The Ruard returned the Prince’s salute very coldly.
“I hope Your Highness hath recovered your health sufficiently to enable you to resume your duties.”
“What are my duties?” asked William, looking at him under drooping lids. “I thought it was my misfortune to have none, Mynheer.”
“Your duties are your studies,” replied Cornelius sternly, “and obedience to M. de Witt.”
The Prince slightly smiled; his glance flickered from one man to the other. John de Witt not at all, and Cornelius only partially, guessed at the implacable resentment hidden behind his impassive exterior, and neither knew that the Ruard’s remark was one more added to those things the Prince would never forgive.
“It is with M. de Witt I wish to speak,” he said.
“I shall not disturb Your Highness.”
But John de Witt interposed.
“My brother is in the entire confidence of the States, Highness, and you may say what you have come to say before him.”
“Mynheer the Ruard may be in your confidence, M. de Witt,” replied William, still with a slight smile, “but he is not in mine.”
Cornelius took up his plumed hat and bowed proudly to the Prince.
“Good day, Your Highness. Good day, brother.”
William gave him as careless a salute as he dared and turned his back as the Ruard closed the door.
John de Witt’s just indignation was not softened by this haughtiness.
“What is the object of this visit?” he demanded. “After keeping me entirely ignorant of your movements, why do you come to my house in this informal way?”
They both remained standing; the Prince with his hand resting on the little oak table beside him.
“I wrote to you, Mynheer, from Vlaardingen, to tell you that the Princess and the Elector had declared me of age—they have notified this to the Assembly.” William spoke quietly, looking down. “Therefore I do not consider it necessary to give an account of my actions to any one.”
“Neither the Princess nor the Elector are your guardians, but the States,” replied the Grand Pensionary sternly. “And Their High Mightinesses have fixed your majority in another four years; until then, I, representing them, am responsible for your education and your behaviour. It seems, Highness, that you will make my task difficult.”
William moved to the fire and seated himself in the chair the Ruard had occupied. It was not lost on M. de Witt that he did so easily, without invitation, as if in his own house.
“By going to Middelburg you have placed yourself at the head of the Malcontents,” continued M. de Witt, “and taken upon yourself the dangerous and troublesome part of a pretender.”
“Nay, Mynheer,” William glanced up, “I pretend to nothing; I went to Middelburg to enter upon an office mine by right.”
“You had not the sanction of the State.”
“Mynheer—I was within the law—the law of the Republic,” answered the Prince. “The State of Zeeland invited me, and I saw no reason to refuse. If Their High Mightinesses consider Zeeland did amiss—it is a matter for the Assembly.”
The Grand Pensionary seated himself the other side of the hearth and fixed his deep eyes on the Prince’s composed face.
“You did a daring thing, an ill-considered thing, and, I think, a dishonourable thing,” he said.
William blushed hotly at that last epithet, and for once the effort at control showed. He was silent because he did not trust himself to speak.
“I put before you,” continued John de Witt, “the state of the country. I asked you to dissociate yourself from the faction that used your name. You evaded my frankness, you deceived my trust; while you assumed docility you were planning to raise the standard of revolt. While I was teaching you your duty to God and your country you were secretly nursing selfish, ambitious, and dangerous designs. In a word,” he made a disdainful gesture with his hand, “you deceived me.”
The Prince made a movement that tossed his violet mantle back from his shoulders.
“I have never given you my word on any matter on which I have broken it,” he said in a low voice, “nor used fair speeches. My behaviour has been what you might have looked for from a State prisoner. I have said I am grateful to you for your care, M. de Witt; I repeat it, you have my duty and my friendship.”
“What duty or friendship was it that played this stroke?” asked the Grand Pensionary.
William raised his brilliant eyes.
“I was within the law, Mynheer. That I went to claim my father’s private titles has nothing to do with affairs of State.”
“Your visit had a political complexion.”
“Who has so represented it to you? Any lord visiting his fief would receive the welcome Zeeland gave me. I could not imagine that the friendliness of people long devoted to my House could cause uneasiness to the Government.”
Their eyes met, but nothing was expressed in William’s steady glance that M. de Witt could read his words by.
“Not uneasiness to the Government, Highness,” answered the Grand Pensionary quietly, “for that is strong enough to quell whatever dissatisfaction your action may have raised, but uneasiness to me, who have your welfare at heart. I had hoped to accomplish as your friend what I may now have to perform as your adversary.”
The Prince looked into the fire. The lace on his breast was rising and falling quickly with his breathing, and his reddish, arched brows were raised slightly. John de Witt marvelled in his heart at this youth’s control; he was a little baffled by it. His desire was to take William’s manner for sincerity; experience, and the counsels of Cornelius, warned him that it might very well be diplomacy. Himself, he was using the one weapon he had used all his life, a noble, simple honesty of purpose and of speech.
“You have heard what has taken place in the Assembly?” he asked.
“Yes, Mynheer.” William drew out his laced handkerchief and pressed it to his lips. “It is concerning the measures lately passed in the Assembly that I wished to speak to you.”
“They could not please you,” said M. de Witt, half mournfully; “but you forced me.”
The Prince coughed.
“It seems you think me dangerous, Mynheer?”
John de Witt answered him directly—
“I think the position you might assume would be dangerous.”
William lifted suddenly smiling eyes.
“Were not my hopes of dominion effectually foiled by the Perpetual Edict, Mynheer, that you needed other laws to strengthen your power?”
“Not my power,” replied M. de Witt, “but the safety of the Republic.”
William pushed back the hair from his low forehead.
“Ah, you credit me with ambitions—am I not sufficiently helpless? Do you think I should intrigue for the mastery of the Seven Provinces, I—who am heir to nothing?” He gave a little smile, half bitter. “You need not have taken these precautions, M. de Witt.”
“Of what does Your Highness complain?” asked the Grand Pensionary.
William answered with a flash of repressed feeling—
“Their High Mightinesses engaged to give me the Captain Generalship when I came of age … and it has been placed in the hands of M. de Montbas.”
