
delicate colour had faded from his face, he was pale to the
lips.
“You best qualify yourself for the offices that may one day
be yours by quiet study and severe application,” continued M. de
Witt. “Not by endeavouring to thrust yourself (upon the selfish
suggestions of sordid ambition) into power for which your youth
renders you unfit, and into places from which the law debars
you.”William gave one of his rare, slow smiles; it seemed to rob
the Grand Pensionary’s speech of half its weight and
meaning.
“