M. Bentinck laughed. The prospect of the present triumph had driven his disappointment at the Prince’s cold dismissal of the English envoys into the background of his thoughts. He was young enough to carry himself haughtily, and kept one hand on his sword-hilt and another on his yellow moustaches, with a fine martial swagger.
Towards the end of the repast the crowd drove back the burgher captains stationed on guard at the door.
M. Van Beveren could contain himself no longer. He sprang to his feet.
“For God’s sake, Your Highness——!”
The Prince glanced at him sideways.
“What is the matter, Mynheer?”
The burgomaster rose also.
“Sir,” he cried in agitation.
“Well?” asked William calmly, setting down his glittering tankard.
“Your Highness—these people——”
“They show an inclination to enter, do they not, Mynheer?”
“Cannot Your Highness speak to them?” implored M. Beveren.
William smiled coldly.
“I have no authority, Mynheer, the burgomaster——”
“They will listen to no one but you, Your Highness.”
“Not even to their own magistrates, Mynheer?” inquired William maliciously.
Meanwhile the people were pressing into the hall of the inn, uttering shouts and threats.
“You do not seem very popular,” said the Prince dryly, surveying the unhappy councillors.
“Death to the friends of France!”
“Down with de Witt!”
“Down with the Ruard of Putten!”
The magistrates all rose to their feet.
“Do not spoil your dinners, Mynheeren,” said William.
“Your Highness——”
“For Heaven’s sake——”
The crowd broke into the room.
They were armed with muskets, swords, pistols, and hatchets, and headed by the resolute Henry Dibbets.
William pushed back his chair and looked at them steadily under the brim of his beaver.
“What do you want, my friends?” he asked calmly.
“Tell them to disperse, Your Highness,” urged the burgomaster.
A mass of people blocked the entrance into the room. They turned threateningly to the councillors.
“We are here to see justice done to His Highness,” they declared fiercely.
“You seem very well disposed to my House,” said the Prince, laying down his napkin.
The pastor pushed forward, flushed and triumphant.
“If there is anything His Highness wants,” he cried, addressing the Prince, “let him ask for it—and we will see that he gets it.”
William’s eyes flashed under his lowered lids.
The bearing of the crowd confirmed the pastor’s promise, proved that they were not mere words.
“Tell them to go home, Your Highness,” pleaded the burgomaster; “this is against the laws——”
“This may alter the laws, Mynheer,” answered the Prince proudly.
“Your Highness sides with this revolt!” cried M. Van Beveren.
William turned his powerful glance on the brother-in-law of M. de Witt.
“I do nothing, Mynheer,” he answered coldly. “I wait for you—who sent for me—you who have the authority—to act——”
Henry Dibbets broke in—
“If they are at a loss, Your Highness, we will soon teach them what to do.”
The magistrates stood nonplussed, overwhelmed; for the people were plainly in earnest, plainly dangerous.
The town secretary, Orent Muys, whispered to the burgomaster that they had best yield.
The crowd, by now filling the room, caught up the words; with much violence they swore to massacre the councillors did they not at once proclaim the Prince as Stadtholder.
William sat immovable. It was obvious that he would neither pacify the crowd (if indeed he could) nor so declare himself or his wishes as to shift the responsibility to his from the shoulders of the magistrates; they, seeing that they could never leave the inn alive without submitting to the outcry of the people, and, indeed, in their hearts yielding to the general enthusiasm, consulted together.… How should they combine dignity with concession?
The Prince, without any attempt to influence them, remained silent at the head of the table.
The people did not give them long.
Urged forward by the pastor, two of them seized the burgomaster and presented a pistol to his forehead.
“You have played the fool long enough,” they declared angrily, “it is time to come to a decision.”
Finding himself in this pass, Van Hallingh called out lustily to Orent Muys, “Let him draw up a paper declaring the Prince elected as Stadtholder.”
“What of the Perpetual Edict?” asked William. “You have, I think, sworn to it.”
“We will absolve them of that oath!” shouted the citizens.
They commanded the landlord to bring pens, paper, and a standish, which he hastened to set down on the table among the plates and tankards.
With fingers a little trembling, Orent Muys wrote out an article by which the Council of Dordt elected His Highness as Stadtholder and commander of the land and sea forces for life.
He was continually urged on by the crowd, who considered that he dallied in his task.
It was finished at last, amid yells of joy, and one after another the magistrates hastened to sign.
No one dared hesitate with a loaded blunderbuss at his head.
The only protest came from the Prince himself.
He rose.
The crowd instantly hushed.
He addressed equally the burgomaster, the councillors, and the citizens pressing round the table.
“Mynheeren,” he said, “I am very sensible of the honour that you do me, but I have taken an oath—as Captain General—never to attempt the Stadtholdership.”
The magistrates paused, astonished; but the people were not in the least confounded.
“Your Highness took no oath to refuse the office if offered to you?”
“I took an oath,” replied William, “nor can I lightly break it.”
He spoke with no emotion, with the cold precision of a statesman, a manner that sat curiously on his youthful appearance; it did not chill his supporters.
The magistrates themselves were driven to plead with him.
“For the good of the State we must ask Your Highness to yield.”
“Ah,” said the Prince, “you urge me?”
