“They are a misfit and of paltry quality,” he remarked. “Who bought them?”
M. Heenvliet, who had been sent by the Prince’s tutor, entering at the moment, interrupted—
“The coach is ready, Your Highness, and M. Van Ghent is waiting.”
William gave him a half glance.
“Why, so you said.” He turned to Mr. Bromley. “Fetch La Motte.”
Matthew Bromley hesitated; but there was a set to the Prince’s cleft chin intimating to those who knew him that his mood was to override opposition.
Mr. Bromley obeyed.
William pulled off the white glove, and when the valet entered the room turned to him angrily—
“Who bought these?”
“Mynheer Heenvliet, Highness.”
“How much was given for them?”
La Motte looked at M. Heenvliet.
“The gloves cost six gulden a pair, Highness,” said that gentleman, “and they are such as Your Highness hath often worn before.”
“My faith, no!” replied William. “I have never worn such gauntlets. Six gulden a pair! I do not know what is the motive of this economy but I will not endure it, Mynheer.”
Kerckhove Lord of Heenvliet flushed.
“Your clothes are bought under the approval of M. Van Ghent, Highness, and the authority of Mynheer de Witt.”
The Prince’s eyes were dangerously bright.
“All of which makes no difference, Mynheer; my income is sufficient to dress me better than a German count.”
Mr. Bromley held his peace. It seemed to him that the gloves were well enough, and that the Prince wished to provoke his hated tutor, since His Highness lost no possible opportunity for annoying M. Van Ghent.
“This is merely vexatious, Highness,” said M. Heenvliet, “and I must again remind you that for a trifling affair you keep M. Van Ghent waiting.”
“It is no trifling affair, Mynheer,” answered William, “to find myself on every hand ill served.”
“That is not just, Highness.”
The Lord of Heenvliet was forcing back his temper.
William flung the gloves down on a chair.
“I do not intend to wear them, Mynheer, either to-night or any other time.”
M. Heenvliet bit his lip and turned to the valet. “Bring His Highness another pair of gloves.” He pulled out his watch impatiently, “We are already late.”
The Prince gave him a malicious look, and half smiled; to arrive late would be to solve the ugly question of precedence and would also mean a slight to M. de Witt.
“It is your place, Mynheer,” he answered, “to see that I am better furnished.”
He had never liked M. Heenvliet, who leant to the side of the Grand Pensionary.
“La Motte is a wearisome time,” remarked the first gentleman-in-waiting to cover a somewhat heavy pause.
“He finds it difficult to discover anything wearable, Mynheer,” answered the Prince calmly.
And to point his dislike of M. Heenvliet he approached Mr. Bromley, turning his back on the other.
“Are not you cold, Bromley? There should have been a fire here.”
“Indeed I think so, Highness,” answered the Englishman, who was not cold in the least, but who would have seconded the Prince in anything, even at the risk of his own disgrace.
It seemed that M. Heenvliet was about to answer this thrust at the management of the Palace, when M. Van Ghent entered with a vexed and flushed countenance.
“What is the cause of this delay?” he demanded, looking about him.
The Prince was coldly silent.
“His Highness complains of the gloves brought him,” answered M. Heenvliet, “and takes this occasion to complain of the way in which he is served.”
M. Van Ghent fixed his eyes on the Prince.
“Have I been kept waiting for this?”
“For this, Mynheer,” replied William.
The Prince’s governor appeared both angered and agitated. William’s dislike made his post a burden.
“M. de Witt will be displeased at our late arrival—and what excuse shall I make?”
William gave him a haughty look.
“Tell him I will not wear gloves at six gulden a pair, Mynheer; and that till I have a voice in the choice of my personal appointments I shall continue to be dissatisfied with them.”
M. Van Ghent, goaded, turned, with a weakness that further earned William’s contempt, on M. Heenvliet.
“Why is not His Highness consulted?”
“His Highness is shown the accounts,” answered the unfortunate gentleman-in-waiting.
“The accounts!” repeated His Highness sardonically. “’Tis the difference between them and what I am served with that I complain of.”
M. Heenvliet with difficulty controlled a hot answer.
M. Van Ghent picked up the gloves.
“What does Your Highness find fault with?” he asked.
“No gentleman in the Hague would wear them,” replied the Prince; “and I complain, Mynheer, of the insult offered me in providing them.”
“The gloves were bought after the pattern of others that have been to His Highness’ liking,” protested M. Heenvliet.
La Motte entered with another pair, white, trimmed with silver, that the Prince deigned to approve.
As he drew them on, his glance travelled from one to another with a malicious pleasure in the general discomfiture.
M. Van Ghent reprimanded M. Heenvliet, who in turn blamed the valet; Mr. Bromley looked uncomfortable.
William was the one unmoved; he even slightly smiled to see how red and annoyed was M. Van Ghent, and when he reflected how late they would be at the Binnenhof his smile deepened.
He would have refused to attend the ball at all had he dared; but the humiliation of his forced appearance was softened by the thought of a late arrival that would annoy M. de Witt, and cheat M. de Montbas and M. de Pomponne of the triumph of precedence.
“It is a pity to keep the horses waiting in the wet, Mynheer,” he remarked as he finished lacing his gloves. “I am ready.”
M. Van Ghent had to make the best of this, as he had to make the best of numerous encounters in which His Highness was invariably victorious.
The Prince made another difficulty about the coach, wishing to ride alone with Mr. Bromley. But here M. Van Ghent was firm; he trusted neither William nor Matthew Bromley, and himself accompanied His Highness.