“You are not yet of age, Highness—youth and inexperience must wait and learn. M. de Montbas is a good soldier, and the States have confidence in him.”
The Prince’s hand closed tightly on the arm of his chair.
“And I had your promise, Mynheer, to obtain for me a seat in the Council of State, yet I hear you oppose my election——”
“By your action in Middelburg you have forfeited my favour in this matter,” replied M. de Witt. “And I am sorry.”
William bit his lip.
“You have seen the Princess Dowager,” he said.
“And won her to my views for you.”
“What are your—views, Mynheer?”
“I have told Her Highness that the States will not be forced. By premature intrigues you merely endanger the goodwill of the Republic, on which rest all your hopes.”
The Prince gave him a keen look.
“So—you will oppose me in the Assembly?” he asked, rather breathlessly.
“I shall oppose your election into the Council of State, Highness—at least till you are of age.”
“And your reason, Mynheer?”
“My reason,” replied the Grand Pensionary gravely, “is that I am the servant of this Republic and sworn to maintain it in its integrity, therefore I cannot put so much power into the hands of one who has nothing save his birth as a qualification. I am not blind to your abilities, Highness, but you are too young, and have just given proof you may be too ambitious.”
William made a little movement in his chair.
“And the Captain Generalship?” he asked.
“On that point the States are adamant, it remains in the hands of M. de Montbas—until you are of age at least.”
There was a second’s pause while William strove to contain himself, when he spoke it was in a low voice—
“I am sorry to have incurred your enmity, Mynheer.”
“Not my enmity,” returned M. de Witt, with feeling; “there you mistake me, Highness.”
“You yourself assure me of your opposition to my claims,” said the Prince. “You yourself tell me that you have withdrawn your promise in the matter of the Council of State.”
“And I have told you why: because I uphold this Republic, because I must serve what I have sworn to serve, because I cannot, on my conscience, sacrifice the liberty of many to the aggrandisement of one—because I am opposed to princely power. But this does not leave me, Highness, the less your friend.”
William was silent.
The shadows had so encroached on them that they could hardly see each other. M. de Witt himself lit the candles and placed them on the mantelshelf, where they were reflected in the tortoiseshell-framed mirror.
As the steady light filled the chamber the Grand Pensionary looked down at the Prince.
“Do you not understand,” he said, “my position, what I must, and what I shall do?”
“I understand,” answered William, “what I can not do, Mynheer.”
“I have angered you, Highness.” John de Witt spoke gently. “It is against my will—I would serve you any way I could—I would forget the unruly spirit you have shown. Is it not possible there might yet be confidence between us?”
The Prince replied as abruptly as irrelevantly—
“Mynheer, was it by your commands I was slighted at Breda?”
John de Witt’s face hardened.
“I know of no slight, Highness. It was you who treated the officers with contempt when you refused to sit down to table with them.”
“By your desire I was placed below M. de Montbas?”
“Yes, by my desire,” answered M. de Witt firmly. “Why do you refer to this incident, Highness? It was against my wish that you went to the camp, and in the matter of the banquet you behaved foolishly.”
“There was no gentleman there, as there is no gentleman in the United Provinces, above me in rank,” said the Prince, and a barely contained pride was in his eyes and voice.
“M. de Montbas is above you as the representative of the Republic and the head of the Army, Highness.”
Again William bit his lip. With the effort of keeping back the passion in his soul he flushed and quivered, fixing his eyes, that he knew often betrayed him, on the fire.
“Very well, Mynheer, I shall remember your wish, or the desire of the law, whichever I must call it.”
At the slightest touch of submission John de Witt always softened instantly.
He crossed the hearth, came behind William’s chair and laid his hand affectionately on the youth’s shoulder.
“It is difficult to be a prince in a Republic. You have, in many ways, a hard heritage; believe me, I have always understood it. We owe your House too much … of all things I detest ingratitude.… I have seen nobility in you, too. You will be worthy of your name.”
The Prince, whose perfect insight and tact had already assured him that he would obtain no concessions from the Grand Pensionary, controlled himself to a soft answer.
“This further puts me in your debt, M. de Witt,” he said, and rose, holding the mantle on his breast. “You will not find me ungrateful … if I have troubled you … you must forgive me.”
This graceful surrender surprised and touched M. de Witt.
“Indeed I have been ill,” continued William, “or I had written to you—but since I could not with my own hand, I was loath to send you a letter by a clerk.”
“I am sorry for your ill health,” said M. de Witt sincerely, “and glad that you are reasonable.”
“I trust you will never find me otherwise, Mynheer.”
All trace of ill-humour had vanished from the Prince’s manner. He could, when he chose, be charming; very few could resist him when he unbent, certainly not John de Witt.
“We will take up our interrupted studies, Highness, and I will overlook an indiscretion, as you must overlook some necessary harshness,” he smiled.
“Do not recall M. Bornius and M. de Chapuygeau,” pleaded William frankly. “Mynheer, I know all they can teach me. M. Huggens, M. Van Ghent, and yourself are sufficient tutors for me,—nay, you will do me this favour, not to put over me men whom I dislike.”
John de Witt was still smiling.
“You had no right to dismiss them, Highness, but to show my goodwill I shall obtain this favour for you.”
“I am greatly obliged to you, Mynheer.”
William was thanking him, flattering him, with his marvellous eyes, his low voice and grateful carriage.
“Will you honour me with a visit to-morrow, Mynheer?” he asked, with an air of courteous outspokenness that sat charmingly on his youth. “I have left M. Van Odyk in Middelburg to exercise those duties that will be mine when I am out of tutelage—for the rest, I beg you will forgive them.”
“Highness,” answered John de Witt, gravely and sweetly, “it is my mind ever to spend as little time as possible in looking backwards, it will be my very great happiness to forget everything save your good qualities, and to work side by side with you in the future.”