“In the name of the people——”
“Whose will is above the law,” added Henry Dibbets.
“I swore before God,” replied William.
“Then God shall absolve Your Highness,” returned the pastor. “The usurper forced you to take an oath against justice … and I solemnly absolve Your Highness from it.”
With one accord councillors, pastors, and citizens set William free of his vow to the Republic.
He yielded coldly, and the first act of the revolution was complete.
There is an emotion that bears the name of no one feeling because it is composed of all—it is the passion that shakes a crowd when it is witness of any great event; this seized the people of Dordt.
They shouted, laughed, wrung each other’s hands, rushed in a mass to float the Orange flag from the belfry of their great church, drank the Prince’s health and confusion to the French, and swarmed and pushed round the door of the Peacock Inn, where the councillors were still imprisoned.
The resolution, signed by the seventeen councillors present, the seals of the town affixed, was snatched up by the pastor Dibbets and displayed to the townsmen. Loud cries rang out—
“Long live the Stadtholder!”
“Long live His Highness!”
William looked at the magistrates—so they had been forced to return him the power they had taken from his father William II.
Many of them, indeed, were one and the same with the men who had defied him.
“Dordt is fortunate for Calvinists, Mynheeren,” he said, smiling. “They were successful in 1618; they win a victory to-day in me.”
It was his sole revenge on them for twenty years lost from his birthright; they received it in silence.
“If it be possible,” he added, “I should prefer now to return to Newerbrugge;” for he hated all display and commotion, and though this was a proud moment for him, he sighed for the quiet of the camp.
But it was not permitted.
He must hold a reception in the inn and receive the homage of the whole town of Dordt. Every one wanted to kiss his hand, to swear loyalty, to see the popular hero for himself.
At a moment when the unbridled enthusiasm was at its height a burgher captain chanced to notice that one name was missing. Seventeen councillors had signed for William.
There should have been one more.
One man in the whole of Dordt had not subscribed to the will of the people—
“Cornelius de Witt.”
In a moment the crowd was on fire with this new idea—the eighteenth councillor must also sign. Here was a splendid opportunity for humiliating one of the hated family of the Grand Pensionary.
M. Beveren ventured to protest—
“The Ruard is ill—unable to leave his bed.”
He was answered with derision.
“Not too ill to hold a pen—shall the worst traitor escape!”
M. Beveren appealed to the Prince.
“Highness, these men are miscalling M. de Witt.”
But William answered coldly—
“Mynheer, the faction of M. de Witt have miscalled me for a good many years.”
“But they will murder the Ruard.”
“Let him sign,” said William.
The crowd took up the cry.
“Let him sign!” they yelled.
The councillors hesitated. The Ruard would not subscribe, to force him to refuse would be to deliver him over to the fury of the mob.
But William decided for them.
“I think I have some weight in this town now,” he said, with his immovable air of authority. He took the paper from the hand of the pastor and gave it to the town secretary. “Take this to M. de Witt, his signature is lacking.… You also,” he pointed his cane at the captain of the burghers, “accompany him with some of your men. I am sorry M. de Witt is too sick to be present. I shall be pleased to see his name to this resolution.”
CHAPTER V
CORNELIUS DE WITT
The agitated secretary, the triumphant captain, and a vast crowd of excited citizens whom the civic guard could scarce restrain, proceeded to the house of M. Cornelius de Witt.
All day the Ruard’s family had been in a state of acute alarm.
The late attack on the Pensionary, the popular feeling in Dordt, the burning of the pictures in the Stadhuis, the menacing aspect of the streets, all combined to render them grievously uneasy.
Only a few days previously three suspicious-looking strangers had demanded to see the Ruard, and on being refused, on account of the lateness of the hour, had attempted to force a way in, and had only been repulsed by the promptitude of the servant in calling help. Madam de Witt firmly believed that this was a murderous plot—a counterpart to that to which her brother-in-law had fallen a victim, and her fine courage could not subdue the terror inspired by the surroundings of hate, malice, and fury against which her helpless husband had no weapon.
To-day she had listened to the shouts that proclaimed a restoration, and showed that the magistrates, their sole protection, had been overawed by the people, and that no one in Dordt had dared to stand firm to the Government of John de Witt.
She could only hope that her husband might be forgotten in the general excitement, and with this quieted her cruel anxiety.
But when the servant came to tell her that a vast, armed crowd was advancing down the street she knew her hopes had been illusions. Her proud spirit, that had always supported her husband’s dangers with high courage, sank before what she was called upon to face.
With yells, cries, and shouts for the new Stadtholder, on came the crowd, and surged about the door of the house. Let the town secretary get the signature of M. de Witt or they would enter and try for themselves.
Leaving some of the civic guard at the door as a concession to law and order, Orent Muys the secretary, the captain, and three of his soldiers entered the house.
Maria de Witt, pale and cold, outwardly calm, received them in the dining-room.
Her black eyes were full of tears, but she kept them fixed resolutely on the secretary.
The two men uncovered and bowed.
“What do you want?” she demanded, gripping the back of a chair.
“Your husband, Madam,” answered M. Muys.
“You cannot see him.”
“Madam, we must.”
“He is ill——”
“The business is important.”
“Mynheer, it is impossible——”
Captain Hoogewerf interposed—
“Madam, do you hear that noise outside?”