It was a foggy night, a little rain falling, and the Prince avenged himself on his tutor by insisting on having both the coach windows down. He declared he could not breathe with them closed, and M. Van Ghent had to submit and allow the damp and the mist to enter, to his great discomfort. He shivered in his mantle; and William coughed in a way that seemed to show he did not greatly benefit by the arrangement himself, but he remained resolutely by the window, looking out at the streets of the Hague, his back towards his tutor and the mist gathering in drops of moisture on his velvet coat.
M. Van Ghent, who by no means enjoyed thrusting his company where it was so obviously resented, was greatly pleased when they reached the Binnenhof.
They had some difficulty in making their way through the coaches that blocked the courtyard. William noted with satisfaction, and M. Van Ghent with annoyance, that theirs was the last arrival.
It was on Mr. Bromley’s arm that the Prince leant in entering.
M. Van Ghent had no choice but to follow.
The Binnenhof was brilliantly lit, and decorated with an air of solid, unpretentious wealth characteristic of the United Provinces.
The Truce Saloon, built by the last Stadtholder, had been arranged as a ballroom.
This was a pleasant chamber. A row of handsome windows overlooked the Vyver, giving in summer a charming view over the water and as far as M. de Witt’s house in the Kneuterdyk Avenue; in autumn only the dim shapes of trees and the swans on the island were visible through the almost perpetual mist.
Now red velvet curtains screened the night, and a hundred wax candles gave a soft and lovely light.
It was an historic chamber also, and one that commemorated the dearly bought freedom of the Republic.
The pride of the Assembly and the fantasy of the artist had designed a symbolic decoration: circular ceiling paintings represented the different nations gazing down at the spectacle of the regained liberty of the United Provinces. A fine, warmly flushed picture of “Peace” faced the door, and above the deep fireplace its companion “War.”
In the centre of the ceiling “England” looked down, and appeared to be coming down too, since the foremost cavalier of the group had placed a red-stockinged leg outside his frame; which was good painting and better symbolism, said some sourly. Twenty years had passed, and there had begun to be reason to doubt the friendly “onlooking” of England. Her regard appeared of late to be filled with coldness and envy.
France, represented by an effeminate cavalier, had its place above the picture of “Peace.”
Every one agreed that as for symbolism this was not so good.
In the antechamber of the Truce Saloon, a fine apartment in panelled wood, the Prince found the Grand Pensionary.
With M. de Witt were M. Vivien, his brother-in-law and Pensionary of Dordt, Sir William Temple, and M. de Montbas.
M. Van Ghent stepped up to these gentlemen; but William’s hand tightened on Matthew Bromley’s arm and held him back.
The Englishman was quick to understand. His Highness’ gaze was resting on M. de Montbas, who wore the splendid uniform of the Captain General and was girded with the sword that meant command of all the forces of the United Provinces.
A shiver went through the Prince’s slender body; after a moment he left his gentleman and came forward.
M. de Witt greeted him quietly.
“I am sorry you are late, Highness,” he added quietly.
William gave his reply with perfect composure—
“It was greatly against my wish, Mynheer,” he said, and he spoke softly and even smiled.
“I will believe you, Highness.”
The Prince glanced at M. de Witt’s companions. He did not dislike Sir William Temple, but the others were his avowed opponents.
Several members of the Assembly advanced to greet him. He had to put a strain on himself and speak to them graciously, but when he came to M. de Montbas it seemed that his control would fail him.
This man had been in his father’s employ, had deserted him for the republican party. He had been one of those who held the gates of Amsterdam against the late Stadtholder, one of those who had spoken most hotly against him.
Later M. de Montbas had made overtures to the widowed Princess; they had been haughtily spurned, though Amalia of Solms remained inclined to encourage a person of so much influence.
To complete the bitter hatred in which William held him, de Montbas was a man of wealth and abilities, and now in possession of those offices that were his birthright—the birthright of the heir of Nassau.
As de Montbas approached him the Prince perceptibly drew back, and his pallor disappeared under a slow blush.
He straightened himself, pressed his handkerchief to his lips, and eyed the Count with an expression of scorn and dislike not to be concealed nor mistaken.
No one there could guess what throbbing rage filled his proud soul that he had to stand thus, swordless, before his father’s enemies—a show for those who were both his inferiors and his masters; but all could see the sudden expression that sprang into his eyes, and all were startled.
M. de Montbas, ill at ease, made a mistake. He resorted to a courtesy not untouched by cringing; it was the one thing above all others to rouse William’s fiercest scorn.
“I am glad to have this opportunity of paying my duty to Your Highness,” he said, and bowed like a courtier.
William smiled bitterly.
“Your duty!” he repeated. “Your duty, M. le Comte!”
Then he turned on his heel and passed into the ballroom.
M. de Montbas, flushing hotly, looked at M. de Witt, and the Grand Pensionary frowned.
It fell to Sir William’s easy tact to break the pause.
“I think the dance has come to an end, sir; are we too grave to attend the ladies?”
Secretly he admired the Prince; and his admiration grew with his observation. His eyes twinkled now with enjoyment of M. de Montbas’ discomfiture. M. de Witt was quick enough to see where his sympathies lay, but he accepted the diversion of Sir William’s remark, for the Prince’s daring could not be publicly noticed.
M. de Witt, composed in mien but with a troubled heart, followed into the ballroom.
Most noticeable as he entered was the figure of the young man in the long violet coat, his bright, heavy hair glittering like copper in the candlelight.
He was speaking to the Princess Dowager; above them glowed the picture of “Peace.”
“Your charge troubles you, Mynheer?” said Sir William in his soft, lazy voice, after watching de Witt a moment.
“In so far that I do not understand him, yes,” answered the Grand Pensionary.
The company, walking to and fro in their velvet and satin dresses, shut out the long violet coat and William’s slender figure.
“He is a remarkable young man.” The Englishman spoke reflectively.
“He is like his father,” responded John de Witt.
“With a difference.” Sir William smiled. “The late Stadtholder failed—this Prince, I think, would not.”