William fixed his smiling eyes on the Grand Pensionary’s face and held out his hand—
“Thank you, Mynheer, my actions shall show me not ungrateful.”
M. de Witt clasped the frail fingers warmly.
“Mr. Bromley will be tired of waiting,” said the Prince, “and I fear I have already trespassed on your kindness.”
He picked up his hat and gloves from the chair by the fire.
“Until to-morrow, Mynheer.”
The Grand Pensionary came to the door with him. The lamps were lit in the Kneuterdyk Avenue, and the invariable autumn mists were blowing coldly from the sea.
“There will be skating soon,” said William, with a little shiver.
Mr. Bromley, walking the horses up and down, stopped before the house at sight of his master.
“Good-night, Highness.”
“Good-night, M. de Witt; and again, thank you.”
The Grand Pensionary closed the door, and the Prince descended the steps. As he turned his back on M. de Witt’s house his eyes narrowed as if he looked at something a long way off.
“Well, Your Highness?” asked Mr. Bromley, who was rather cold but still good-humoured.
William mounted without touching the stirrup, and gathered up the reins.
“He is iron,” he said; “I could not do anything nor even attempt it. How much longer?” he added in a sombre passion, “how much longer?”
They trotted the horses briskly through the cobbled streets.
“M. de Chapuygeau and M. Bornius are not coming back; I have at least two masters the less,” remarked the Prince, with a gloomy satisfaction.
“I am glad, Highness,” answered Mr. Bromley, who hated these two. “And M. Van Ghent?”
“He stays—I could not speak against him.”
“Did M. de Witt mention his secretary who came to join you at Middelburg?”
“No. I cannot keep him in my service, Bromley—yet he might be useful,” added the Prince, with the statesman’s dislike to waste good material. “Well, we will talk of it to M. de Zuylestein.”
He lapsed into silence, but as they passed the Stadhuis Mr. Bromley roused him.
“Then you are still on bad terms with M. de Witt?” he suggested; wondering what this interview had amounted to, and whether the Prince’s cause had been advanced or no by this flight to Middelburg and its results.
“I am very good friends with M. de Witt,” answered William grimly, from out the depths of his riding-cloak collar, “and he hath forgiven me. But I had to fawn on him—fawn on him, Bromley!… It is a thing not to be forgotten.”
CHAPTER IX
AMALIA OF SOLMS
Her Highness the Dowager Princess of Orange coloured with pleasure, hastily put aside the letter she was writing, and went down to the chamber where, as she had just been told, her grandson awaited her.
It was a pouring wet day, and she had not been able to leave her elegant little residence to go into the garden which was, even at this time of the year, her delight. This had added to the weariness and monotony of her ordinary quiet life, and made the rare favour of a voluntary visit from the Prince, the only member of her family left her, and the person that she held dearest in the world, the more grateful.
The Princess was still comely, vivacious, and bright as when Prince Frederick Henry had married her, forty years ago. She was dressed with a richness and surrounded with a comfort that her straitened means made a marvel. To prevent economy from becoming meanness, and to keep luxury this side of extravagance, were her constant, almost her only, employments.
She opened the door softly and gazed at the Prince before he saw her.
The room looked on the front of the house, and was sumptuously furnished, with Persian carpets, Chinese cabinets, porcelain ornaments, carved settees and chairs, gilt and richly cushioned with stamped leather and satin.
Near the dark red silk window-curtains hung a brightly coloured parrot in an ebony ring, in front of the fire slept a white cat, on a chair near were a tambour frame and a basket of silks.
There was only one picture, a half-length portrait of William II., in armour, holding his helmet; this hung above the mantelpiece.
Cut deep into the heavy oak frame showed the motto of the house of Nassau.—
“Je sera Nassau, moi, je maintaindrai.”
Standing by the delicate-hued harpsichord that filled one corner of the room, the Prince waited. He held his whip in his hand and was frowning thoughtfully.
The Princess stepped into the chamber and closed the door with a little sound that made him turn.
“Ah, Madame, I disturb you——”
“Disturb me!” she interrupted, smiling, “it is good of you to come and see a lonely old woman.”
He came forward and would have saluted her hand, but she caught him by the shoulders and kissed him on the brow—a caress he did her the honour of enduring in silence.
“How cold you are!” she exclaimed. “Have you ridden here in this rain?”
It had been pouring all day; the question seemed to William too foolish to answer.
“And on horseback!” cried the Princess, catching sight of his whip, and wet mantle over a chair.
“You know I cannot endure a carriage, Madame.”
The Princess rang the little silver bell on her work-table.
“It is very imprudent, my dear—allow old age its liberty in saying so—you need a woman to look after you. These men would let you kill yourself and never notice it. Come to the fire,” she finished, with a pretty air of command.
William obeyed, coughing a little, which caused her to raise still further her brows and shake her head.
A servant made his appearance.
“Remove His Highness’ mantle and dry it—and—whom have you brought with you, William?”
“Mr. Bromley and a groom.”
“See His Highness’ gentleman is made comfortable, and let the horses be looked to,” said the Princess.
The man bowed low as he withdrew. The subtle air of a Court still clung round Amalia of Solms; in her own house, at least, she was treated as a sovereign Princess. William respected her for that. He found the atmosphere of her pleasant residence congenial; it was the nearest approach to home that he had ever known, and, compared with his dreary Palace at the Hague, ease, luxury, and comfort combined.
The Princess settled herself in her chair.
“I have not seen you since your visit to Middelburg. Come nearer the fire; sit down and tell me all that happened.”
She was a handsome old lady; had been of the pretty, imperious style of beauty, dark and flashing. As she leant back on her cushions now, in her yellow silk gown, with her brown eyes under her white hair and the fine lace round her head and fastened under her chin, she was a beauty still.
“You know what occurred at Middelburg, Madame,” answered William, not very warmly.
“I have had reports—letters from Mr. Bromley, to whom I am eternally grateful!—but from you nothing!”
William leant on the arm of his chair, coughed, and pushed back his curls.