“Yes—yes.”
“The people of Dordt—they are waiting to see the signature of M. de Witt to that paper M. Muys carries.”
“What is it?”
“A resolution declaring His Highness William of Orange, Stadtholder of Dordt.”
“My husband will never sign it.”
“Do you think so, Madam?”
“I do”—this with instinctive pride.
The captain pointed with his gloved hand to the window.
“I should not care to answer for what that crowd may do, if disappointed, Madam.”
“My husband,” answered Madam de Witt, with a look of agony, “has sworn to the Perpetual Edict.”
“So had the other councillors.”
“Have they signed?”
“The signature of M. de Witt is the one lacking, Madam.”
She tried to rally herself.
“This is a revolution——”
He corrected—
“A restoration.”
“It has nothing to do with my husband——”
“He is a councillor of Dordt.”
“Mynheer,” she appealed to the secretary in great agitation, “I swear to you M. de Witt is ill——”
“We only want his signature, Madam.”
“He cannot hold a pen——”
“We must see that for ourselves,” replied the captain.
She drew herself up—
“I will not admit you to his chamber—he is too ill.”
She was desperate to forestall her husband’s inevitable refusal to sign.
But Captain Hoogewerf was not to be moved from his purpose.
“Madam,” he asked, “are not your children in the house?”
She shrank.
“What of it?”
“For their sakes, advise your husband to sign.”
“What do you mean?”
“Madam—the people——”
She interrupted—
“Is the town delivered over to the mob?”
“It is in the hands of the friends of His Highness.”
“I think that means the same thing,” she flashed.
The captain became impatient.
“The paper—Madam—we must see M. de Witt.”
“What if he refuse?” she asked in a desperate voice.
“He will not refuse.”
“Before God, he will!” she cried, knowing him.
“You must persuade him——”
“To his own dishonour?”
“For his own safety.”
“I cannot——”
“Think of your children, Madam.”
She was silent.
“Madam,” urged the secretary, “I entreat you do not make delays that must further inflame the people.”
Madam de Witt dared resist no longer; she heard the furious din without, she saw the immovable face of Captain Hoogewerf, and, through her open door, the scarlet coats of the soldiers in the corridor.
She did not think her husband would sign; she made the anguished resolve that she must persuade him to it—even against her conscience.
“I will take the paper to him,” she said, with the instinct to soften the humiliation of her husband’s consent.
But Captain Hoogewerf saw her motive.
“No, Madam, it must be in our presence.”
She passed in silence to the door, the sunlight on her dark velvet gown, the deep lace collar on her shoulders not more white than her face.
The secretary followed her reluctantly; he hated his task; he had been overawed. Hoogewerf, however, an ardent Orangist, had no compunction.
He bade his soldiers follow him.
“Is this necessary?” asked Maria de Witt proudly.
“Such are my orders, Madam.”
“My husband is no criminal, Mynheer, that soldiers should enter his bedchamber.”
“You lose time—you will regret it,” he answered.
A delicate colour rose into her beautiful, still face.
“This tone is new among us,” she said, “we—who have always boasted of our liberty——”
“Take care what you say, Madam,” Captain Hoogewerf warned her, “the Prince of Orange is master now.”
The republican lady paused, her fingers on the handle of her husband’s chamber door.
“One may know it,” she replied coldly, “by your change of front, Mynheer—even yesterday you would not have dared to insult a de Witt.”
“Madam!” pleaded the terrified secretary.
She opened the door and passed before them into the darkened and lofty bedchamber.
The valet had been before them, and had warned his master of what was happening.
They found him standing by the great bed with its gold and crimson hangings supporting the Ruard, who, weak and faint with suffering, was endeavouring to sit up against the pillows.
At the first glance round his simple privacy, the instant impression of a sick and helpless man, the secretary fell back, but Captain Hoogewerf strode forward.
The eyes of Cornelius de Witt shone in his worn face with as proud a light as they had shown when he kept his place on the deck of The Seven Provinces amid the hurry of battle.
“Captain Hoogewerf,” he said in a feeble but resolute voice, “what means this unruly entrance?”
“It means,” he was answered, “that this town is now under the government of His Highness the Stadtholder.”
Cornelius de Witt frowned haughtily. His wife stepped to his bedside, and stood with her hand on the curtain looking from him to the captain, from him to the secretary.
Just inside the door the three soldiers waited.
Orent Muys, speaking with more consideration, informed the Ruard of the revolution in Dordt, and produced his paper with the hanging seals.
“This is against the law,” said M. de Witt
“Mynheer—it is the law—all the magistrates have signed.”
The secretary held out the document as he spoke.
“Then they are perjured,” replied the Ruard proudly.
“Do you use that word of His Highness’ friends?” demanded Captain Hoogewerf in a loud voice.
Cornelius de Witt drew himself up higher in his bed—
“I use that word of any one who has sworn to the Perpetual Edict and then declares His Highness Stadtholder.”
His wife turned to him quickly.
“Cornelius—His Highness is master in Dordt—M. Muys hath come to read you the act so proclaiming him.”
He glanced at her rather curiously, and she, reading some reproach in his eyes, sank down on the chair at his bedside and hid her face in her hand.
