“If ye had been awake, Mynheer, maybe ye could have stopped him,” replied M. Bentinck angrily.
Much of their reserve and fortitude was suddenly shaken by this collapse. The despair his personal influence had kept at bay began to seize hold of them; of the three the lawyer was the calmest.
He put his hand to the Prince’s forehead and untied his cravat.
“It is what the foreigners call the Dutch fever,” he said.
This sickness, deadly and common, was well known to all of them; it was in symptom like a tertian ague, caused, strangers declared, by the mists rising in summer from the low, damp lands—alternate burning and shivering, with high fever and fierce pains.
“What can we do?” asked M. de Zuylestein helplessly.
“With nothing we can do nothing,” replied William Bentinck.
It was surprising to reflect that a fortnight could reduce them from the luxury and ease of the Hague to this kitchen, with the Prince lying unconscious at their feet and not so much as a cordial to revive him.
“Where is Matthew Bromley——?” began M. Bentinck, then checked himself, remembering that the Englishman lay dead in the adjoining chamber.
M. de Zuylestein cursed the baggage waggons for having lost their way, and was moving to summon outside assistance. M. Bentinck checked him.
“No one can do any more; if you let the news abroad there will be a panic——”
“And what of the mutiny? Had he checked it?” asked M. Beverningh, who was on his knees beside the Prince.
“Yes—he can do anything with the men.”
“What did he say?”
“Not much—he spoke stiffly I thought, and proudly.”
“Sincerity needs no arts,” murmured Beverningh.
They had water, but M. Beverningh was against William Bentinck’s suggestion of bathing the Prince’s forehead; it increased the fever he said.
M. de Zuylestein was for bleeding him, but since they had no lancet that also was abandoned.
One of the candles burnt down, and they could find no other, so had to manage by the dismal light of one.
“If he takes the fever,” said M. Beverningh, “we are truly undone.”
M. Bentinck had found a withered brown shell of a rose inside William’s waistcoat.
“He has his sentiments,” he remarked, “although he guards them fiercely—he picked this from the tree his mother, the Princess Royal, planted, the last time he was at the ‘Huis ten bosch.’”
“I think he is this country’s sole hope,” said M. de Zuylestein. “There is no one to take his place.”
The hot night was wearing away; the first pallid glow of dawn stole through the window and fell on the calm, unconscious face of the young Captain General.
Once or twice he moved heavily as if he were asleep. M. Bentinck knelt beside him on the glazed tiles; felt his wrist helplessly, and pushed back the tangled, damp auburn locks from his brow.
Their last candle burnt to the daylight, then spluttered out in the brass stick.
William suddenly opened his eyes and half sat up.
He was shivering, and the hand M. Bentinck held was fever hot.
“Bentinck,” he said, “we must get into Utrecht to-day.…”
And on these words he fainted again.
M. Beverningh looked at M. de Zuylestein.
“Pray God King Louis’ terms will be reasonable,” he said grimly; “for whatever they are we must accept them.”
CHAPTER XIII
THE FANATICS
M. Van Ouvenaller snuffed the candle, took off his glasses, wiped them, and set them again on his nose and took up his long quill pen.
It was about eleven at night and very hot; the window was set open on the June dark, on the expanse of the Vyverberg and the trees of the Kneuterdyk Avenue beyond the water.
The Binnenhof was empty save for this room where John de Witt and his clerk sat completing the day’s task.
It was a little chamber, simply furnished, its sole adornment several handsome pictures of flowers and still life.
The candlesticks, taper-holders, and ink-stands were of glittering brass, and the only bright objects in the severe, sombre surroundings of John de Witt.
He wore black velvet, and leant back a little in his stiff, carved chair. His full brown eyes were fixed on his clerk, who was finishing the notes on the day’s affairs which were to be used in the Grand Pensionary’s speech to the Assembly to-morrow.
“Read over to me what you have there,” said John de Witt.
Both men looked exhausted. The work put upon the Grand Pensionary was more than he could do; he had sent for his cousin Vivien to help him in duties that began to accumulate beyond his strength, but until the arrival of the Pensionary of Dordt he had to put through his labours unaided.
Reinier Van Ouvenaller moved the candles so that they escaped the draught from the open window, for a slight breeze was rising.
“The Prince of Orange,” he read from his notes, “entered Utrecht yesterday, the people having overawed the magistrates. His Highness, who was sick of an aguish fever, had a scene with the town council, and, on their refusing to burn the suburbs or to make any defence, he abandoned them and fell back on Bodegraven, saying he would not risk his men in the defence of such selfish, unpatriotic people—he forced them to provision his forces, however. M. Beverningh writes in a despairing strain.”
John de Witt rested his elbow on the arm of his chair and his cheek in his palm; his gaze was turned on the peaceful darkness beyond the window.
M. Van Ouvenaller gave a little dry cough and resumed—
“Nota, that the Prince William lost many men in a desperate brush with the contingent of M. de Rochfort, and that Prince John Maurice protests that he cannot hold out much longer in Maestricht—more men if possible to be sent.
“Nota, that the several States demand their own troops for their particular protection, the great inconvenience of this to be put to Their Noble Mightinesses. Jealousy of other provinces that they pay men to defend Holland—but this must be; nota, that the Hague and Amsterdam are the chief towns and must be defended at any cost.”
John de Witt looked across the candles at his secretary.
“Add that the other States be reminded Holland bears the chief cost.”
The pen scratched a moment, then M. Van Ouvenaller resumed—
“The Dutch envoys received violently by His Highness the Prince William, and coldly by His Christian Majesty; M. de Groot’s report not hopeful. M. de Louvois appears unreasonable; M. Van Odyk, fearful of displeasing the Prince and the State of Zeeland, withdraws from the embassy; M. de Groot returns to the Hague to obtain full powers, King Louis refusing to treat on any other terms; nota, that Their Noble Mightinesses be urged to grant these full powers; nota, that M. de Groot is a very able and honest man.”