CHAPTER XII
THE SPY OF FRANCE
The Princess beckoned her grandson with her long gold fan.
“You have been talking to Madame Van Decken the whole evening,” she said.
William, having advanced beside her chair, waited, without any show of interest, for the Princess to enlarge on her remark.
“Madame Van Decken is quite the plainest lady in the room.”
“Is she?”
Amalia of Solms half laughed.
“Why, she squints!”
“Yes, I noticed that,” answered William; “but she is very intelligent.”
The Princess looked at him in a half troubled way.
“At your age!” she exclaimed. “There are half a hundred ladies awaiting your request for a dance——”
“I shall not dance at all,” he interrupted. “What are we here for, Madame? Merely to grace M. de Witt’s triumph.”
The Princess gave a sigh that flashed the diamonds on her purple bodice.
“I wish you would not take it so bitterly.… M. de Witt means to be courteous.”
“What courtesy was it that forced me and M. de Montbas to meet?”
“He wishes to reconcile you.”
William smiled scornfully.
The fiddles were tuning up and the dancers taking their places on the polished floor.
“You make a mistake,” said Amalia of Solms. “These women have some influence—they have a right to feel slighted. You should take more pains to please.”
The Prince made no reply. Amalia of Solms cast a half timid glance at his composed profile, and the fan fluttered nervously on her velvet lap.
“You think that I am a silly old woman, no doubt, William, but believe me I am right. M. de Pomponne said the same to me—that you kept yourself too close.”
The violins struck up a French sarabande, and the dancers began to move slowly to the stately melody.
The Prince looked across the ballroom to where M. de Witt, noticeable in black velvet, stood in the doorway talking to a little group of gentlemen, and so absorbed was he in his scrutiny that he did not hear the Princess rise.
She had to touch him on the arm to attract his attention.
“M. de Pomponne, William.”
He turned quickly.
The Princess swept a courtesy before she sank again into her gilt chair, and the Marquis, gorgeously dressed in crimson satin, bowed till his long love-locks hid his face.
“Is not the Prince dancing, Highness?” he asked.
William’s intent gaze was now fixed on the Frenchman; he said nothing.
The Princess shrugged her shoulders, half vexed.
“You must ask him, Monsieur.”
The Marquis smiled.
“There is a lady present whom I have promised to present to His Highness——”
“One of your countrywomen, Monsieur?” asked the Princess.
“Yes, Madame.”
“I shall be honoured, Monsieur.” The Prince’s tone was quiet.
“I refer to the Duchesse de Lavalette—will Your Highness accompany me?”
Something to his grandmother’s surprise William went instantly. The Princess watched the two figures turn out of the ballroom with some satisfaction. She had always considered the French alliance her grandson’s best hope.
The antechamber was full of the music of the sarabande that came through the open doors, the music and the sound of the ladies’ dresses as they swept the polished floor.
M. de Pomponne stepped quickly up to one of them who sat alone on a carved settee.
“Madame la Duchesse, I present to you His Highness the Prince of Orange—Monseigneur, Madame Lavalette.”
She rose, and each took a swift look at the other.
William saw a woman of a dazzling fairness of hair and complexion, and bright blue eyes, wearing a low-cut and rich gown of green velvet; and Madame Lavalette beheld a slight youth owning a remarkable face, plainly dressed, and of a haughty demeanour.
She gave him a glance of pretty hesitation.
“Alas, I have not your language, Monseigneur!”
“I can speak yours, Madame,” he answered in French.
“Ah, I have heard that Your Highness is an accomplished linguist.”
“It is not an accomplishment, Madame, but a necessity.”
“Many princes do not think so.”
Her eyes flattered him though her lips were unsmiling.
“I do not speak as a prince, Madame.”
He was absolutely grave, and in no way discomposed by her splendid presence.
“As a diplomat, then?”
“As one training to be of service to his country, Madame.”
Her delicate eyebrows slightly arched.
“Do you wish your gifts to be of service to the Republic, Prince?”
“The United Provinces are the Republic, Madame, and the United Provinces are my country.”
Madame Lavalette unfurled her fan.
“It is generous of you, Monseigneur, to be patriotic under the present form of government——”
“Why, Madame?”
She found him at once more difficult than she had expected and it roused her.
“Oh, perhaps it is not generous, but politic,” she said, with a change of tone. Then she laughed and looked at him straightly. “Personally I do not like M. de Witt,” she declared, with a charming air of frankness.
William raised his expressive eyes slowly.
“He is my best friend, Madame.”
The Duchess, gazing at him intently, read in his eyes the contradiction of his words.
“I see what you mean me to believe, Prince,” she murmured.
The second measure of the sarabande had begun; Madame Lavalette beat time to it with her fan on her delicate hand.
“It is a pretty melody—do you like music, Monseigneur?”
“I think it can be made useful, Madame.”
“That is a curious thing to say—you mean——?”
“In war,” he said.
She gave her rare, effective smile.
“And in peace?”
“It is not necessary, Madame.”
Now the Duchess sighed.
“You can say as much of all the arts—but Your Highness is not always so stern?”
“I am very ignorant on these matters, Madame,” he answered.
“You like gardening?” she asked, knowing he did.
“It is a pleasant recreation—and I think the building of houses a fair pastime for a gentleman.”
She flushed into enthusiasm.
“You should see Meudon, Marli, Versailles!” she cried. “You would appreciate them—palaces——”
He interrupted her.
“Such as I shall never achieve, Madame. My father built these modest rooms, nor am I like to build anything finer.”
She glanced at his grave young face.
“Now why?” she asked, her voice falling softly.
“Because I think to have other things to do, Madame.”
The sarabande had come to an end.