M. de Witt pushed back the long dark hair from his ravaged face, and fixed the secretary with a cold and undaunted look.
“Why are you come here to read me that?” he demanded.
The soldier replied—
“We desire your signature.”
“I think,” said the Ruard scornfully, “ye do not find it necessary.”
“As collector of taxes, superintendent of the dykes, magistrate of Dordt, and Ruard of Putten—your signature is indeed necessary.”
Maria de Witt raised her face.
“Do you not hear them in the street?” she whispered.
Her husband neither answered her nor looked in her direction.
“Read this document,” he ordered curtly.
The secretary obeyed.
When he had finished the Ruard stole a glance at his wife, who sat with averted face; he seemed to be listening to the impatient and angry cries without, that, mingled with snatches of St. Aldegonde’s hymn, and curses on the Grand Pensionary’s name, came clearly through the curtained window.
“Cannot that be worded less positively?” he asked slowly.
“Mynheer, it is impossible,” answered the secretary.
“We came for your signature, not for your amendments,” remarked the soldier.
“I would rather be killed in my bed than sign,” answered the Ruard, with a flush of colour into his face.
Hoogewerf stepped forward threateningly.
“I have sworn an oath to the Perpetual Edict,” said M. de Witt, “and I will keep it—even if you strike off my head with the sword you have there at your side.”
“I have not come as an assassin,” replied the captain.
“Well,” answered the Ruard, “there are plenty of vagabonds and ruffians below who would not hesitate—call up some of them.”
“Oh, Mynheer!” cried the distressed secretary, “those you hear are friends of His Highness—respectable people—they only clamour for your signature.”
M. de Witt turned away his head as if in weariness.
“Whatever happens,” he said shortly, “I cannot sign.”
His wife put out her hand and clasped his that lay on the coverlet.
“Cornelius,” she urged in an unsteady voice, “it is not safe to refuse.”
“As a citizen of Dordt I cannot do otherwise,” he answered briefly.
“There are the children,” said Maria de Witt.
The Ruard flashed a stern look at the secretary.
“Are you incapable of protecting my house and family?” he demanded.
Orent Muys answered in great agitation—
“Mynheer, His Highness has been proclaimed Stadtholder—he is now at the Peacock Inn receiving the homage of the crowd—and I have to take your signature back to him—otherwise—really, Mynheer, I could not answer for it—they are all worthy people, such as your own baker or butcher might be—but they are … excited——”
He paused as the fierce sounds of a tussle between the mob and the burgher guards rose from the street.
Maria de Witt sprang up and went to the window.
She was seen from below and greeted with a yell of fury and a shower of pebbles.
“Cornelius—” she came back breathlessly—“they will break in——”
“And if they do?”—the Ruard questioned Captain Hoogewerf.
“Then, I think,” was the answer, “that they will serve you as they served your portrait in the Stadhuis.”
Madam de Witt gave a little cry, and her husband’s eyes flashed.
“Then make an end now,” he exclaimed passionately. “I would rather be stabbed in my bed than be torn to pieces by the mob.”
“Oh, my dear Mynheer, if you would only sign!” cried the secretary.
“I cannot.”
Maria de Witt went on her knees, clasping her hands against the coverlet.
“Oh, Cornelius—I must entreat.”
He turned his sad brown eyes on her with an expression of gentle reproach.
“Ah, you!” he said. “You have always been so brave—so careful of my honour.”
“I cannot face this,” she answered desperately. “I cannot—they will murder you—and the children are in the house.”
“You must send them away.”
“It is impossible—there is a crowd back and front.”
“Maria,” he said in an anguished tone, “I cannot sign.”
He turned his face from her, and she sprang to her feet with her hand to her brow.
The lace on her bosom rose painfully with her agitated breathing, the pearls pressed tight round her swelling throat; her countenance, framed in the long black ringlets, was suffused and trembling.
“Have you no regard for your wife?” asked Captain Hoogewerf.
“I have some regard for my honour,” replied the Ruard, wiping his forehead, damp with anguish of mind and body.
The sound of blows and splintering wood told that the door was being forced.
Bloodthirsty cries of rage and triumph pierced the din of the attack.
“Down with the friends of France!”
“Show us the signature!”
“Down with the enemies of His Highness!”
“Death to the friends of King Louis!”
“I did not show myself friendly to France in Southwold bay,” said Cornelius de Witt grimly.
“Sign, Mynheer,” begged the secretary, “or we shall all be murdered!”
A stone hurtled through the window and struck one of the posts of the bed.
“Oh, God help us!” exclaimed Maria de Witt. She flung herself on her knees again. “My lord—for the sake of the children——”
A musket was fired below, and one of the servants shrieked.
“Well, Mynheer,” asked Captain Hoogewerf, “how much longer are we to wait?”
“Put your pistol through my head,” answered the Ruard hoarsely, “for I will not be torn to pieces by the mob.” He repeated—“That is a horrible death—to be torn in pieces by the mob.”
Maria de Witt was bitterly weeping.
“If you will not sign,” she said in despair, “then I must leave you—God help me, I must see to some means of safety for my children.”
The secretary had snatched up a pen, and now came to the bedside and forced it into the Ruard’s fingers.