His expression told the Princess that he was displeased with her. She had half expected it. Certainly she had helped concoct her grandson’s journey to Middelburg, but she had immediately thereafter been frightened and had allowed herself easily to be won by M. de Witt again to prudence—and William knew it.
Unfurling a black and glittering fan, she held it between her face and the fire, while she gave her grandson an anxious glance.
“You are angry with me, William,” she said plaintively. “You only came to see me because you wanted to scold me.”
The Prince still looked into the fire.
“Ah, me,” sighed Amalia of Solms, “I can never please you. You have no more devoted friend than I, and you do not repay me with the least regard or affection.”
The Prince answered now, in his soft voice and slow utterance—
“These reproaches, Madame, are foolish—it is I who have the grievance. Had you stood firm once I found myself in Middelburg I should find myself in a different position now.”
The Princess sat up with a helpless, appealing gesture, clasping her white hands over her heart.
“I did all I could—I solemnly notified to the Assembly that I had declared you of age—I wrote to Prince John Maurice begging him to join you——”
“He had not the courage to respond further than Bergen-op-Zoom,” interrupted William dryly.
“I know—it was not my fault—I thought that he would be a valuable ally for you——”
Again the Prince broke in—
“I think of M. de Witt, Madame—he came to you?”
“The moment he learned you were at Middelburg,” answered the Princess, with a shiver.
“What to find out or say?”
“I do not know,” the fan fluttered nervously. “It was dreadful——”
“And you were frightened—you made concessions.”
“Not one, my dear, not one!”
“M. de Witt warned you we were going too far.” William turned on her his masterful eyes.
“He was angry, of course,” said the Princess evasively.
“He told you my action had imperilled those favours already promised me—in a word, he threatened you.”
“Maybe he did—he was certainly angry,” repeated the Princess.
“And you gave way, Madame.”
“Not an inch!”
William smiled rather bitterly.
“I wish I could believe it——”
“Indeed, it is the truth.”
“It is the truth, Madame,” asserted the Prince impatiently, “that M. de Witt frightened you into losing all the ground we had gained. Of what use to me are a few plaudits in Middelburg if I lose the seat in the Council of State and the Captain Generalship?”
“You must not blame me for that,” protested the Princess. “I could not defy M. de Witt, who is, after all, our master.”
“You could have evaded him,” said William. “But no, you must meet him half-way; and, after declaring me of age, render us both foolish by waiving all discussion as to my future until I am twenty-two, the age the State appointed from the first … M. de Witt promises his friendship in four years time—and for that you retract everything——”
“Indeed no——”
But the Prince swept aside her protestations.
“You gave your consent to my remaining under the guardianship of M. de Witt, just as you put my education into the hands of the States, when they made overtures to you.”
“You have never forgiven it,” sighed Amalia of Solms, “but it was always for your good that I acted. The States took you under their protection … I could do nothing for you.”
William fixed his intense gaze on her.
“I would rather have been brought up by any poor pastor at a florin a week than by M. de Witt. You delivered me into a prison, Madame; and now, when I force the gates open, you close them on me again.”
The Princess furled her fan with a rattle of the ebony sticks.
“Indeed you wrong me—and hurt me, William.” She was flushed, distressed. “I did not dare offend M. de Witt—for your sake—it is better for you to have him as a friend than as an enemy. Where do we stand if he turns on us? The States——”
The Prince rose and leant against the mantelpiece, silencing the old lady with the manifest displeasure in his manner.
“Do not talk of the States, Madame, nor of the Republic,” he said, with a disdainful accent; “the first are not in my way, and the second is only a name. It is M. de Witt—always and only M. de Witt.”
“He is but a servant of the Government——”
“He is the Government,” retorted William, “and the one man who upholds it. Has he the suffrage of the country?—or even of the Assembly?—but they agree with him and obey him because they are not strong enough to resist. I tell you, Madame, it is that one man.”
“You dislike him,” sighed the Princess, as if she found it a matter for regret.
“Dislike him!” repeated William, with a peculiar intonation. “He hath kept me out of my birthright all my life; he, and he alone, prevents me from regaining it now. He—a burgher’s son!”
The passion he put into these last words startled his grandmother. She gazed at him mutely, opening and shutting her fan in her lap.
The Prince advanced across the room, twisting his handkerchief in his fingers.
“It becomes almost more than I can endure,” he said, breathing hard. “The other day I had to bring myself to speak him fair, and he must put his hand on my shoulder—and say he pitied me—and understood—understood—me!”
“He is a good man,” said the Princess, “and of a noble intelligence. I think that he desires to do his duty by you.”
The Prince was looking, not at her, but at the portrait of his father, whose dark eyes seemed to hold a melancholy yet fiery expression.
“I think M. de Witt does his duty very well,” he answered, “but I am not a republican to second him in it. By what right does he think to bend me into a tool to aid him in his usurped dominion?”
The Princess’ eyes followed her grandson’s gaze.
“It was this spirit in your father cost our House its heritage,” she said, half fearfully.
“It was M. de Witt!” William’s eyes gleamed fiercely, “His plebeian insolence!… It becomes very difficult for me to contain myself.… My father had his father jailed—into Loevenstein; I would I had him there—and his stiff brother too——”
Amalia of Solms made a startled movement.
“Hush! we must wait before we can speak in such fashion.”
“I have been waiting all my life,” returned William bitterly.
“You are young enough, you can afford to bide your time.”
The Prince gave her a strange, half sad look.
“Can I so afford to wait, Madame? There is very much for me to do … perhaps not many years in which to do it.”
“What do you mean?” cried the Princess, frightened.
“Why, it is of no matter,” he answered, as if he already regretted having said so much, and he turned away abruptly and looked out of the window at the rain, the grey sky, and the dripping trees.
Amalia of Solms watched him, the old fear catching at her heart.