The Prince turned to his companion with a composed air of courtliness—
“May I lead you out for the next measure, Madame?”
“I shall be honoured, Monsieur.”
Her eyes added more. There was something in the very carriage of her body, as she bent towards him, her head slightly drooping, that was subtly flattering—the more so that it came from a beautiful woman to a youth. She was more deferential and charming than she had meant to be, for his grave coldness forced her to use her weapons.
“Seventeen!” she said to herself. “Mon Dieu, seventeen!”
The next dance was a minuet.
“The music by Lulli,” she informed the Prince, “and called ‘Le Temple de la Paix’—take me to represent France, Monseigneur, and the title as an omen——”
“Of peace, Madame?”
“Do you not care to think of peace, Monsieur?”
“I am, Madame, in no position to think of war.”
As they passed into the ballroom she shot a look at M. de Pomponne. The Prince was at least dancing with her, her eyes bid the Marquis take note of it.
He was not the only one to observe them. The Princess marked with satisfaction, and M. de Witt with uneasiness, the Prince’s partner for the minuet.
Happily la Lavalette was below the middle height, and William tall for his age, so she was able to rest lightly on his arm and look up to him with blue, languishing eyes that held a very flattering deference.
M. de Pomponne turned away to hide his smile; M. de Witt looked on sternly.
The Duchess glanced at the paintings round the ceiling.
“Your Highness likes history?” she asked. “You like to read it?”
“I would prefer to make it, Madame.”
She looked at him quickly.
“Your House has made it, Prince.”
He smiled.
“Madame, it is through my House that we are here now,—it is through my ancestors, and by what they have done, that the United Provinces are a kingdom.”
“The country hath been ungrateful, Prince.”
His smile made her air of sympathy seem foolish.
“You think so?” he said.
She was piqued by his sovereign manner.
“Do not you, Monseigneur?” she retaliated with meaning.
“I think it remains to be proved, Madame la Duchesse.”
They stood by the open hearth, waiting for the dance to begin. She was very well aware of the curious eyes upon them, and of the cold regard of the Grand Pensionary.
The Prince appeared absolutely unconscious.
“M. de Witt does not dance, I see,” she remarked.
“He hath other things to think of, Madame.”
She gave him a grave but ardent look.
“Such as—revolutions?” she breathed.
“Maybe, Madame; the most securely placed will sometimes think of revolutions.”
Madame Lavalette was silent. De Pomponne had not prepared her for a youth so haughtily self-possessed, so (seemingly) impervious to flattery and enticements.
She knew of his upbringing in austere surroundings, she knew something of the Dutch stateliness of manner; but this perfect composure and gravity on the part of a Prince of seventeen were, nevertheless, a surprise.
Madame Lavalette was familiar with most of the Courts of Europe, and had considered herself equally familiar with most types of men—even men like John de Witt; such were rare, but she had met them.
But in William of Orange she found what she could not place or label. She went cautiously, a little bewildered, a little piqued, and more impressed by this boy’s personality than she would have cared to admit.
The musicians played the prelude; the couples took their places.
Madame Lavalette glanced again at the Marquis, who danced with Lady Temple, and he raised his brows and slightly shrugged his shoulders as if he commiserated her on an impossible task.
Sully’s lilting melody began.
The Prince danced as he rode, with consummate excellence, but, unlike his horsemanship, his dancing was without animation. It seemed to his partner that he was not listening to the music in the least nor thinking of her at all.
Once or twice he looked distinctly away from her, in a mournful, absent manner down the room; as if he looked through the dancers and saw something else beyond. When their hands touched she felt his cool fingers resting on hers as lightly as they might have rested on his gentleman’s shoulder.
She was silent until the elaborate figures had come to an end; then she laughed.
“Your Highness does not like dancing.”
He turned his great eyes on her.
“I have been clumsy, Madame?”
“No—you have it in your head—perfectly—Prince, not, I think, in the least in your heart.”
“That is probably true,” he replied gravely.
“It is a pity, Prince—for the ladies.” She suddenly laid her hand on his sleeve. “Whom will Your Highness dance with now?”
“I shall dance no more, Madame.”
“You are very severe, Monseigneur—or are you proud?”
“I am tired,” said William simply.
They returned slowly to the antechamber and reseated themselves on the carved seat where he had first found her.
Behind them a crescent of candles in a silver sconce lit her fair hair, her white shoulders, and the voluminous folds of her green velvet gown.
She unfurled her fan and gazed at herself in the little heart-shaped mirror in the centre of curling feathers.
“I think you are somewhat heartless,” she remarked. “Every lady in the ballroom wishes to dance with Your Highness—and I dare swear half of them are your admirers already.”
Glancing at him furtively she perceived that, in utter absence of vanity, he did not even colour.
“There are other cavaliers here, Madame.”
Madame Lavalette beat her little silver shoe on the gleaming floor.
“And so M. de Witt is your best friend?”
The sudden change of attack did not confuse him.
“I said so, Madame.”
“I know a better.”
She fixed her eyes boldly on his face and leant forward a little, holding the open fan.
William did not answer. He was looking away from her, through the doorway into the ballroom, where, under the picture of “War,” the Grand Pensionary conversed with M. de Pomponne.
“Your Highness can guess whom I mean,” breathed Madame Lavalette.
“Why, no, Madame.”
The fan fluttered and the mirror in the centre gave out golden rays as it caught the candlelight.
“Your cousin Louis, Highness,” she said under her breath.
Now he turned his head and fixed on her his compelling gaze.
“The King of France,” she repeated.
“I have always hoped to deserve His Majesty’s friendship,” said William formally.
Madame Lavalette fixed his eyes with her glance.
“Will you not be more frank with me, Prince?” she said in a low voice.
“In what manner, Madame?”