“Oh, you are a father before you are a citizen!” exclaimed Maria de Witt “This is not perjury—you are absolved by the actions of the others.”
Slowly Cornelius de Witt took up the quill in his feeble fingers.
He bit his full under-lip and his eyes narrowed.
“What will be said of a man who was vanquished by his wife’s tears?” he muttered.
He could scarcely hold the pen.
He looked at his wife—
“Maria, Maria, dost thou think this compliance can save me from the inevitable?”
There was a silence as he dipped his quill in the ink and reluctantly traced his name—the last on the list.
Then, as the secretary took the paper, Madam de Witt rose with a breath of agonised relief.
But Orent Muys, looking at the writing, cried out—
“What is this, Mynheer?—what have you put after your name—two letters—V.C.?”
“That means Vi coactus,” replied the Ruard shortly; “if you have forgot your Latin the translation runs—‘constrained by force.’”
“This is but playing with us!” exclaimed Captain Hoogewerf.
“I implore you, Mynheer,” urged the secretary. “You will only rouse the fury of the people—scratch out those letters.”
“I shall not retract them,” he answered. “‘Constrained by force,’ otherwise I should not have signed.”
The secretary looked at the captain and the captain at the soldiers.
Orent Muys tried persuasions and Hoogewerf threats.
But Cornelius de Witt was immovable; he turned away his face on the pillow and was silent.
Maria de Witt dropped the red curtain of the bed, and, unseen by her husband, drew the paper from the secretary’s hand.
With her finger on her lips she silenced them, and withdrawing to the back of the chamber hastily effaced the two letters—“V.C.”
“You are very scrupulous, Mynheer,” said Captain Hoogewerf.
“It seems I am the only one in Dordt,” returned the Ruard, “who remembers his duty.”
Captain Hoogewerf clapped on his hat.
“You will be sorry, some day, that you spoke so recklessly,” he said, and strode out of the room, followed by the soldiers and the secretary.
Maria de Witt leant heavily against the bed-post, pressing her handkerchief to her reddened eyes.
A loud, triumphant, and insulting shout told the joy of the crowd when they heard that the Ruard had submitted, and with a mighty turmoil, and sound of singing and cheering, they swept away up the street to the Peacock Inn.
Cornelius de Witt clenched his hand on the coverlet.
“I had better have died,” he murmured.
His wife came and bent over his pillow.
“Do you blame me?” she asked, shuddering. “Ah, you think that I have been weak.”
“No,” he answered, “there were the children … but nothing can save us, Maria.”
“They have gone,” she breathed.
“Yes, now,” he answered mournfully; “but what can protect us, John and me, against the whole country’s hate?”
She cried out passionately—
“They cannot hate you—it is impossible!”
He leant back exhausted.
“You have heard to-day, dearest, how they hate me—the Prince is master now.”
“The Prince,” she said in terror,—“he would not allow any harm to come to you.”
“I should not ask for his protection; he is not my master—nor shall be.”
She went on her knees beside the bed and laid her lips to his hand.
“God Almighty guard us,” she whispered. “He who is greater than princes has us in His charge, Cornelius.”
“Amen, amen,” cried the Ruard. “And may He give me courage to meet the exceeding bitterness of my inevitable end!”
He laid his free hand on her bowed black head, and the tears welled up into his eyes for the ruin of the ideals to which he had given his life.
CHAPTER VI
THE RESTORATION
M. Gaspard Fagel, excited, rather better dressed than usual, with an orange ribbon in his button-hole, arrived early in the afternoon at the Grand Pensionary’s house in the Kneuterdyk Avenue.
He found M. de Witt seated languidly at the open window of his library, wearing a loose Japanese robe and gazing out at the sunny garden and the doves in the trees.
On the chair beside him lay an open portfolio of sketches.
“You are recovered, Mynheer?” asked M. Fagel, with some embarrassment.
The Grand Pensionary smiled sadly.
“I hope to be able to resume my duties very soon.”
He roused himself and sat up.
“Be seated,” he said. “Will you move those drawings—they are M. Van der Welde’s sketches of Solebay battle, made from his galiot—His Highness is fond of pictures, he had best commission the paintings.”
It was said gently, without a trace of bitterness.
M. Fagel coughed.
“I am come,” he said, “to tell you of a restoration.”
“I knew,” answered John de Witt, “that it must be so.”
Gaspard Fagel drew himself up with some importance.
“The Deputies of Holland have proclaimed His Highness Stadtholder and Captain General of the Republic for life, with all the dignities formerly belonging to his ancestors.”
In these pompous words sounded the death-knell of the lifelong labour, hopes, policy, and ideals of John de Witt.
He looked out again upon the doves in the trembling elm boughs.
“They have kept me short of news, for I have been very ill,” he answered quietly, “but I have known how it must end.”
Gaspard Fagel was full of his subject.
“The Deputies left two days ago for Bodegraven, that they may acquaint His Highness and bring him to the Hague to take the oaths.”
“Something I heard of that.”
M. Fagel was exultant.
“It is not a fortnight since Dordt gave the signal—Rotterdam was the next. We had the whole country in a flame—the peasants took possession of Delft—it was irresistible—irresistible! The States were swept off their feet—the inexorable conditions imposed by France helped—the Perpetual Edict was repealed—even Amsterdam clamoured for the Prince. I tell you, Mynheer, he is King, though without the name.”