She had been told that it would be a miracle if he grew to manhood, as she had been assured that he would never survive his infancy. She trusted one prediction would prove as false as the other, but as she considered his frail appearance, his eyes shadowed with pain, his colourless face, his languid movements; as she recalled his incessant cough, his perpetual headaches, the horrible conviction struck her that it was impossible for him to live long. She had a vague, disquieting sense, too, of some vast, ambitious, and proud spirit contained in the delicate body. Her grandson had never made a confidant of her, but she felt he cherished designs of she knew not what magnitude, and she was troubled for the loneliness he would not allow her to share.
The tears came to her eyes as she looked at him.
He stood leaning against the window frame, one hand on his hip, his proud and commanding profile towards her; the low brow shaded by the dark hair, the pale mouth firmly set. He wore his green velvet riding-dress and a plain cravat of Frisian needlework. He had no sword, for M. de Witt held that none save a soldier should go armed.
There was recalled to the Princess Amalia the image of another young man as she had seen him in his hunting dress, eighteen years ago, the last Stadtholder, not much older than his son was now, like him in features and in pride, on the eve, he believed, of absolute power.
The Princess could remember how he had bent his whip in his hand and spoken of “these presumptuous burghers!”
A week afterwards he lay dead of the smallpox in Guelders, and the triumphant States were casting a medal to celebrate their deliverance; representing the Stadtholder as Phæton, with the motto: “Magnis excidit ausis.”
“By his great designs he destroyed himself.”
The Princess repeated the words to herself with a shiver, and the tears ran down her cheeks.
The parrot, turning himself in his ring, suddenly gave a loud and hoarse cry, as if tired of the silence.
William glanced up at him, then round at the Princess, who was hastily drying her eyes.
“I must be returning,” he said.
“So soon?” she asked in a trembling voice. “Such a little while, and we have talked nothing but politics—will you not stay to dinner?”
“Madame, I cannot—I am forbidden to be long abroad without M. Van Ghent,” answered William sombrely. “And since I do not choose to ask a favour or incur the suspicions of M. de Witt I am as restricted as a prisoner.”
The Princess rose, raising moist and appealing eyes.
“You only came to tell me I had angered you!” she complained.
“I came to discover what M. de Witt had said, Madame. I do not blame you; there is no use in thinking of it any more, only, I entreat you, do not see him again.”
“Since he is more than a match for me?” sighed the Princess. “Ah, you know a great deal for your age.”
She was a gracious and charming lady, she adored him, and she was his father’s mother, but she had delivered his town of Orange to the French and she had delivered him to the States General. William could not forgive these things. He had against her, also, her quarrels with the proud young mother he had worshipped, and her constant coquettings with the republican party. But he constrained himself to forbear with her now, endured her anxieties over his health, promised to write to her and send Mr. Bromley with messages; even took her caresses, let her fold her perfumed arms about him and again kiss his forehead.
She went to the window and watched him ride off through the rain; Mr. Bromley, blonde and fresh-faced, waving his hat to her. She had been told that Oliver Cromwell had said: “This William, son of the late King’s daughter, will, if he lives, be heard of.”
The words occurred to her now, with a mingling of pride and pain. She also was often lonely.
M. Simon Simonides, one of the clergy who made the pulpit the platform of opposition to the Government of John de Witt, arrived at the “Huis ten bosch” almost before the Prince had ridden out of sight under the dripping trees. He was a favourite with the Princess. Amalia of Solms, who was always served on gold plate, and the Calvinist pastor who lived on a hundred gulden a year, had much in common. She greeted him warmly, telling him that her grandson had just left.
“I would I had met him, Your Highness,” answered the pastor, deeply disappointed.
“You do not know him, of course,” she remarked.
“I know of him, Madame. M. Triglandt, at present exiled in Utrecht, hath spoken to me of him.” The old man’s countenance flushed. “I have seen His Highness’ letters, I have seen his face in church. I know him a prince in a thousand; a nature as strong, as deep, as constant as any the Lord God ever made.”
CHAPTER X
AT THE HOUSE OF M. LE MARQUIS DE POMPONNE
Hyacinthe St. Croix, awaiting the pleasure of his employer, was agreeably diverted by the view he had of an inner room furnished in white and gold and occupied by two ladies.
The house of M. de Pomponne was situated in the outskirts of the Hague, and transformed into as much resemblance to a French château as taste and money could accomplish.
The chamber in which St. Croix found himself was hung with fine Flemish tapestry, representing the legend of St. Ursula, and divided from the other apartment by carved doors that stood open, revealing an elegant room furnished in Spanish leather and tulip wood, and lit by the soft radiance of a crystal lamp.
Seated by the bright fire was a dark-haired lady in a brown velvet gown, engaged in making lace. St. Croix knew her for the Marquise de Pomponne; the interest of his gaze was all for her companion.
She sat by the tapestry-covered window, a Chinese table before her, on which stood a chess-board set with scarlet and ivory pieces.
Her profile, face and figure were towards St. Croix. She seemed absorbed in some problem that she had set herself, for she did not raise her eyes from the chess-board, and her only movement came when she lifted her slender hand to change one of the white or red men.
Her delicate features, the knot of her golden hair, the slender lines of her figure in its tight blue gown were shown up distinctly by the dark background.
St. Croix, under cover of the space between them, stared at her boldly.
She was known to him by reputation, and he had seen her once before riding with de Pomponne on the Voorhout.
Glad was he of the chance to scrutinise her curiously at his ease, for she had a name powerful at Versailles. She was a woman he might be glad to have a word from, but he was well aware that her profession was nevertheless the same as his own, and that if she were more successful it was largely because she was less scrupulous.
He had heard her history, more than once, for it made a piquant story,—one not in the least to her credit, and containing incidents that it had needed a clever woman to get the better of, even at the Court of France.
He wondered what use de Pomponne could have for this lady at the Hague. The United Provinces seemed a field where her talents could find but little scope.
The entrance of M. de Pomponne disturbed both his reflections and his study of the slender lady with the chessmen.
The Marquis was not in the best of humours. He nodded to his visitor and flung himself into a chair, biting his glove.