The Grand Pensionary was again looking out at the night.
“Go on,” he said in a quiet voice.
“State of alarm in the country, shops closed, business suspended; nota, a more resolute front to our advantage; rumours that the Jews of Amsterdam have offered M. de Condé two million if he will spare their quarter, and that the goldsmiths are making a gold basin in which to present the key of their city to the King of France; nota, speak to the Deputies of Amsterdam to contradict these rumours.”
The secretary snuffed the candle again, turned over a leaf, and continued—
“Riots becoming serious, the magistrates to be exhorted to firmness; M. Cornelius de Witt hath permission, on account of his sickness, to leave the Fleet; nota, that he hath waived the salute he was entitled to and presented the powder to Dordt, where it is very scarce; nota, that the States thanked him for his noble conduct at the battle off Southwold town, and that I reply for him, he being abed in Dordt; nota, that there are riots in Dordt, and the portrait of M. Cornelius de Witt hath been cut from its frame in the town hall; protests to be made with regard to the weakness of authority.”
“Underline that,” interrupted John de Witt, “for it is of all things serious.”
Van Ouvenaller obeyed.
“Nota, that the English envoys are dissolute and frivolous men, and come not for any honest desire for peace but to see their master has a share of the spoil; nota, that Viscount Halifax is the most moderate and the least trusted by his Government, that the Earl of Arlington was in the treaty of Dover, and that the Duke of Buckingham is jealous of the Prince James of Monmouth who has the command he desires; nota, most hopes from him; nota, fear they have secret offers to make to the Prince William of Orange, to his advantage, but not to that of the States; nota, that there is a popular idea that if the stadtholdership were reinstated King Charles would make peace; nota, this false, he makes war not for his nephew’s sake, but because of the treaty with France.
“Nota, that the alliances with Spain and Brandenburg go well.
“Nota, that the Prince William of Orange is popular in England; nota, not to trust him, M. Fagel has changed front and is utterly against peace; nota, he has received instructions from the Prince.
“Fresh levies to be sent to Groningen; nota, that the French, especially M. de Luxembourg, behave with great cruelty, thereby filling the people with terror.
“Nota, confidence to be restored to the States by resolute speaking, despair a worse enemy than the French.
“Nota, that the clamour for the Prince of Orange grows, and that the people seem to put more trust in him than in God.
“Nota, that two days of fasting be appointed till God be pleased to guide us out of these troubles.
“Nota, that the Princess Amalia petitions the State for leave to ask the King of France’s protection for her property at the Hague; nota, not to be granted, as it would show despair of our success.
“Nota, that one Mynheer Sylvius arrived from England on a secret mission to the Prince; nota, that this looks ill.
“These notes made Tuesday, June 21, 1672, at the Binnenhof.”
John de Witt drew out his handkerchief and wiped his brow.
“How hot it is, Van Ouvenaller,” he remarked.
The clerk folded up the memoranda.
“Have we finished now, Mynheer?” he asked wearily.
“No, I have another letter to write.”
M. Van Ouvenaller pulled out a fresh sheet of paper.
“A moment,” said the Grand Pensionary. “I must collect myself.”
He rose and went to the window.
The summer night had soothed or silenced the sorrows and passions that had raged all day; gone were the threatening men, the weeping women, the clatter of the burgher companies, the passing to and fro of the town guard, the people who had pressed to the Binnenhof for news, the crowds who had swept through the distracted streets clamouring for the Prince of Orange. Binnenhof and Buitenhof were both dark save for this one light in John de Witt’s window.
The stars shone through a fine vapour; the glow of the lamps round the Vyverberg was half obscured by the thick leaves of the wych elms and the limes, which sent up a luscious fragrance to the open window.
John de Witt stood quite still. The black velvet and falling lace collar threw into relief his romantic good looks; the candid and melancholy features that were strangely unlined and simple in expression for one whose years had been so laboriously full.
He looked less than his years, partly by reason of the heavy brown hair that still fell so thickly on to his shoulders, and the full but shapely mouth whose lips lay together with a fresh and youthful set of gentleness.
“Who is it you will write to, Mynheer?” asked Van Ouvenaller.
“To M. Beverningh.”
“And to His Highness?”
“No,” answered John de Witt.
The hot stillness had a lulling quality; lassitude was in the perfume of the silent darkness.
For once John de Witt seemed reluctant to turn to his work. He stood with one hand resting on the mullions and his eyes were dreamy.
M. Van Ouvenaller yawned.
“I remember,” remarked the Grand Pensionary, “how it was said to me—twenty years ago—when I took up this office—‘Thou must not care henceforth, whether thou be laid in thy coffin whole or in pieces.’”
The clerk lifted a startled face.
“Latterly I have thought of it,” continued his master. “How the people hate me.… I never thought that I should be so hated.”
“Mynheer!—they are but fanatics——”
“Fanatics,” echoed John de Witt, with a sad smile. “They think I sell them to M. de Louvois.”
He pressed his hand to his heart as if he was wounded there.
“When they took this office from my predecessor Cats, he thanked God on his knees for removing such a heavy burden from him.… Well, he was never hated as I am.”
“Mynheer, it is but the vulgar who rail against you.”
John de Witt turned his full eyes on the secretary.
“It is the People,” he said mournfully. “The People of this Republic … if they trusted me I could save them yet … if they trusted me——”
He returned to the table and took up the pen.
“I must make some answer to that pamphlet, Advice to every Faithful Hollander, there are accusations there must not be overlooked. Their High Mightinesses will do me that justice, to silence some of these lying tongues—remind me, Van Ouvenaller … many thousand copies have been sold, here alone——”
He spoke proudly and frowned a little. His clerk knew that the malice, detraction, and bitterness surrounding him harassed his noble spirit sorely. He walked like an unarmed man among gathered spears that might any moment be turned against his heart.
“And is this all we have to do to-night, Mynheer?” asked the clerk.