“The people have overawed the magistrates,” remarked M. de Witt. “What need for the details?—the Prince is Stadtholder.”
He was still looking out of the window, and the reflection of the green trees gave a ghastly hue to his worn, colourless face.
“What of the war?” he asked.
Gaspard Fagel lifted his shoulders.
“The Bishop of Munster overruns Groningen—but the Elector and the Spanish troops are expected soon. The people are wonderfully heartened, they can think of nothing but the Prince.”
“How did he take this change of fortune?” asked the Grand Pensionary.
“He met the Deputies of Rotterdam with cold reserve, and said he would not have the people force the magistrates—he would have his rights by law, not violence. He met the States at Bodegraven in his carriage, and asked them first if he was relieved of his oath; they said Yes, and then he merely told them he took the office for the good of the country. M. Beuningen was there all the time.”
John de Witt answered quietly—
“The Prince never lacked for prudence, he will not perish by his father’s fault.”
“He is the idol of the people—M. Beuningen says the soldiers worship him.”
“He has great qualities,” said M. de Witt, “and I have educated him to be a patriot,—I hope he may fulfil the expectancy of the people.”
M. Fagel looked uneasy.
“Well,” he said, “I do not know why I talk of this so much. I came about your business, Mynheer.”
The Grand Pensionary flushed.
“My memorial to Their High Mightinesses?” he asked.
“Even that, Mynheer.”
The Grand Pensionary roused himself.
“I trust,” he said proudly, “they have been pleased to consider how very bitter it was to me to have to stoop to justify myself against the attacks of a pamphleteer.”
Gaspard Fagel answered hastily—
“It was, of course, malicious folly.”
“There were many who believed in it, therefore I was forced to reply.”
“Their Noble Mightinesses declare there is no truth in the charges.”
“I am glad they do me that justice,” said John de Witt simply.
Gaspard Fagel frowned.
“But I am obliged to add, Mynheer, that what Their Noble Mightinesses say carries no weight now whatever—and I fear these charges against you are as eagerly believed as ever.”
“They must be refuted,” replied the Grand Pensionary with energy. “I will not have these hideous stains upon my name.”
M. Fagel shook his head.
“There is only one man whose voice can be heard now, Mynheer.”
“The Prince?”
“Yes, His Highness the Stadtholder.”
“Then,” declared John de Witt, proudly and calmly, “I will write to him. He will have the nobility to see justice done. He knows that I have not taken the Secret Service money—or——” He made an impatient gesture, “I cannot repeat them—but the Prince knows what manner of man I am.”
“The people will listen to him—but to none other; what he says I think they will credit.”
John de Witt gave a little sigh. The Secretary of the States was slightly uncomfortable in his presence; disconcerted before his utter serenity.
Gaspard Fagel had an uneasy feeling that de Witt’s was the calm of a heart-broken man. He sat looking at the Minister whom he had followed, envied, rivalled, and now supplanted, and his triumph was by no means unalloyed.
The Grand Pensionary turned his full brown eyes on him.
“What will the Prince do with his power?”
“One cannot tell. Frankly, he makes no confidant of me or any; it is thought he will break off the negotiations with King Louis. He still hopes to detach the English.”
“Yet could not come to terms with them at Newerbrugge——”
“It is not known what passed there. M. Beuningen thinks they made him secret offers and that he refused them—at least, he is hot against M. de Groot. Some say he will be arrested on the ground of having exceeded his commission. M. de Montbas’ action has not helped his case.”
“What hath M. de Montbas done?” demanded John de Witt.
“Joined the French,” returned Gaspard Fagel laconically.
“M. de Montbas—has deserted to the French?” exclaimed John de Witt.
“He was, you know, a prisoner, arrested for gross failure in duty, and when he saw the Prince was resolved on his life, he became desperate and, contriving to escape, fled to the enemy. King Louis will forgive him, doubtless, for the information he is able to supply now.”
The Grand Pensionary was silent.
“You must see,” added M. Fagel, “that this does not improve your credit with the people.”
John de Witt raised his tired eyes.
“I do not know, Mynheer,” he said quietly, “why you have come to tell me all this.”
Gaspard Fagel rose restlessly.
On a table near by was a white china pot full of tulips; he stopped beside this and stared into the flame-coloured cups, where the dusty, black pistils showed.
“I should advise you to leave the Hague,” he said.
“I cannot leave my post,” answered the Grand Pensionary.
“Your illness is a fair excuse.”
John de Witt shook his head.
“The country still needs me,” he said. “In a few days I hope to be again in the Assembly.”
Gaspard Fagel pulled at the tulip petals.
“I am your friend,” he declared.
The Grand Pensionary gave him a quiet look.
“Yes, your friend,” Fagel repeated defiantly. “Do not think because I follow the Prince that I am no friend to you. I have much, very much to be grateful to you for. I—” he hesitated a second—“I should like to do you a service now.”
By now John de Witt had turned his eyes from him to the pattern of blue sky to be seen through the intertwisting leaves and branches of the elms and limes.
Gaspard Fagel stuck his fingers into his sash.
“In this state we are in,” he said, “we cannot afford internal dissension.”