“Ah, you know,” she leant towards him, “I speak of the King of France—you know what he can do for you.…”
William moved his head so that the heavy auburn hair concealed his face. She thought that he still looked at M. de Witt.
For a moment she hesitated. But, after all, she might be fairly sure of him; it was boldness that was needed in dealing with such reserve, and boldness that M. de Pomponne lacked.
“His Majesty hath much influence in the United Provinces, Prince;” she raised her fan to her lips.
They were alone in the antechamber; from the ballroom they could be observed but not heard.
The Prince did not answer.
“More influence than you imagine, Highness, believe me.”
He moved, but did not look at her. Her eager scrutiny could gain nothing from his pale young face.
“I can credit it, Madame,” he said.
She ventured further.
“His Majesty is the most powerful king in the world, Highness, and if he wished a thing done no one could successfully oppose him.”
“It may very well be, Madame.”
“His Majesty is your very good friend, Highness.”
The Prince kept his eyes lowered, his head slightly turned from her scrutiny.
The Duchess continued—
“If the King willed your restoration, Prince, he could accomplish it.”
William answered calmly—
“Sometimes M. de Witt talks to me of politics, Madame—and from him I learn that the King of France is not friendly towards the United Provinces.”
“Not towards them or M. de Witt,” she answered swiftly, “but towards you—does not Your Highness understand?”
William looked up now.
“Scarcely, Madame.”
She was spurred to go further than ever de Pomponne had ventured.
“The King finds the United Provinces in his way, as you do, Highness; he finds, as you do, that M. de Witt must go. Your cause is one with His Majesty’s—say so, and the thing is done.”
She thought, but could not be sure, that he slightly drew himself away from her into the corner of the settee.
“His Majesty,” she continued, “has the power to put you where your father was——”
“And afterwards, Madame?” asked the Prince. “How should I repay His Majesty?”
Madame Lavalette began to be more sure of her ground.
“Your Highness,” she said softly, “would have the help of France in subduing an impudent and ungrateful country—Your Highness would be master of Holland——”
“Under King Louis,” added the Prince.
“Under the protection of France, Highness; His Majesty is already the dictator of Europe.”
It was a prospect calculated to dazzle one powerless and ambitious.
Madame Lavalette was pleased to see her words take effect. The Prince slowly coloured, and put his hand in an agitated manner to the lace on his breast.
“I understand you now, Madame.”
He gave her an extraordinary look, the meaning of which was beyond her.
“I never doubted your intelligence, Prince—and you did right to be cautious; but now I think we may speak more plainly.”
“M. de Pomponne hath hinted at this, Madame.”
“I do more than hint.”
The dance music floated in from the Truce Saloon, and the Duchess’ waving fan kept time to the slow melody.
“You have but to let His Majesty know your sentiments,” she urged.
William sat still, leaning against the arm of the settee, his right hand resting lightly on his breast.
His grey-green eyes were dark with feeling, and the flush still lingered in his cheeks. She was satisfied that she had touched him, and touched him deeply.
With some curiosity she waited for him to speak; he interested her. A smile touched her lips as she thought of the gravity of their converse and the twenty years between them.
He accepted her with amazing good faith; in some things he must be very simple. It was not displeasing to her to reflect that she was the same to him as the irreproachable dames of his own country, whose velvets swept the floor in the ballroom.
“Shall not M. de Pomponne convey some message of duty from Your Highness to His Majesty?” she asked to probe his silence.
The colour deepened in his face. Madame Lavalette wondered why.
“His Majesty would not value the duty of one as unimportant as myself, Madame.”
“You are His Majesty’s cousin, Prince, and he would restore you to those offices M. de Witt has usurped. Do I now speak open enough?”
“His Majesty would do this—on conditions.”
She shrugged her shoulders.
“On easy ones.”
“Perhaps, Madame—I should find them outside my power to fulfil.”
Madame Lavalette laughed.
“Ah no! His Majesty thinks of a French match for you,”—she sought to still further dazzle him,—“he will restore the town of Orange——”
“In exchange for the liberty of the United Provinces,” interrupted William calmly. “Is not that, Madame, the price?”
“If you will put it so bluntly, Your Highness, then yes.”
The Prince was breathing rather quickly.
“There is one difficulty.”
“It can be overcome,” she answered, smiling.
“I do not think so.”
“What is it?”
He raised his beautiful eyes, they were almost unnaturally dark and bright—
“I am a Calvinist, Madame,” he said gravely.
Madame Lavalette dropped her fan on to her lap.
“Well?” she questioned.
“His Majesty is of the Romish faith.”
She bent her head.
“It is not a religion, Madame, beloved in the United Provinces.”
She made an effort to meet him in this new position.
“We do not talk of religions, Prince.”
His eyes narrowed; again he gave her that inscrutable glance.
“I talk of mine, Madame.”
“What has it to do with the matter in hand, Your Highness?”
To her further bewilderment he smiled, with composure, and, she thought, a touch of scorn.
“I believe, Madame, in predestination.”
“Your Highness is confusing me with Leyden Logic,” she answered; “it is not this we are speaking of——”
“It affects what we speak of, Madame.”
She bit her lip.
“How, Highness?”
“Because I do not believe, Madame, that I am predestined to be the tool of the King of France. The Princes of my House have left behind them records that teach me different aims and higher ambitions.”
With that he rose.
The pride and daring of this speech confounded her as if he had used sudden violence. The colour gathered in her cheeks and her blue eyes became bright and hard.
“You think, Madame, that I am impolitic,” said the Prince, who had now easily the mastery of the situation, “but while I am the subject of the Republic it is you who are impolitic to broach to me my cousin’s designs.”
She rallied herself as best she might from his unlooked-for defiance.
“Your Highness surprises me. Are you wise—are you in a position to take this tone to the King of France?”