“Yes.”
Van Ouvenaller began to put up the papers in the dispatch bag; when he rose he walked stiffly, by reason of his long sitting.
John de Witt’s pen travelled rapidly over the smooth paper. Once he began his eager spirit did not lack for means of expression, his unwearied soul held his tired body to the task.
His letter to Jerome Beverningh ended thus—
“We must consider Amsterdam as the heart of the State, by which succour may be carried to all its members; so that, under God’s guidance, we may fight against the enemy for our country to the last man, and with Dutch constancy.”
He folded and sealed his letter, then rose again.
It was now nearly midnight and the heat increasing; the faint breeze had completely dropped.
“You will go home now?” asked Van Ouvenaller anxiously. “It is so late, and you, Mynheer, have laboured exceedingly to-day.”
“It is not the labour that irks but the payment,” answered John de Witt. “I learn with sorrow the truth of the ancient saying they applied to the Roman Republic—‘Prospera omnes sibi vindicant, adversa uni imputantur.’ Ah, Van Ouvenaller, they say from the very pulpits that I would sooner let the country go to the French than see the Prince of Orange governor of it.”
“The Calvinists are all ardent in his favour,” replied the secretary; “naturally, for he is very zealous for their creed.”
John de Witt took his hat and cloak from a chair.
“I hope my sister hath not sat up for me.”
“She always does,” answered Van Ouvenaller, drawing the string of the dispatch-bag.
“To-night I am so late.”
He waited while the clerk locked up the desk, then extinguished all the candles but one, which he took up and carried into the outer room.
There, by the dim light of a lamp, sat his servant asleep.
“Van den Wissel,” said John de Witt.
The man woke with a start and a confused excuse.
“No matter,” answered his master. “I am going home now.”
He gave the servant the candle, and the three traversed the silent corridors of the Binnenhof.
In the courtyard was a little delay while Van den Wissel lit a torch with which to guide them home.
As the chimes of the Groote Kerk struck twelve, they set out across the Buitenhof, the servant ahead bearing the torch, and Van Ouvenaller following with the dispatch-bag.
The outer air and the movement refreshed the Grand Pensionary. He found the dark night and the darker outlines of the fine buildings grateful to his tired eyes, the silence pleasant after the scratching of the quills and the weary voice of the little clerk.
His anxious thoughts took a more peaceful turn; his pious fancy imagined the serene stars promised protection from the God they concealed.
But as he neared the Gevangenpoort he must needs think of John Van Olden Barnenveldt and gloomy auguries.
They turned under the prison, through the low gate on which it was built; the spreading light of the torch showed the heavy walls closely confining them, and John de Witt shivered in his velvet.
He was glad when they reached the trees surrounding the Vyver.
It was solitary, as always at this time of night, but he thought he heard an unaccountable sound.
“Van Ouvenaller,” he spoke over his shoulder, “do you hear anything?”
“Nothing, Mynheer,” was the sleepy answer.
“I thought I heard some one draw a sword,” replied John de Witt, peering into the shadows of the trees.
Even as he spoke there was a great cry from his servant; the torch was swung up into the air, where it scattered sparks across the blackness, then dashed to the earth; some dark shapes leapt forward.…
“Ah!” cried John de Witt, with a quick intake of his breath.
“We have been waiting for you,” answered a youthful voice, “watching your light yonder … traitor!”
“M. de Witt!” yelled the clerk dismally; then he was silent suddenly, and the Grand Pensionary heard him fall.
It was quite dark. He stepped back against the railings and called his servant; a man quickly closed with him.
“I am unarmed,” he said. “Are you an assassin?”
His opponent flung himself on him and thrust his sword viciously at him, wounding him in the throat.
Taken by surprise as he was, John de Witt turned, seized his assailant, and hurled him off.
“Van den Wissel!” he called again; but the only answer came from two others of the ambuscade, who rushed to the assistance of the one the Grand Pensionary had thrown. He had now three against him; he set his back against the railings and fought them off with his bare hands, proudly saying nothing, though every moment he received a fresh wound.
It could not last long. As he turned to face one, another stabbed him in the back and he fell silently, striking his head violently against the railings of the Vyver.
Hoarse, broken whispers came from the murderers—
“Is he dead?”
“He fell.…”
“Yes—he is dead.”
“Who struck him?”
“I—Jacob Van der Graef.”
“Hush!—I cannot see any one.”
“No—it is too dark.”
“What of the servant?”
“Is that you, Bruyn?”
“Yes——”
“The lot fell to you——”
“Well, I struck him——”
“I killed him——”
“So die all friends of King Louis!”
“Hush!”
“Ah!—I am treading on him——”
“My God! I feel giddy——”
“Come away——”
“Have you the dispatch-bag?”
“Yes——”
“And the clerk?”
“Here.”
“Dead?”
“I do not know.”
“He did not see us?”
“I think not——”
“Then leave him——”
“I have lost my sword——”
“Well, come away——”
“I cannot leave it here.”
“I am wounded——”
“Where is Borrebagh?”
“Here.”
“Where shall we go?”
“To Van Dyck’s house.”
“Make haste.”
So four hoarse voices passed to and fro as the assassins stumbled among their victims; then they made off across the Plaats with all the haste terror, exultation, and their wounds would permit them.
Once more it was utterly silent on the Plaats.
The great chimes of the Groote Kerk struck through a warm stillness.
John de Witt sat up and fumbled in the dark.
Emptiness and perfect blackness seemed about him; he put his hand to his head and felt it warm and wet.
“Van Ouvenaller,” he called faintly.
There was no answer.
By the aid of the railings he got to his feet.
His right shoulder gave him exquisite pain; his strength seemed to have been utterly robbed from him.
He clutched at his collar that was all sticky with blood, and gave a soft exclamation.
“God be with me if this is death,” he said dazedly.
Then across the night he saw the light they always left for him in his room—at home.
A sudden waft of perfume from the limes came to his nostrils.