The phrase sounded trite to M. de Witt; he raised his long hand on the arm of the chair and let it fall again.
“I am ambitious,” continued M. Fagel, “to be a mediator——”
“Well?”
“Between you and His Highness.”
The Grand Pensionary answered without turning his head.
“In what manner?”
M. Fagel was rather at a loss to express himself.
“His Highness is Stadtholder,” he remarked.
“Nevertheless, I am still Grand Pensionary, Mynheer.”
“The office remains—yes,” replied M. Fagel. “But it must be filled by a man who will work with His Highness.”
John de Witt showed some signs of agitation.
“M. Fagel,” he said, sitting erect, “if you are here to suggest that I work under His Highness, the mere secretary of his ambition, the servant of his designs—I beg you, say no more.”
“This is not reasonable.”
“It is very reasonable.” John de Witt’s voice was stern. “For twenty years I have stood at the helm of this Republic. I have guided her through storms and perils; through God’s help I have always maintained her dignity and prosperity. An uncorrupt, free Republic was my ideal. Well, I served it, I have fallen, I have failed—I have been repaid with hate where I worked for love—but I will never be the tool of the Prince who has destroyed my work, nor help the people set a yoke again upon their necks.”
“Mynheer, you talk rashly—we are as free as ever we were.”
John de Witt’s eyes flashed.
“You deceive yourself. You have put at the head of the State a young man with a temper as imperious as any of his House—a Stewart for pride, a Nassau for firmness. Were we free in the days of Prince Maurice? We shall not be free under this youth. For twenty years we have tasted real liberty, and now he will make us pay.…”
Gaspard Fagel replied vehemently—
“Indeed you wrong His Highness … he is the sole hope of the country.… I believe that he will save us.”
“Others could have saved you, had you permitted them.… If he be a patriot, he is not the only one in the United Provinces.”
“This attitude is dangerous,” said Gaspard Fagel.
John de Witt looked at him with an air almost of pity.
“Do you think that I will alter the whole aim of my life to buy a little favour now? Do you imagine that I will trim my course to please this youth who was my pupil?”
“And now is your master.”
“I do not admit it, nor ever will—there is no master in this Republic.”
M. Fagel answered with some impatience—
“So—you are not tractable—you will not work under the Prince?”
“I will work with him, when I agree with him.”
“Very well—you cannot expect, Mynheer, to find the Stadtholder friendly.”
“I expect,” said John de Witt proudly, “to find him just.”
“This attitude of yours will not please him.”
“I cannot care for that.”
“He is all powerful——”
John de Witt interrupted—
“I do not think that he will use his power to gratify his political dislikes. He knows my principles, he knows that I am likely to abide by them; he cannot be either surprised or angered that he does not see me swell the crowd gathered to do him homage.”
Gaspard Fagel frowned.
“That is your decision—your final decision?”
John de Witt bent his head.
“Yes.” Then he added keenly, “Did the Prince send you?”
“I have not seen him since the opening of the war, nor has he mentioned this question in his letters, but M. Beuningen says he remarked to him that you must bend or break.”
John de Witt faintly smiled.
“I also can be inflexible,” he said. “I can serve my ideal as steadily as His Highness serves his ambition.”
Gaspard Fagel seemed troubled.
“If you continue to oppose the Prince,” he said bluntly, “you will scarcely be safe at the Hague.”
“Are you trying to frighten me?”
“I am warning you. Join with the Prince, or resign and leave the Hague.”
The Grand Pensionary replied firmly—
“Neither one nor the other, Mynheer. I will not forsake the policy I have adhered to all my life, nor will I leave my post until I am relieved of it.”
M. Fagel bit his forefinger. He had a sincere regard for M. de Witt, and his conscience troubled him because the Grand Pensionary had given him this secretaryship he now held, and did not utter a word of reproach.
“It is like a great storm,” he said, “sweeping everything before it; they who fling themselves down may escape, but they who remain erect are certainly carried away—and perish.”
John de Witt gazed at him steadily.
“You are an able man, Mynheer Fagel. I think you will be of great service to the Prince and the country, but for me you can do nothing … there is no more to be said.”
The Secretary smoothed the bands at his wrists, slightly coloured, and bit his lip.
Hesitating, he glanced sideways at the Grand Pensionary once or twice.
John de Witt had turned his eyes away, and by his demeanour seemed not to know there was another with him in the room.
At last Gaspard Fagel gathered up his hat and cane and left the quiet library without another word.
John de Witt kept his gaze still on the sky.
The leaves, and the chinks of it seen between them, took on a thousand different, changing shapes—gold, green, and blue.
The sun reached the glossy box hedges in tendrils of spangled light and gilded the tulips (over-blown now and ragged) with a keen yellow.
The Grand Pensionary’s vision was bounded by a deep red beech tree, through whose heavy branches the sky appeared bright and pale, and in the shadow it threw, two ash-coloured doves were walking on the smooth sweep of close grass.
John de Witt felt so weary that there was a pain even in resting, a disquietude in gazing at the pictured peace of the high-walled garden.
It seemed that only oblivion could give ease to his languid body and aching soul.
In a breath had gone the labour of a lifetime.
He had worked incredibly, with sincerity, with passion, with unsparing patience and energy; and for reward he was thrust aside with hatred and curses for the sake of the heir of the old House from whose tyranny he had saved his country.
