Marjorie Bowen
I Will Maintain
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Table of contents
PART I JOHN DE WITT, REPUBLICAN
CHAPTER I THE IDEALS OF M. DE WITT
CHAPTER II THE INTRIGUERS
CHAPTER III MASTER AND PUPIL
CHAPTER IV M. DE WITT’S SECRETARY
CHAPTER V THE CHALLENGE
CHAPTER VI MIDDELBURG
CHAPTER VII THE MANIFESTO
CHAPTER VIII M. DE WITT AND HIS HIGHNESS
CHAPTER IX AMALIA OF SOLMS
CHAPTER X AT THE HOUSE OF M. LE MARQUIS DE POMPONNE
CHAPTER XI THE BALL IN THE BINNENHOF
CHAPTER XII THE SPY OF FRANCE
PART II THE PRINCE
CHAPTER I THE RETURN OF FLORENT VAN MANDER
CHAPTER II AGNETA DE WITT
CHAPTER III SCHEVENINGEN
CHAPTER IV THE DEFEAT OF M. DE WITT
CHAPTER V THE DECLARATION OF WAR
CHAPTER VI THE CONSPIRATORS
CHAPTER VII THE POLICY OF M. DE WITT
CHAPTER VIII SOLEBAY
CHAPTER IX THE EMBASSY OF M. DE GROOT
CHAPTER X THE VICOMTE DE MONTBAS
CHAPTER XI IN TIME OF WAR
CHAPTER XII AFTER THE DEFEAT
CHAPTER XIII THE FANATICS
PART IIITHE CRISIS
CHAPTER I THE CAMP OF THE CONQUEROR
CHAPTER II THE TEMPTERS
CHAPTER III THE ANSWER
CHAPTER IV THE WILL OF THE PEOPLE
CHAPTER V CORNELIUS DE WITT
CHAPTER VI THE RESTORATION
CHAPTER VII “I WILL MAINTAIN”
CHAPTER VIII THE STADTHOLDER
CHAPTER IX IN THE ASSEMBLY
CHAPTER X THE VICTOR VANQUISHED
CHAPTER XI THE FALLEN STATESMAN
CHAPTER XII AUGUST 20, 1672
CHAPTER XIII WILLIAM OF ORANGE
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 famous
coup d’état that
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.
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Lesen Sie weiter in der vollständigen Ausgabe!
Lesen Sie weiter in der vollständigen Ausgabe!
Lesen Sie weiter in der vollständigen Ausgabe!
Lesen Sie weiter in der vollständigen Ausgabe!
Lesen Sie weiter in der vollständigen Ausgabe!
Lesen Sie weiter in der vollständigen Ausgabe!
Lesen Sie weiter in der vollständigen Ausgabe!
Lesen Sie weiter in der vollständigen Ausgabe!
Lesen Sie weiter in der vollständigen Ausgabe!
Lesen Sie weiter in der vollständigen Ausgabe!
Lesen Sie weiter in der vollständigen Ausgabe!
Lesen Sie weiter in der vollständigen Ausgabe!
Lesen Sie weiter in der vollständigen Ausgabe!
Lesen Sie weiter in der vollständigen Ausgabe!
Lesen Sie weiter in der vollständigen Ausgabe!
Lesen Sie weiter in der vollständigen Ausgabe!
Lesen Sie weiter in der vollständigen Ausgabe!
Lesen Sie weiter in der vollständigen Ausgabe!
Lesen Sie weiter in der vollständigen Ausgabe!
Lesen Sie weiter in der vollständigen Ausgabe!
Lesen Sie weiter in der vollständigen Ausgabe!
Lesen Sie weiter in der vollständigen Ausgabe!
Lesen Sie weiter in der vollständigen Ausgabe!
Lesen Sie weiter in der vollständigen Ausgabe!
Lesen Sie weiter in der vollständigen Ausgabe!
Lesen Sie weiter in der vollständigen Ausgabe!
Lesen Sie weiter in der vollständigen Ausgabe!
Lesen Sie weiter in der vollständigen Ausgabe!
Lesen Sie weiter in der vollständigen Ausgabe!
Lesen Sie weiter in der vollständigen Ausgabe!
Lesen Sie weiter in der vollständigen Ausgabe!
Lesen Sie weiter in der vollständigen Ausgabe!
Lesen Sie weiter in der vollständigen Ausgabe!
Lesen Sie weiter in der vollständigen Ausgabe!
Lesen Sie weiter in der vollständigen Ausgabe!
Lesen Sie weiter in der vollständigen Ausgabe!
Lesen Sie weiter in der vollständigen Ausgabe!