“I will not die in the streets, like a gallant in a tavern brawl,” he thought, and forced his failing strength to drag him on. Clutching the railings, the tree-trunks, staggering, falling once or twice to his knees, John de Witt gained his house at the corner of the Kneuterdyk Avenue.
As he leant, exhausted, against the door-post it occurred to him that his appearance would frighten his sister and daughter, who might still be up.
He tried to fling his velvet mantle over himself, but could not.
A great giddiness came over him; he opened the door and stumbled into the quiet hall.
At the bottom of the stairs stood Anna de Witt in a white gown, her fair hair shining in the glimmer of the lamp she held.
“Oh!” she cried brokenly. “O—oh!” and ran forward.
John de Witt was blood from head to foot; his collar soaked from the wound in his throat, his hands red and torn, his shirt stained, his forehead bruised, and the hair clotted with the slow drippings from the gash in his head.
He tried to reassure his daughter.
“Dearest … I have escaped … why, this is nothing at all—get me a surgeon, Anna——”
The girl did not lose her presence of mind; she made no lamentations.
“Aunt Johanna!” she called strongly. “Aunt Johanna!”
Madame Van Beveren appeared in the door of the dining-room where she had been preparing her brother’s supper.
“Father is wounded,” said Anna de Witt.
Johanna stepped into the hall, and her eyes fell on the Grand Pensionary who supported himself against the wall.
“God have mercy on us!” she exclaimed.
She had a blue china bowl of peaches in her hands; in a mechanical way she set it down on the table where Anna had placed the lamp.
“John,”—she caught her brother by the arm,—“come upstairs.”
“I was attacked on the Vyverberg,” said the Grand Pensionary thickly. “How they hate me——”
“Anna, rouse your grandfather—the servants—send one for the physicians of the States—and M. Wilde——John, can you get upstairs?”
Anna dashed into the dining-room and rang the bell; sped upstairs and beat on Jacob de Witt’s door.
When she returned to the hall she found John de Witt senseless in the chair outside the dining-room door and his sister bending over him, her spotless gown stained with blood as she strove to stanch the wound in his throat.
In a moment the whole house was in a commotion. M. de Witt had only two men-servants, one of whom had been with him at the Binnenhof; but the coachman and the other private clerk, M. Bacherus, carried him up to his room; then hurried out with torches to fetch a doctor and search for the other victims.
Jacob de Witt lost his usual resignation; he wrung his hands and cried out for Cornelius, for he was very old.
Anna led him gently away.
“God does not will that my father should die,” she said. “We must not complain, but rather rejoice that through a miracle he hath been saved.”
“God’s will be done,” said the old man, but the tears rolled down his pale cheeks.
Anna sat beside him, holding his hand, in the dining-room, where the untouched supper showed pleasant in the candlelight, while the doctors went upstairs.
Presently M. Wilde entered.
“The wounds are not mortal,” he said. “M. de Witt will live.”
PART III
THE CRISIS
“Since Octavius the world had seen no such instance of precocious statesmanship.”—Lord Macaulay, History of England.
“Nobile par fratrum, sævo furor ore trucidat.”—Motto on a medal in commemoration of August 20, 1672.
CHAPTER I
THE CAMP OF THE CONQUEROR
Sir Gabriel Sylvius arrived at Doesburg to find that King Louis was already on the road to Utrecht; immediately came news of his entry into that town and his choice of headquarters at Zeyst, the castle of M. Van Odyk.
The alarmed States, deprived of the leadership of John de Witt, who was confined to his bed with a raging fever from his wounds, had given M. de Groot full powers to treat with King Louis, and he, despite the violent remonstrances of M. Fagel, repaired with M. Van Ghent to the camp of the conqueror on a desperate attempt to obtain honourable terms for his distracted country.
Sir Gabriel Sylvius retraced his steps over the conquered and despairing provinces of Overyssel and Guelders, where M. de Luxembourg was making the people taste the full severities of military rule, and took lodgings in Utrecht.
The day before his arrival M. de Groot had returned from the Hague, hastily, for fear the Orange party should prevent his departure, and Sir Gabriel found the old castle of Zeyst the head of the negotiations that were to decide the fate of the United Provinces.
Louis, having taken Utrecht, and forced the Dutch to the humiliation of returning M. de Groot with full powers to treat for peace, deigned to allow a truce.
The Prince of Orange, with the remnant of his forces, lay at Newerbrugge, between Leyden and Haarlem; and M. de Turenne, sweeping the Protestants down with the fervour of a convert, made preparations to annihilate him should the negotiations fall through. He declared His Majesty should dine at the Hague within the next month, as friend or foe, and swore it before the Saints he had recently recognised.
He was the more eager as M. de Condé, wounded at the passage of the Rhine, had retired to Chantilly, and his now was the sole glory of the war.
Sir Gabriel sent his name and credentials to M. de Louvois, and to the surprise of his secretary, Florent Van Mander, the acknowledgment was an instant command to attend His Majesty.
To Florent’s further surprise they were received with great courtesy by the gorgeous officials who shed splendour on the French Court. Van Mander knew that the Dutch envoys had been met with a supreme haughtiness; he held M. de Groot a much greater man than Sir Gabriel Sylvius, who was, after all, only the secret messenger of a citizen.
But Louis made a fine distinction between the representative of a confederation of traders whom he had always disliked, despised, and now regarded as conquered, and William of Orange, his cousin, a Prince of the blood royal of England, a Grandee of the German Empire, the possessor of one of the finest private fortunes in Europe, and the owner of talents and qualities that might well fit him to join the galaxy of great names that shed lustre on the crown of Louis de Bourbon.
So the Prince’s envoy was received graciously at the castle of Zeyst. He arrived there towards the close of a warm day, soon after His Majesty had returned from an inspection of Utrecht’s fortifications; he was conducted, with his secretary, into one of the chambers that opened into the great dining-hall, where once M. Van Odyk had entertained his master.