His first remark was to complain that the candles were in need of snuffing. A servant was summoned and this remedied, then he deigned to look at St. Croix.
“This tool of yours, this Van Mander, has turned out very ill.”
St. Croix flushed.
“There has been no harm, Monsieur,” he said, secretly nettled.
“I am not so sure—first he returns you my letter to the Prince——”
St. Croix was surprised.
“You said, Monseigneur, that His Highness had explained he must avoid even the appearance of an intrigue.”
“Well, well,” the Marquis brought his hand down impatiently on the table,—“now I hear he has entered the Prince’s service.”
“But he is not to remain at the Hague,” replied St. Croix eagerly. “No, Monseigneur, that could not be under the very eyes of M. de Witt—he is to be sent to Brandenburg to join M. Bentinck at the Elector’s court.”
“Who told you so?”
“The man himself, Monsieur.”
“Then he is still in communication with you?”
“I see him occasionally.”
“But he is of no use to us?”
St. Croix shrugged his shoulders.
“I cannot tell.”
“It is your business to find out,” answered de Pomponne arrogantly.
“Only I ask you, Monseigneur, what can one do with these Hollanders? I have had this man in play for years, but——” he shrugged his shoulders.
“He is too much for you—which is a pity, for if you could have managed him he would have been very useful.”
“He was inclined to deal with us once, certainly; now, however——”
“Well, what has happened to him now?” demanded the Marquis sharply.
“He appears to be infatuated with the Prince of Orange.”
M. de Pomponne considered a moment.
“The Prince is friendly with us,” he said at length, narrowing his fine dark eyes.
“Many of his followers do not know how friendly, Monseigneur.”
The Marquis smiled.
“Mon Dieu, that is what I would like to know myself,” he said,—“how friendly.”
“A matter you cannot discover, Monseigneur, I cannot hope to.”
M. de Pomponne leant on the table, the candlelight full on his handsome, florid face, his glittering, splendid clothes.
“It must be discovered,” he said, and took his chin in his hand thoughtfully.
St. Croix glanced past him, through the open door, at the distant lady in blue.
“His Highness hath not shown himself unfriendly.”
The Marquis shrugged his shoulders.
“He is politic, extraordinarily prudent for his age. I saw him the other day. He was courteous, protested his duty to His Majesty; still, he refuses our help?”
“He fears to compromise himself in the eyes of M. de Witt,” said Hyacinthe St. Croix instantly.
“You have gained nothing from this Van Mander as to the Prince’s actual thoughts?”
“No, he is no way in his intimacy; the Prince has hardly spoken to him.”
“What we need is to gain some one in his confidence.”
“I fear it is impossible, Monseigneur,” answered St. Croix. “I believe his best friends are M. Triglandt, a fanatical Calvinist——”
“His former tutor.”
“—whom it would be folly to approach——”
“Naturally—and the other?”
“M. Bentinck, at Brandenburg.”
“It would be no use meddling with him——”
“There is the Princess.”
“She knows no more than I, neither does M. Zuylestein.” The Marquis frowned thoughtfully. “I am baffled at every turn; I have nothing to send to His Majesty, nothing, and I know not how to act. Before I help place the Orange party in power I must be assured that they will serve me when they have arrived at it.”
“The Prince could never stand alone, and where else should he find support?” returned St. Croix.
“I do not know—but he plays a deep game, this last move shows it.”
“Some say he has but damaged himself, since he provoked such severity from M. de Witt.”
“That very severity works to his ends since it further estranges the people from M. de Witt,” answered the Marquis. “We may look out for a revolution, it is very plain.… That is not the point. The question is, what will this youth do when he obtains the power?”
St Croix lowered his voice—
“If any can discover, you have one in this house——”
The Marquis glanced at him.
“You mean Madame Lavalette?”
“Yes, Monseigneur.”
“She is leaving for Spain in another week.” M. de Pomponne tapped his fine fingers on the table. “Besides—Mon Dieu, one has no chance.”
“There is the ball at the Binnenhof, on Friday, Monsieur.”
“It is not known if the Prince goes.”
“Van Mander told me—yes.”
“I wonder why?—I think he does nothing without a reason.”
“To show himself—to speak to the Deputies.”
The Marquis looked over his shoulder at the impassive figure of Madame Lavalette over her chess problem.
“He is a boy, Monsieur; in some things utterly untried.”
“I confess it had occurred to me—but,” de Pomponne shrugged his shoulders, “these Hollanders!—and the Prince is secretive—even for a Hollander.”
“Still, Monsieur, you can try.”
“You mean Madame Lavalette can try,” answered the Marquis.
“It would be my advice, Monseigneur.”
“Take most men—she would get more in five minutes than I in a fortnight,” de Pomponne admitted; “but whether this little Calvinist——”
“He is seventeen, Monsieur—it is not possible he should possess the wisdom of thrice his age.”
“Well, we will put him to the test;” the Marquis gave his indolent smile and pushed back his chair.
Hyacinthe St. Croix rose.
“I will send you a ticket for the ball,” said the Marquis. “You had better be there.”
“Thank you, Monseigneur.”
St. Croix bowed till his yellow, frizzled hair fell over his face.
De Pomponne gave him a nod and a wave of a plump hand, which careless dismissal was all that he deigned.
When St. Croix had gone he leant forward and looked into the inner room.
His wife had left it, Madame Lavalette sat alone, fingering the red and white pieces. The Marquis de Pomponne rose and walked slowly over to her.
She turned on him large, deep blue and languishing eyes.
“I have just solved my problem,” she said in a low and pretty voice.
“And I, Madame, want you to help me solve mine.”
“Ah?” She sank back in her stiff chair, and taking up the red king turned him about in her fingers.
The Marquis leant carelessly against the carved window frame.
“You overheard, perhaps, what I was saying to Monsieur St. Croix?”
“No, Monsieur.”