William put his hand to his side where his sword should have been—
“I am grateful for his Majesty’s private friendship—but he mistakes my importance in the State. You should go, Madame, to M. de Witt.”
He gave her a glance that brought a flame into her blood, bent his head, and turned away.
Madame Lavalette sat as he had left her, her hands either side of her, on the settee, and the angry red in her face.
In a few moments M. de Pomponne came up. Seeing him she rose angrily.
“Ah, Madame,” said the Marquis softly, “you have been no more successful than I.”
She bit her full under-lip.
“He will not burn his fingers in any intrigue, that boy,” she answered; “and you are a fool, M. le Marquis, to meddle with him. What use is he to us?”
“He is too prudent.”
“Or too honest. A Calvinist—and tells me so—here. Quoted his House, Mon Dieu!… He might have been seventy—the other side of things.… His company hath frozen me—and heated me too.… I hate him. Take me home, Marquis.”
M. de Pomponne saw she was unusually angered; he pursed up his lips and shrugged his shoulders.
“The Prince will be glad of the offers he rejects now—in a while,” he answered.
She swung her fan to and fro.
“I would give something to be the one to master him.”
Then she laughed.
“If you do not get me out of this puritanical country, de Pomponne, I shall die of spleen.”
The Prince had returned to Amalia of Solms, who was conversing with Lady Temple.
“Good-night, Madame,” he said abruptly. “I am leaving.”
“So soon?” Her voice was touched with dismay.
Lady Temple moved away.
“Why should I stay?” asked William wearily.
The Princess changed the subject.
“What of Madame Lavalette?—I saw you dance with her. She is very beautiful and—influential.”
The Prince answered, still in that tired, absent way—
“She is old—a spy of Louis and stale at the game.”
The Princess was startled, both at his clear vision and his calm statement.
“Oh, be careful!” she whispered.
“I know no other word for spy, Madame.”
The Princess rose and touched her grandson’s shoulder.
“You frighten me, William.… Madame Lavalette represents France.”
The Prince put his hand to his forehead and answered in a low but moved tone—
“I listened to what she had to say.… She insulted me … like every one.” His eyes flashed bitterly. “Even Bromley thinks he serves the puppet of France.… And you, Madame——” He checked himself scornfully,—“But let it go.”
“I do not understand,” faltered the Princess.
“No one understands … save M. Triglandt.” He kissed her hand. “Good-night, Madame.”
She made confused protest, but he left her without further ceremony.
In the antechamber the Prince met the Grand Pensionary, his leave-taking was brief; M. de Witt received it coldly.
“The ball was in honour of my cousin, I should have been pleased if Your Highness could have danced with her——”
“Mynheer, I was in no mood for gaiety.”
M. de Witt, too proud to remind him that he had danced with Madame Lavalette, made no answer, and the Prince left the Binnenhof with an aristocratic slowness and an air of sombrely contained haughtiness.
Gaily the music rose over the splendid company. Mingled with it was the sound of laughter, the swish of silks.
The Grand Pensionary of the United Provinces was standing apart from the dancers.
Madame de Lavalette passed him with a deep courtesy.
“Old—the spy of Louis and stale at the game.…”
She was summing herself up in words much like those the Prince had used; her smile was cynical.
“I have been at it twenty years—I had better leave youth alone.…”
She passed down the stairs William had just descended, the candlelight on her white shoulders, her gleaming fair hair, and the long pearls in her ears.
Behind her went M. de Pomponne, smiling.
M. de Witt looked after them with a foreboding expression in his sad eyes. The Count de Montbas in his resplendent uniform, hitching at his great sword, joined him.
“What is the matter, Mynheer?” he asked in a tense voice.
M. de Witt gave a start.
“I?—what do you mean?”
The Count smiled uneasily.
“You are disturbed, Mynheer.”
“Read you so much in my face?”
And John de Witt caught the other by the arm and walked with him across the chamber. For awhile he did not speak for there had fallen on him a bitter sense of chilly fear; it seemed that the music had stopped and the candles gone out.
He shuddered.
“The Prince,” he said. “Did you mark him … and the Frenchwoman?” his fingers tightened on M. de Montbas’ arm. “My Republic.… God help me!… God help me, Count! … for I am afraid.…”
PART II
THE PRINCE
“I challenge all our histories to produce a Prince in all respects his equal; I call the differing humours, interests and religions of the world to witness whether they ever found a man to centre in, like him.…
“He might have raised his seat upon his native country’s liberty, his very enemies would have supported him in those pretences; but he affected no honours but what were freely offered him, there or elsewhere.…
“And his ambition, that was only useful, knew how to wear, as well as how to deserve them.”—William Fleetwood, Bishop of St. Asaph, Sermon.
CHAPTER I
THE RETURN OF FLORENT VAN MANDER
Mr. Bromley was watering his flowers and feeding his pigeons, and singing to himself a snatch of an English song, as he moved to and fro in the pale spring sunshine that filled his little room in the Palace.
Being disturbed by the entry of a servant, he turned his watering-can in his hand and ceased his singing.
“Pardon, Mynheer, it is M. Bentinck’s secretary who hath arrived at the Palace, and, His Highness being abroad, he wishes to see you.”
Matthew Bromley reflected.
“M. Bentinck’s secretary, by name Florent Van Mander, is it not so?”
“Yes, Mynheer.”
“Then bring him here.”
Florent Van Mander, entering immediately, had a pleasant picture of the Englishman standing by the open window with a row of tulips and narcissi showing behind him on the sill, and the grey and white pigeons circling above the gaudy flowers.
Mr. Bromley was cordial.
“We have not forgotten each other, Mynheer!—but it is not so long——”
Van Mander closed the door.
“Three years. It is three years since I was last at the Hague,” he said jealously.