Florent Van Mander had just crossed a conquered province and was lodged in a conquered city; he had seen the Host carried through the streets of Utrecht, and listened to the chants of the priests that had not been heard in the United Provinces since they drove out Farnese; he had seen his countrymen killed, spurned, insulted; he had seen their dwellings fired, their goods plundered; he had seen the burgomasters submit humbly to the omnipotent King; and now he was looking on the inner side of this terrible army that had taken two provinces in so many weeks.
He made no comment; he had said very little since he left the Prince’s camp. Sir Gabriel had an open manner that disguised complete reserve.
Florent fed his silence with rumours; of the wounding of M. de Witt, of the frantic state of feeling in Holland, of M. de Groot’s desperate mission, of the arrival of the English envoys at the Hague; of the rapacity of M. de Louvois and the high-handed arrogance of his master: which things he considered and reflected upon day and night.
The castle was filled with French officers, splendid men of graceful manners. Van Mander found them as dazzling as the reports of their exploits; looking at them he felt that his country was non-existent, already a province of France, and he thought of William of Orange, and wondered why Sir Gabriel sought an audience with the conqueror.
Yet he believed that he knew.
The room they waited in was very handsomely hung with Flemish tapestry representing the story of the Unicorn, and furnished with inlaid Spanish pieces, for M. Van Odyk had wealth and good taste; the door into the next chamber was curtained with dark velvet, looped back, and from behind it came the sound of a man singing in a voice of a pleasant, medium quality.
He sang in English to the accompaniment of a lute.
Sir Gabriel walked up and down the room, glancing out of the deep windows he passed at the French soldiers in their gay uniforms filling the grey courtyard below.
He held his hat behind his back, and his shrewd, freckled face was set in lines of reflection.
Van Mander stared at the contorted figures on the arras, and listened to the clatter of horses and arms from without.
Above it all rose the near sound of the English song—
Sir Gabriel stopped by the window and frowned; he was impatient at being kept waiting, even by His Majesty.
The singer paused, and seemed to fidget with the strings of his instrument that he played but moderately well.
Florent became curious to see who sang.
Sir Gabriel seemed self-absorbed, so he rose and moved so that he could see beyond the curtain into the inner room.
Just beyond the door he saw a young man, with one foot on a chair, holding across his knee a long-necked lute of shining ivory and satinwood.
His face was turned away. His person was a matter of great marvel and admiration to Florent, who had never seen anything more splendid than this cavalier.
He was a well-made man, very young, it seemed, and dressed in a dark rose brocade stiff with threads of silver and fastened with little knots of pearls; round his waist was a white silk sash branched and fringed with silver; his sleeves were unbuttoned and turned back over his rich needlework shirt, he wore a deep falling collar of Venetian lace and had fine ruffles of it at his wrists and knees.
A baldric of white velvet worked with jewels supported his slender sword with its curious gold hilt; his close, high boots were of white leather, and his spurs gilt and fantastically shaped.
On the chair lay his gloves, trimmed with pearls, and his grey hat with an upright plume of white feathers and twisted with a silver cord fastened with a diamond brooch.
As Van Mander stared at him he seemed to become conscious of the scrutiny and turned his head, revealing the most beautiful face Florent had ever seen on man or woman.
Yet the sheer perfection of curving line and warm brown colour made not the chief attraction—this lay in the expression, a charming combination of dare-devilry and sweetness, amiability and an innocent pride; a face by no means effeminate, not very intelligent, but wholly lovely and lovable.
He had deep, soft brown eyes, straight, thick brows, a blunt English nose, a fair complexion, a beautiful and expressive mouth; his thick, waving, chestnut hair fell in curls on to his shoulders and on the left side was tied with a knot of pink ribbon, a fashion Florent had not seen before.
His glance dwelt for a moment on the man observing him, then he turned away again, bending over the gleaming lute, but now without singing.
Sir Gabriel came from the window and Florent went over to him.
“Who is that cavalier in there—decked out like a woman?” he whispered.
“Is there one in there?”
“Yes, Mynheer, he who sang.”
“Ah, yes——”
Sir Gabriel crossed the room and looked into the outer chamber.
The lutanist had set his instrument down and was gathering up his gloves and hat.
“It is the Englishman,” said Sir Gabriel indifferently.
“The Englishman?”
“The Prince James of Monmouth.”
The Duke heard his name and held back the curtain.
Sir Gabriel bowed.
“I await an audience with His Majesty, your Grace.”
The Englishman gave them both the sweet smile he had for every one.
“Ah, Sir Gabriel—I did not think to see you again, so soon——”
“Nor I, your Grace.”
“You come from the Prince of Orange?” asked Monmouth. He spoke in English, for he had no other language but a little imperfect French, and Florent, who could not understand what he said, dwelt on his glittering presence with a slow admiration.
“Yes,” answered Sir Gabriel, with a little smile.
The Duke smiled again too, for no reason but good-nature.
“It has been a most marvellous campaign,” he remarked, with his usual utter absence of tact. “A glorious beginning to the war——”
“For the King of France, your Grace,” replied Sir Gabriel. “I am in the service of the Prince of Orange.”
“Ah, yes—forgive me,” said Monmouth sweetly; “but I hope it will be to His Highness’ advantage also.”
With which vague remark he changed the subject.
“Did you see my lord Arlington lately?”
“I crossed from Harwich with him.”
His Grace half frowned.
“I should have heard from him. It is astonishing, Sir Gabriel, how difficult it is to get letters here.”
“I can believe it, sir.”
“My lord promised me supplies of money,” said the Englishman frankly, “which I am already in need of——”
He paused a moment, and then added—
“But I can take you to His Majesty now, Sir Gabriel; I do not know why they make delays.”
He pulled out a little crystal watch.
“It is near dinner-time—I will take you with me and you may see His Majesty before he dines.”
“I shall be infinitely obliged, your Grace.”