She glanced up. Her fair and shining hair was waved simply round her oval face and caught on her neck with a pearl comb; a few long ringlets fell on to her deep lace collar. Her face had a soft, almost plaintive expression, her mouth was small and wistful.
“Well,” said the Marquis, “I will desire you to attend the ball at the Binnenhof.”
“Monsieur,” she answered, “I have M. de Louvois’ commands to go to Spain.”
“But you may do me this service first, Madame la Duchesse.”
“What is the problem and the service, Monsieur?”
The Marquis, looking down at her indolently, frowned now discontentedly.
“The problem is the Prince of Orange, Madame—and the service——”
She interrupted with the slightest sparkle of malice in her tone—
“You call me in when you have failed—what would M. de Louvois say?”
M. de Pomponne answered in a vexed tone—
“I wish M. de Louvois was here doing my work and I at Versailles doing his, for, Mon Dieu! one might as well be sent on an embassy to the fishes as be asked to come into exile here where one’s health is ruined by damp, one’s temper by Leyden Logic—where the only amusement is the contemplation of Dutch virtue.”
“It is the virtue that is the difficulty,” smiled Madame Lavalette. “They are a quite impossible people—that is why, Monsieur, I am going to Spain—but you——?”
“I!” he answered impatiently. “It is like trying to negotiate with a lot of frogs, cold and stupid. When you have got through their formalities they start on their religion, and when they have finished with that they freeze into a silence——”
“That you want me to endeavour to break?”
“I should be your debtor for life, Madame.”
She raised her brows.
“But, my friend, what do you think I can do?”
The Marquis knew that she had already failed to obtain even an audience of M. de Witt, though she had come to the Hague with the object of persuading him to the concessions required by M. de Louvois with regard to the herring fisheries; her question was, therefore, pertinent enough.
“I am thinking of the Prince.”
Madame Lavalette showed some impatience.
“I am tired of the whole country, its psalm-singing burghers and its frogs—I wish to get away.”
“Madame, the ball is on Friday, it would not detain you—and the Prince is different from these others.”
“He does not interest me.”
“Have you seen him?”
She shook her fair head—
“He is kept too close.”
“Well, when you see him, and speak to him, you will be interested, Madame.”
She replaced the red king on the board.
“Why?”
“He is an enigma.”
Madame looked up. De Pomponne had piqued her curiosity and her vanity, as he intended.
“You think I can solve this enigma?”
The Marquis smiled.
“If any one can, Madame.”
“I wonder?” she mused languidly, then she rose with a soft sound of silks.
“What do you want me to do?”
“To draw from the Prince something of his designs, something of his feelings towards France. In a word, Madame, to discover that which I have failed to discern—what manner of stuff we have there. If he worked with us, he would, as His Majesty’s cousin, be of immense use; he could, without much difficulty, be placed at the head of the State——”
“Oh, I know the position quite well,” she interrupted. “Considering that you have talked nothing else since I have been at the Hague, I should have it by heart; but, Mon Dieu, whether I care to meddle is another matter.”
She crossed to the fireplace and rested the tip of her blue shoe on the brass curb.
“It will be very little trouble to you, Madame, and a vast service to me.”
The Duchess looked at him over her shoulder with a little laugh.
“My good de Pomponne, this country is unnerving you!”
The Marquis did not deny it.
“I always protested against the appointment, as you must remember, Madame.”
“But M. de Louvois was obdurate.”
“As he always is,” grumbled de Pomponne.
Madame Lavalette tapped her chin with the tips of her feather fan.
“The Prince hates women, I think,” she said, “and all manner of frivolities——”
“He is as austere as John de Witt … but a great deal younger.”
“And not so confirmed in severity?” She smiled and raised a face that was glowing a golden rose-colour in the radiance of the fire. “Maybe he hath lacked opportunity,” she added. “Had he even the nature of a rake he could hardly have shown it under M. de Witt’s guardianship.”
“Mon Dieu, no!”
The Duchess looked thoughtfully into the clear flames.
She was angry with M. de Witt for having refused her an opportunity to execute her mission. Did she succeed in drawing the Prince of Orange she might avenge herself on the severe Grand Pensionary, and not wholly fail towards M. de Louvois. She foresaw that let M. de Witt once see her even speaking to William, he would take care no other chance would be given for the continuance of her intrigues, for he knew both her character and her mission.
But Madame Lavalette decided she might be careless there, for she was leaving Holland. She could also rely on accomplishing much in a short time.
She was not generally unsuccessful.
The thought of a youthful and royal Scipio was not displeasing to her vanity; and to play Cleopatra to an Augustus of seventeen seemed to the Duchess both safe and amusing.
She turned her languishing eyes on de Pomponne’s handsome, indolent face.
“Get me a ticket for the ball at the Binnenhof, Monseigneur,” she said.
CHAPTER XI
THE BALL IN THE BINNENHOF
“You are disappointed?” inquired Mr. Bromley.
Florent Van Mander answered slowly—
“I should have liked to stay in the Hague.”
“But you see it is impossible,” the Englishman assured him, with frank friendliness. “M. de Witt hath already spoken to His Highness about the harbouring of any who forsake his service,—and, indeed, the Prince is scarcely free to choose his household.”
Florent was silent. His desire was to serve the Prince personally, to have some chance of winning his favour, to be in the thick of events at the Hague, the seat of action.
Brandenburg seemed far away, and he had no interest in M. Bentinck. It was not for this that he had left John de Witt; but, having burnt his bridges behind him, there was nothing to do save to go on.
Mr. Bromley saw by his face he was not pleased.
“It shows His Highness thinks something of you, M. Mander,” he remarked, “that he puts himself to this trouble; and M. Bentinck is his best friend.”
They stood in one of the bare ante-chambers of the Prince’s Palace. M. Van Ghent had allowed William to see the secretary he was sending to the Elector’s court, and Florent awaited his audience.
He would rather have been alone or silent; but Matthew Bromley’s pleasant manners would not tolerate pauses. He snuffed the candles, pulled the dark curtains closer, and remarked that it was cold.