“And three years of big events,” conceded Mr. Bromley. “But where is M. Bentinck?”
“He fell ill at Hertogenbosch;” Florent spoke briefly. “And I left him there, in his cousin’s house—he sent me on to acquaint the Prince of this delay——”
Mr. Bromley emptied his can, threw the last handful of grain to the greedy pigeons and closed the window.
“His Highness will be disappointed,” he remarked. He looked cheerfully at Florent. “Are you glad to have left Berlin?”
“I am glad to return to the Hague.”
Mr. Bromley leant against the window frame and observed him.
He could find no change whatever in him. Florent Van Mander appeared, as formerly, an alert, reserved, grave young man—a dull fellow Mr. Bromley called him inwardly.
“The Prince was expecting M. Bentinck to-night,” he said.
“M. Bentinck is furious at the mischance that keeps him——”
“He was glad to be recalled?”
“Naturally—does it not show the altered position of the Prince that he can recall him?”
Mr. Bromley moved to the oak overmantel and took from it a blue pot of deep red tulips that he placed on the table by the window.
“M. de Witt is still Grand Pensionary,” he remarked, “and this country is still a Republic,—but, as you say, the Prince’s position has altered.”
“Since he obtained the seat in the Council of State?”
“That was two years ago.” Mr. Bromley was removing the dead flowers from among the vivid blooms. “He hath taken a good many steps since then.”
“The whole country shouts for him,” said Florent. “It seemed to me that in every village I passed through they execrated the name of M. de Witt. But will you obtain me an audience of His Highness? I bear him a letter from M. Bentinck.”
The Englishman raised his fair face from the flowers.
“The Prince will be back at any moment, I think,” and he glanced at the clock. “He hath gone to the ‘Huis ten bosch.’”
“M. Van Ghent is no longer governor here?” asked Florent suddenly.
Mr. Bromley smiled.
“The Prince so wearied him with marks of his dislike he petitioned to be released from his post; so, consulting their own dignity, Their High Mightinesses declared His Highness free from tutelage. I’m glad of it——”
“M. de Witt opposed it—of course.”
“Of course,” repeated Mr. Bromley, carrying the tulips back to the mantelshelf. “He opposed his election to the Council—he opposed his journey to England——”
“On what grounds?”
Mr. Bromley shrugged his shoulders in a good-humoured manner.
“Doubtless he feared King Charles would win the Prince over to his designs,—and certainly if flattery and gaiety, and the temptations of a gorgeous Court——”
“Did you accompany him?” interrupted Florent enviously.
“Yes. We were fêted for three months, but the King and the courtiers did not take to the Prince, he was too austere—he was the idol of the people though,” added Mr. Bromley, who had a light, indifferent, and vague way of referring to political matters. But he saw that Van Mander was interested deeply in what had occurred during his three years’ absence from the Hague—so it was right he should be—and so Bromley strove, honestly, and with some difficulty to himself, to satisfy his curiosity.
“M. de Witt thought the Prince would be dazzled,” he explained, thrusting his hands into his pockets,—“so there was bad feeling over that; and then there was the seat in the Council of State, and His Highness’ salary—and the affairs abroad——”
“Do you think there will be war?” again Florent broke in.
“The French are in Lorraine already,—M. de Witt hath passed the war budget and is striving for an increase of the Army,—yes, every one says that there will be war.”
Florent coloured.
“France provokes it wantonly, on the thinnest pretexts,” he said hotly.
“Umph!” Mr. Bromley slightly grimaced. “England is in it too; you heard, of course, of the treaty of Dover?—the counter stroke to the Triple Alliance——”
“Sir William Temple, I hear, hath been recalled——”
“And de Pomponne—Downing is the English Ambassador now.”
Florent rose.
“What does the Prince think of all this?”
“The Prince is striving for the Captain Generalship.”
“Will he get it?”
“I cannot tell. M. de Witt opposes it with all his power—he sees in it the first step towards the restoration of the Stadtholdership; yet nothing less will content the Army and the people.”
Florent was silent. He did not like Mr. Bromley, shallow he thought him—he was, too, a foreigner.
His own eager reflections lay too deep for any expression. He saw the terrible shadow of France falling over his country, distracted by the agony of internal conflict.…
Nothing could save them … they would be subjects of Louis. John de Witt had no more power to prevent it.… Well, the Prince would get what price he could from France once he was Captain General, and he, Florent Van Mander, must follow the example. He had served the Prince in the person of M. Bentinck, faithfully, for three years—it would be remembered to his credit.
Out of the certain ruin facing his country those who followed the Prince alone could make easy terms with France.…
He was startled from his sombre reverie by a message from His Highness.
The Prince had returned, and would see the messenger from M. Bentinck immediately.
Mr. Bromley, still busy with his flowers, nodded carelessly and pleasantly, and Florent was led to the apartment where the Prince awaited him.
It was with an unreasonable sense of agitation that he came into William’s presence, with an unnamable feeling of excitement that he looked across the chamber.
It was in this same room he had taken leave of the Prince three years ago. It seemed in every detail unchanged.
Florent recalled the precise and sombre furniture, the dark walls, the portrait of Mary Stewart, Princess of Orange, above the mantelshelf, the table between the windows covered with books and papers, the shining brass fireirons and the blue-tiled hearth.
To-day the room was filled with the hazy February sunshine, and on the black lacquer cabinet inside the door stood, unexpectedly, a bowl of white and yellow narcissi.
The Prince was standing in the far window embrasure, with his back towards the door.
He wore a velvet suit of a colour he affected, a clear violet. He held his riding-whip behind his back, and the sunlight picked out bright threads in the long hair that fell between his shoulders.
Florent closed the door.
Slowly the Prince turned and shot him a keen glance.