Monmouth included the secretary in a sweetly courteous glance, and begged them to follow him.
“Have you seen our soldiers, Sir Gabriel?” he asked as they proceeded through M. Van Odyk’s handsome chambers. “By the Lord, ’tis a mighty fine army.”
“I hear your Grace has distinguished yourself——”
“Oh, la! I don’t know; it is vastly amusing being a general, Sir Gabriel.”
They traversed a large antechamber filled with bowing pages and several officers of the King’s Guard, who swept off their hats to the commander of the English forces.
“We are private and informal here,” said Monmouth, who was used to splendour ever since he could remember, and he opened the door into what had once been M. Van Odyk’s private dining-room.
Sir Gabriel spoke to Florent in their own language over his shoulder.
“Now you will see a notable company.”
This with a half-smile, as if the greatness there was such a stir about in Europe was not so dazzling on a near view.
It was a fine room; the ceiling beamed and painted, the walls panelled half-way up and above that hung with arras, save over the mantelshelf where the woodwork rose to the ceiling and formed a background for some dark family portraits.
There were velvet cushions in the deep window-seats and on the various carved chairs, and on a handsome buffet a rich collection of glass and gold and silver plate.
The usual quietly splendid and plainly costly chamber of a Dutch nobleman.
Seated at the head of the long table were two men, looking at a map: one young, scarcely at his prime, short, stoutly made, with a broad, vigorous face, and crimped brown hair falling on to his collar, dressed in black silk ruffled with red ribbons; the other a man of about thirty-five, also below the medium height, but slender, with a brown, handsome countenance, long effective eyes, an imperious mouth, and a hard expression of pride and obstinacy.
He wore green velvet, cut short in the French fashion to show his shirt, a gold baldric, and no ornament save a little brooch of pearls at his collar; his hair, chestnut colour and very fine, was frizzed to stand out in a multitude of little curls that fell to the middle of his shoulders.
Behind him, leaning on the back of his chair, stood another gentleman, eating chocolates, who was far more richly dressed, being nearly as extravagant as my lord Monmouth, but not near so handsome, though of a delicate face and a graceful carriage.
Standing by the hearth was a tall man very plainly habited in brown velvet, well past middle life, but erect and powerful, with haggard features, fiery eyes, and an air of melancholy, dishevelled grandeur; of these four he had the most appearance of greatness, and seemed to know it and to despise his surroundings.
Monmouth advanced, his hat in his hand.
The man in the green velvet turned in his chair.
“Sire, this is Sir Gabriel, the messenger from His Highness of Orange,” said his Grace.
Florent stared, wondering which was the King, and attracted by the man on the hearth who took no notice of any.
“We are glad to see you, Monsieur,” said the gentleman in green graciously, and then Florent knew that he was the King, for Sir Gabriel knelt and kissed his hand.
When he rose he motioned towards Florent.
“My secretary, Sire, who is in His Highness’ favour.”
Florent bowed very low.
“You are both very welcome to Zeyst,” said Louis. “M. de Louvois,” and he looked at the other seated at the table, “advertised us of your coming, and, pressed as we are with great affairs, we were very pleased to grant you an audience.”
He had an air of great and distant dignity, but he made it plain that he wished to be gracious.
Sir Gabriel, in no way discomposed, bowed again.
“Sire, I am no accredited ambassador but the private agent of the Prince, as Your Majesty knows, and the first object of my mission was to the commissioners of His Majesty King Charles, but I received instructions from His Highness to wait on you, to tender you his duty, and to ask Your Majesty if you would be pleased to enlighten him, not as a subject of the United Provinces, but as a member of Your Majesty’s House, what terms Your Majesty desires from the United Provinces?”
The King seemed pleased with this speech. M. de Louvois looked up sharply from his map.
Monmouth and the gentleman from behind Louis’ chair had withdrawn together to a window embrasure, as if business was small matter to either of them.
“My cousin sends to us as a private person?” asked the King.
“As affairs stand, Sire, His Highness is no more.”
Louis lifted his fine eyes.
“I have no quarrel with the Prince of Orange, Sir Gabriel. He hath been unjustly treated by these insolent States whose outrages on myself I have chastised, and His Britannic Majesty hath a great affection for him—I speak openly.” He glanced at M. de Louvois.
“We war,” he added arrogantly, “with a Republic that hath annoyed us, not with our cousin.”
“I thank you, Sire.”
M. de Louvois was listening intently.
“M. de Groot,” continued Louis, “has our terms; if the States refuse them we shall advance on the Hague.”
M. de Louvois spoke—
“Your countrymen think those terms severe, do they not, Sir Gabriel?”
“They are hardly blown abroad yet, M. le Marquis.”
“I believe the States have the folly to complain of what we choose to dictate to them. But I think they will accept,” remarked the King.
“I would remind Your Majesty this is no affair of His Highness.”
“I know,” assented Louis; “and I will tell you this for His Highness’ private satisfaction, that his advantage is clearly looked to in these same Articles of Peace.”
“I was assured so in London, Sire.”
Louis faintly smiled.
“What is said in London I generally say first, Sir Gabriel.”
The Prince’s messenger bowed—
“I am well enough informed to know who rules Europe, Sire.”
His Majesty accepted the compliment with serene graciousness.
“Let His Highness put his affairs in my hands and he will not repent it, Sir Gabriel.”
M. de Louvois spoke again—
“I hear there is some talk of a revolution at the Hague—M. de Witt has lost all prestige.”
The Dutchman avoided a direct answer.
“His Highness is very popular.”
Louis made a disdainful gesture with his hand.
“I can do better for my cousin than a confederacy of traders. Cadets of my House, Monsieur, need never lack glorious employment—the arms of France will always receive noble recruits.”
He smiled again.
“The Prince’s behaviour has pleased me; M. de Condé commended his generalship, it is thought that he might fashion into a fine soldier. He has made mistakes, notably in abandoning the Yssel, but I believe there were difficulties in his way——”
“Great difficulties, Sire.”