“And the night of the ball at the Binnenhof.”
“The Prince is going?” asked Florent.
“Yes,” Bromley answered, with some reserve.
The ball was in honour of the wedding of one of M. de Witt’s cousins; William’s invitation had been a command.
Florent looked at the Englishman keenly.
“You are very devoted to His Highness, are you not?” he asked curiously.
“I am,” said Matthew Bromley simply.
“But you were in M. de Witt’s employ——”
“Only before I knew the Prince.”
“That is what I mean,”—Florent spoke quickly,—“before you knew the Prince. He cannot do for you what M. de Witt could, indeed he can do nothing at all; why are you devoted to him?”
Mr. Bromley’s fair face took on a puzzled expression, he reflected, hesitated.
“I do not know,” he said at last.
Florent drew a deep breath.
“Neither do I.… I also have left M. de Witt, and, in a way, ruined myself, and I do not know why.”
“I like His Highness,” went on Mr. Bromley, still trying to honestly answer the question. “Why are you devoted to him? But every one who comes near him would serve him to the death,” again he reflected; again he added, “I do not know why.”
He glanced up at Florent’s grave face and laughed.
“I have no interest in your politics, you see, Mynheer; for me one is like another. I think M. de Witt is a great and good man, and I really know nothing about the Prince’s character or designs—but, well, I just serve him.… I would follow him anywhere.”
Florent walked up and down the chamber. He wore his dark travelling clothes, for he was impatient, since he must go, to be off at once. The place had become intolerable of late, since he was always afraid of meeting some of his old companions, or even M. de Witt himself.
Mr. Bromley rubbed his hands together. The large, princely, but bare, room was certainly both dreary and cold, scantily furnished, and ill lit by the two-branched candlesticks on the mantelshelf.
The pause was broken by the quick opening of the door.
Both the men looked round.
It was the Prince, though Florent did not instantly know him.
He wore a long dark mantle and a plumed hat. He did not uncover; he exacted as if by instinct the privileges of royalty, and his household conceded them. Despite M. de Witt he was surrounded by a court.
“Mynheer Van Mander,” he said, with his usual slowness.
Florent flushed and bowed—over low for a good republican.
The Prince came down the long chamber.
“Are you prepared to go to Brandenburg?” he asked.
“Yes, Your Highness.”
William made no answer, and Florent glanced, half covertly, at his face.
The Prince was looking thoughtfully at the floor, his features almost concealed by the shadow of his hat. Under his mantle could be seen the soft colour of his pale violet coat; one of his bare hands rested on his cravat, in the other he held a letter.
He spoke without looking up—
“I do not know that you gain much by the change of masters, Mynheer Van Mander. It is very quiet at my uncle the Elector’s court, and M. Bentinck can only pay you moderately.”
“I have decided to accept the post, Your Highness.”
The Prince slowly raised the eyes he knew so well how to use, and let them rest a moment on Florent’s face.
“I can promise nothing to any one,” he said. “So if this is to worship the rising sun—think a little.”
Under William’s glance Florent’s first flush deepened.
“I shall be glad in any way to serve Your Highness,” he answered awkwardly.
William faintly smiled, and, half mockingly, put to him the question he had put to Matthew Bromley—
“Why?”
Florent faced the compelling gaze fixed on him, and found, this time, an answer.
“Your Highness makes me feel as I have never felt till now.”
“That is curious,” said the Prince, “for I have seen very little of you, Mynheer Van Mander.”
“But I have seen enough of Your Highness,” replied Florent.
The Prince was silent. His bearing seemed, if anything, to repel this homage, but Florent was sufficiently pleased that it was not utterly refused.
His annoyance at being sent to Brandenburg, his regrets for M. de Witt’s comfortable service, had vanished when he found himself in the presence of the Prince.
William’s subtle but amazingly powerful personal influence outweighed all considerations.
He awaited his instructions. He also had caught the trick of the Court; he followed Mr. Bromley’s example and waited for the Prince to address him.
William looked down again and coughed, then handed Florent the letter.
“This is for M. Bentinck, it is your introduction and your credentials. If you wish to serve me you will serve M. Bentinck—it is the same thing.”
Florent bent his head and placed the letter inside his breast pocket.
“M. Renswoude will meet you downstairs and give you the money for your journey,” continued the Prince. “Good-bye, Mynheer Van Mander.”
That was all.
William uttered none of those things that Florent, up to the last even, might have been expecting. Neither thanks nor caution did the Prince give him; did not bid him be faithful or discreet, yet expressed no trust in him; gave no explanation of, and passed no comment on, his choice of him for this service.
He walked slowly towards the door, and Florent, in leaving the room, must pass him.
The Prince suddenly held out his hand and smiled. Florent felt the blood glow in his face. He went on one knee and raised the soft, white, and beautiful hand to his lips.
William wore a diamond ring, and the lace round his wrist was faintly perfumed. Florent noticed this; it was part of the appeal of rank and tradition, the fascination of royalty.
When he rose the Prince was no longer smiling, but Florent was amply repaid for any sacrifice he had made in joining his service.
William turned away as he left the room and walked back to where Mr. Bromley waited.
“That man can be faithful,” he said as the door closed on Florent.
Mr. Bromley made a little grimace.
“He has not been faithful to M. de Witt, Highness.”
“But he will be loyal to me,” answered the Prince carelessly.
“You have the trick of it, Highness,” admitted Matthew Bromley.
William frowned. Mr. Bromley guessed him to be in an exceeding ill-humour and ventured on no more.
M. Van Ghent sent up to say he was waiting for His Highness. The Prince discovered that he had forgotten his gloves, and Mr. Bromley went for them.
When he returned the Prince was still in his anteroom and M. Van Ghent still waiting below.
William took the gloves leisurely.
“What are these?” he asked.
They were a pair of white doeskin which Mr. Bromley had from the Prince’s valet; he said so.
William turned them over, then put one on.