“Ah, the messenger from M. Bentinck.”
He held out his hand for the letter, and by his manner it seemed that he had forgotten he had ever seen Van Mander before.
“M. Bentinck is ill at Hertogenbosch, Highness, otherwise he would be here in person.”
William took the letter and broke it open. M. Bentinck’s secretary stood with his hat in his hand, eagerly observing the master whom he admired blindly and did not understand.
His first impression was that William had changed considerably. He was of the same stature, having come early to his full height, but of a more robust appearance, though his face still retained a look of delicacy. His air of assured self-containment, his expression of calm gravity had deepened. He had always been sure of himself, now he wore the air of a man sure no less of others, sure of his own influence to sway whom he would to his will.
He had lost some of his repression, it seemed; was no longer equally on his guard as to what he said or how he looked.
As he stood quietly reading his letter he conveyed a personality startlingly masterful and daring. Florent felt as if some one touched him, gripped him, so strong was the influence of the slim and silent figure.
William at length looked up.
His face had slightly altered. He was not so pale, the curved lips were set firmly in an expression of half scorn that seemed habitual, his brilliant eyes were controlled to an unfathomable austerity, and the peculiar cleft in his chin was more noticeable.
He wore slight moustaches in the French style that added to his age, and was dressed for riding even more simply than Florent.
“M. Bentinck is not seriously ill?” he asked.
“No, Highness, a chill—a slight fever——”
“When will he be able to come to the Hague?”
“In a day or so, I think, Highness.”
William looked again at the letter.
Florent did not know how to face the disappointment of the Prince’s total forgetfulness of himself; his three years’ exile were ill repaid by this.…
Again the Prince raised his eyes.
“Are you pleased to return to the Hague, Mynheer Van Mander?”
A hot flush swept across Florent’s face.
“I thought Your Highness did not recall me.”
“I recall you very well, Mynheer—M. Bentinck speaks highly of you; if you choose to remain in my service, it is open to you—here.”
Florent found himself foolishly unable to frame an answer. He had felt himself slighted, and now he was over-rewarded; shame silenced him.
“I imagine you will care to stay,” said William, eyeing him.
“It has been my ambition, Highness.”
The Prince put the letter away in his pocket.
“You will see M. Renswoude, who is now head of my household; I need another secretary. I will speak with you again. Meanwhile, Mynheer, I thank you for your fidelity to M. Bentinck.”
Florent, quivering with pleasure, bowed low.
The Prince turned to the table between the windows.
“First I will request you to return to Hertogenbosch, Mynheer, with a letter for M. Bentinck.”
He sat down, wrote hastily, in a large, flowing hand, a few lines, and sealed them in a cover with the signet on his thumb.
As he rose again the door was opened.
“Highness, the Grand Pensionary is below and requests an immediate interview.”
It seemed to Florent’s acute observation that a malicious and triumphant expression flashed for an instant in William’s eyes, but he answered quietly—
“I will see him here.”
As the servant withdrew, William seated himself before his papers again, handing Florent the packet for M. Bentinck.
“Return as soon as you may and—an easy journey,” he said.
Florent bowed himself out as he would have done from a king’s presence, flushed, with a high beating heart, and well repaid for those tedious three years in Berlin.
William watched the door close, then leant back in his chair.
Papers, drawings, plans and maps were scattered before him. Some of the drawers of the cabinet were pulled open, and the long, fuchsia-shaped, brass handles glittered, where the sun caught them, in stars of gold.
Several books, on mathematics and geometry, were piled together, and upon them was placed a vase in the shape of a Chinese monster holding a single crimson tulip.
The sun, slanting in through the long window, caught this flower and picked it out, like a bell of blood against the dusky background, then fell full on the thoughtful figure of the Prince, outlining it in a misty radiance.
The rest of the room was golden dark, for the heavy curtains were half across the windows, and the light filtered through them in a subdued hue, so that M. de Witt, entering the chamber, had his attention fixed at once by the Prince and the tulip, the objects upon which all the sunshine fell.
With every day now de Witt and this young man he gazed on drifted farther apart. They had not met privately for months.
William turned slowly in his chair and rose.
“I am grateful for this, Mynheer,” he said, and it was the manner of a king with a subject, “for I wished to speak to you.”
The Grand Pensionary advanced into the room. He was splendidly dressed, for he had been attending the second reception of Sir George Downing by the States General, and, though still in mourning for his wife, his black was put aside on this occasion. He wore a crimson mantle embroidered in gold, and a coat laced and beribboned.
“There is much to say, on both sides, Highness,” he answered gravely.
The Prince remained erect, with his hand on the back of his chair.
“Will you be seated, M. de Witt?”
The Grand Pensionary came slowly down the room, holding his velvet mantle across his breast. His demeanour was stately to haughtiness, his lips unsmiling and his eyes severe.
“It is a long time since you and I have spoken together,” he said.
“You have been much occupied, Mynheer,” replied the Prince.
He continued to stand. Mynheer de Witt seated himself in a deep, Spanish leather chair facing the window, but enveloped in the hazy, golden, dusky shadows.
“It is not preoccupation hath kept me away,” said the Grand Pensionary, “but distaste to broach with you matters on which we cannot agree. Since we cannot meet as friends, Highness, it is painful to me that we must meet at all.”
“Why not as friends, Mynheer?” asked William quietly.
John de Witt looked at him steadily and mournfully.
“Because there is no friendship in your heart for me, Prince.”
“I can assure you that you mistake me—I am capable of separating the man and his office, Mynheer.”
“I am one with my office,” answered the Grand Pensionary proudly. “What I say publicly I do not abate one jot in private. Whilst this Republic chooses me as its representative I shall serve openly, and with all my power, the liberty and independence of the United Provinces—both against foreign tyranny and native ambition.”