“He wastes his talents in these uninhabitable marshes, we shall look to see him at Versailles.”
His Majesty was invitingly pleasant.
“Tell this to my cousin: I hear he has ill-health—he must take care of it. I am anxious to see him, I hope he will attend me at the Hague after the conclusion of peace.”
“Sire, after proving yourself as irresistible as Alexander you show yourself as generous as Scipio.”
Louis said nothing to this. He covered his absolute ignorance, of which he was heartily ashamed, with a perfect manner and an unmoved front.
M. de Louvois smiled dryly; he wore the air of a ruler even of the King.
He administered the commissariat department, the brilliant management of which had largely helped to secure the successes of the campaign, and considered himself equally great with, and far more valuable than, any general.
“I am to assure His Highness of Your Majesty’s friendship?” Sylvius bowed on a note of interrogation.
“You may give him,” said Louis, with a large air of generosity, “a proof of it—I have ordered that my troops are to spare his lordship of Grave that we have recently taken——”
M. de Louvois broke in through Sir Gabriel’s thanks—
“Your Majesty, M. de Groot refuses the protection offered him for his country-house.”
“Why, M. le Marquis?” demanded the King haughtily.
The Minister shrugged his shoulders.
“Roman virtue, Sire—he refused to be spared any of the ills falling on his fellow-countrymen.”
“M. de Groot,” said Louis, “becomes insufferable.” He turned again to Sir Gabriel—
“My cousin is at Bodegraven?”
“At Newerbrugge, Your Majesty.”
“The English envoys intend to visit him there?”
“I believe so, Sire.”
“Well,” smiled the King, “we will hope they will be able to arrange matters with His Highness, whom I am impatient to embrace.”
“There is not much doubt of it,” added M. de Louvois.
The Duke of Monmouth and his companion came forward, talking together.
“Philippe,” said Louis rather sharply, “when do you hold the review of your brigade?”
“This evening, Sire,” answered M. D’Orleans.
“Sir Gabriel must see it.”
The fourth man, who had remained all this time apart, now approached the little group.
“If Your Majesty will give me leave—I am due in Utrecht.”
He wore brown velvet touched with gold, and had a noble, careless presence.
Louis answered him with deference—
“I do not presume to give you orders, as you know, M. de Turenne.”
The Vicomte bowed.
“M. Vauban requested my attendance.”
“Then I must not keep you,” answered Louis gracefully; “but first, this is a messenger from my cousin, the little Prince of Orange.”
M. de Turenne fixed his searching eyes on Sir Gabriel, and a faint colour tinged his worn cheeks.
Turenne’s mother had come of the House of Nassau; nearly all his life he had belonged to the Reformed religion; but he had sacrificed his conscience to his glory, his faith to his fame.
“Am I to have the Prince of Orange on my staff, Sire?” he asked, with a touch of scorn.
“We hope so, M. le Vicomte,” answered Louis suavely.
The great soldier gave his master a curious look.
“So you have tempted him, too,” he said. “Your Majesty is irresistible.”
“It is you who have made me so,” replied the King.
M. de Louvois smiled at this sourly.
“There are some of Your Majesty’s triumphs that I have had no hand in,” said M. de Turenne.
“Those I must thank M. le Marquis de Louvois for,” responded Louis, with his air of fine-mannered greatness.
“Whom will you thank when the Prince of Orange goes to Mass, Sire?”
“It will be the Prince who will thank me, Monsieur le Vicomte,” answered His Majesty.
M. de Turenne spoke, his tone slightly sarcastic—
“You are very fortunate, Sire, to be able to buy everything, even men’s faith.”
Louis’ straight brows rose a little.
“What price,” continued M. de Turenne, “will Your Majesty give for this—the conscience of a Calvinist?”
Louis looked at him straightly—
“That which bought one before,” he answered, “my favour.”
M. de Louvois stole a malicious glance at M. D’Orleans.
The Vicomte de Turenne bowed, hitched up his baldric, and left the chamber heavily.
The King’s face was clouded.
“What is amiss with M. de Turenne?” he asked haughtily.
“He has his moods, Sire,” smiled the Minister.
“He says the strangest things,” remarked Louis. “Why does he remind me he was once a heretic?”
“It gave Your Majesty the chance to remind him what procured his conversion,” answered M. D’Orleans.
Louis pulled out his handkerchief and pressed it to his lips.
“I will take M. de Turenne’s moods,” he said, “but no one’s comments on them.”
He rose and turned to Sir Gabriel, who awaited his dismissal.
“I hope to see you at the review this evening, Monsieur. Convey my very good friendship to His Highness.”
He held out his fine hand and Sir Gabriel kissed it; then bowed severally to the other gentlemen.
M. de Louvois gave him a curt nod, M. D’Orleans was vacant, and the Englishman came to the door with him.
“You have reason to be satisfied, His Majesty is very well disposed towards you. Commend me to His Highness—I hope we shall both be fighting under the same flag.”
“I thank your Grace.”
The fair face smiled in an eager, fascinating manner, as if his Grace’s one desire was to please Sir Gabriel, but in reality he hardly understood the matter and was wholly indifferent to it, his mind being occupied with a game of tennis he proposed with M. D’Orleans, and his assumed interest being merely his good nature.
Florent gazed at him, then for an instant back at the man wearing green velvet and frizzed hair who was the King of France; he looked at the man beside him, alert, composed, and commonplace, M. de Louvois, feared throughout Europe.
A page in gorgeous livery conducted them through the castle.
Florent, bewildered and disturbed, was further troubled, as they passed along the handsome rooms, by a glimpse through an open door of three people.
Madame Lavalette was one, M. de Pomponne and Hyacinthe St. Croix the others; St. Croix, looking up, recognised Florent, and nodded in a meaning way.
Van Mander frowned and coloured. When they were clear of the castle, and its dazzle of pomp and soldiery, he turned abruptly to Sir Gabriel—
“What does it mean, Mynheer?”
Gabriel Sylvius answered composedly—
“It means I can tell His Highness not to concern himself about the terms offered to M. de Groot, for His Majesty is entirely friendly and will do more for the Prince than the States could ever do.”
“Which is to say, His Highness will change his religion?” said Florent gloomily.
Sir Gabriel smiled.
“We must not commit ourselves as to that, but it is possible that in a little while the theology of Geneva will be extremely unfashionable.”
CHAPTER II
THE TEMPTERS
“Mynheer, if you call the position one of absolute despair,” said William Bentinck, “you will not be wrong.”
He spoke to M. Beuningen, late ambassador to England, who was now employed on desperate errands between the States and the Prince.
It was afternoon, warm and cloudy; the two walked up and down the little garden belonging to the farm where the Captain General had fixed his headquarters. About them lay the encampment. The remnant of the Dutch army, thirteen thousand men, had been gathered here at Newerbrugge to defend the two remaining provinces in concordance with the dauntless policy of the Prince, which was in direct contrast to the consternation, desperation, and submission displayed by the Government.
M. Van Beuningen, accomplished, high-minded, voluble, charming and impetuous, fair, handsome, and finely dressed, was silent awhile, fixing his blue eyes on the distant, sluggish waters of the old Rhine.
M. Bentinck spoke again—
“Louis will be at the Hague in a week.”
“How can you utter such words?” broke out M. Beuningen passionately.
“It is so obvious. Did you hear that Leerdam and Knotsenbourg, Swartenluis, and many smaller places have fallen?”
“I know … I know——”
“Well?” M. Bentinck asked.
“I still have hopes.”
“In what?”
“In the Prince.”
M. Bentinck smiled rather grimly.
“The Prince is another matter—he is not involved in the ruin of the States.”
M. Beuningen glanced at him quickly.
“Mynheer,” he said in an agitated voice, “you are His Highness’ friend—tell me, in God’s name, has he a mind to sell us to the French?”
“Why, you speak bluntly.”
“The matter is not one for fair phrasing.”
M. Bentinck knocked with his cane at the heavy heads of the pinks along the walk.
“I am not free to say anything of the Prince, Mynheer; but I will tell you this, His Highness is in no way bound to the States, who have kept his rights from him and treated him with suspicion and distrust for twenty years.”
“You justify his acceptance of overtures from the King of France?”
“I say he is not bound by any law to refuse them.”
“By your leave, Mynheer,” answered M. Beuningen, “the laws of God forbid a man to sell his country.”
“The laws of God,” smiled M. Bentinck, “vary according to the interpreter,—and I think, Mynheer, that there will be very little of the United Provinces left for any one to either buy or sell.”
M. Beuningen uttered a little sound of desperation. The Prince’s friend watched him with some malice, for he had been of the republican party in the days of the glory of John de Witt.
“What is it like at the Hague?” asked M. Bentinck.
They halted by the gate and looked over the neat painted paling towards the camp.
“It is naught but wrath and anguish,” answered M. Beuningen with emotion. “M. de Witt hath but recovered from a raging fever to find himself execrated. He hath written a justification of himself—about the Secret Service money, and the ill supplying of the Army—but who will listen to sober reason?”
“And the peace proposals please no one?”
Coenraad Beuningen replied hotly—
“They are insolent—impossible. When M. de Groot read them to the States, many wept and wrung their hands.… They have asked five days in which to consider them.”
He paused a moment, then added—
“The shops are closed, all business suspended. This week they did not print The Gazette; the Binnenhof is besieged with angry people—one feeling appears to warm them against the chill of despair, and that is the firmness of the Prince.”
“These things point to a revolution from within even if we escape conquest without.”
“The Prince hath always had the people, and now they believe he can save them——”
“Do they believe,” asked M. Bentinck, “that by making him Stadtholder they will mollify Charles into breaking with Louis?”
“Some may, I do not.”
“Nor I,” admitted M. Bentinck.
“The States,” continued M. Beuningen, “are further divided among themselves. Many are for accepting the terms as they stand—M. Fagel says he would sooner be cut to pieces than subscribe to them.… M. Jacob Van der Graef was executed yesterday, the crowd tried to rescue him. He confessed to the attack on M. de Witt and expressed his repentance——”
“And named his accomplices,” commented M. Bentinck.
“Who have escaped——”
“They are in the camp the States say.”
“I know. The States wrote to His Highness requesting that the men be delivered up; the Prince had other business to attend to than making a search for obscure fanatics.”
“What of M. de Montbas?” asked M. Beuningen.
“He was found guilty and banished for fifteen years; the Prince told them to reconsider the sentence——”
“Not finding it severe enough?”
“No.”
“That shows His Highness hates a traitor——”
“Or a coward.”
The two men fell into silence, their gaze still upon the tents.
Close by the soldiers had built fires between bricks, and in a raised earth-oven were cooking meat. The sun darted a long ray through the clouds and sparkled on the distant Rhine; a white butterfly fluttered up from the garden and flew over the tents.
A horseman rode up, flung the reins to his servant, and dismounted at the farmhouse gate.
It was the Prince.
M. Bentinck and M. Beuningen stood aside.
“Come into the house,” said the Captain General abruptly.
When they had followed him into the hall he spoke again.
“The English envoys have arrived—I am to see them now. Mynheer Van Beuningen, you come from the Hague, I will speak with you afterwards.”
Leaving the messenger of the States standing under the mirror—the first thing to be found in all Dutch houses (so that the visitor might find his own image before anything)—the Prince turned to the room to the left, followed by William Bentinck.
It was a small chamber of dark wood, plainly furnished; the table covered with dispatches.
The Prince went to the window and opened it. The fever that he had recovered from, as by a miracle, returned at intervals, and had greatly aggravated his asthmatic cough; he was shivering now, though the weather was oppressively hot.