No one believed in him, no one trusted in his honour.
He had always been of an integrity above suspicion, but it did not save him from being accused of the vilest crimes. He had given his life to his country, and was reproached with having sold her to her enemies.
He had always lived as simply as an ordinary citizen, nevertheless it was laid to his charge that he had appropriated large sums from the public funds.
Calumny was triumphant; there was no stain she did not try to cast on the name of a man who had never committed a single unworthy action.
His former good fame availed him nothing; the prosperity of the country under his rule was not remembered to his credit now.
Malice would not listen to reason nor justice.
And there was no one who dared speak for him save those helpless in a like case. There were a few faithful, his brother-in-law, Vivien, Pensionary of Dordt, Peter de Groot, Colonel Bampfield, but their voices could not be heard above the shrieks of the factions. They had their own several lives and honours to look to; if they could no longer support him he could no longer protect them.
He laid his hand on the bandage round his right arm, that covered a still aching wound.
The little senseless chatter of the birds in the branches, the faint murmurs of the wind, were not so strong as a tumult of imaginary sounds that beat loud and threatening on the inner senses of John de Witt.
The cries of an angry crowd, the beating of alarm bells, the hurrying of eager feet, swelling in volume, coming nearer.…
Through the green and gold and blue glimpsed a vision of these people: furious faces, threatening gestures, brandished weapons; dangerous, powerful, irresistible; a hymn of triumph, of hatred, on their lips, and their hearts hot for blood.
John de Witt rose and held out his hand before him as if sound and sight were real, and so stood for a moment, in the attitude of an orator, pleading before his enemies.
Then he turned quickly from the window and walked up and down the long, sunny room.
After a few moments he stopped and took down a gilt-clasped Bible from the shelf.
He opened it; but before his eyes were still the furious faces of his countrymen, and in his ears the ominous sound of their greedy, oncoming hate.
CHAPTER VII
“I WILL MAINTAIN”
The new Stadtholder took his seat in the Assembly, accepted the position offered him, swore the oaths to the Republic, tactfully abstained from any speech, and merely expressed his intention of returning to Bodegraven at once.
The Hague was in a frenzy. The hero of the moment was offered a triumph, a banquet, a ball.…
He declined all, something coldly, and reminded the Deputies the Republic was in no condition for rejoicing.
He intended obviously to avoid as much as possible the demonstrations of the crowd. He refused a public entry; but he could not prevent the people from drinking his health at every street corner and sending up fireworks as soon as it was dark.
As he left the Assembly M. Fagel advanced to speak to him.
“Is Your Highness satisfied now?” he asked eagerly.
“I am pleased with the title,” answered the Prince; “see to it I have the substance—I will be no Duke of Venice, Fagel.”
The Secretary could not but remember M. de Witt’s words of that morning.… Certainly they would find no puppet ruler in William of Orange.
Already his manner had changed. As cold, as composed as before, it now showed openly that imperious haughtiness he had often had to conceal under mere reserve or enforced graciousness.
He bore himself as if a king. His excessive pride might not deign to express itself in any outward show, but he revealed clearly enough that if he was to be the deliverer of his country he would also be her master.
Secure in the support of the people, he could do as he pleased with the magistrates. The whole country was at his mercy.
Those who had been in opposition to him trembled; his enemies were in despair.
Now, as he paused on the stairs to speak to Fagel, M. de Groot came out of the room of the Assembly.
“Mynheer,” William called him.
Gaspard Fagel shivered.
Pale, tired, but erect, Peter de Groot came forward.
“Your Highness?”
The Stadtholder was drawing on his gloves.
“I advised you, Mynheer, not to undertake that journey to Zeyst, you remember?”
“Perfectly, Your Highness.”
“Well”—the Prince, having finished with his gloves, removed his cane from under his arm and tapped the baluster—“I now advise you to leave the Hague.”
M. de Groot was undaunted.
“I am aware that Your Highness blames me for the terms of peace I brought from the King of France—I would rather die than accept them—but as an ambassador it was my bare duty to carry them to Their Noble Mightinesses—who had sent me.”
“M. de Groot,” replied the Prince unpleasantly, “we will have no discussion, if you please. Again—I should recommend the Spanish Netherlands.”
M. Fagel moved instinctively a step aside, but Peter de Groot stood his ground. He saw himself a fallen man, a ruined man, and a slow paleness overspread his countenance, but there was no alteration in his proud demeanour.
Followed by Mynheer Fagel, William III. turned away without a salute, and, with the curtest acknowledgment of the councillors and nobles gathered about him, passed out into the courtyard of the Binnenhof.
It was too late to return to the camp, against his will he found himself obliged to stay overnight at the Hague.
His own Palace being closed, William was lodged in the splendid house, almost adjoining the Binnenhof, where Prince John Maurice had gathered all the treasures collected in his travels.
No attendants following, the Stadtholder crossed the courtyard and gained the mansion without being observed by any.
Dinner was already served in the gorgeous dining-room, where the old Prince’s parrot from Brazil (who could distinguish a black man from a white, could swear nicely in Spanish, and knew his master for a great man) swung in his glittering ebony ring.
M. Heenvliet was in attendance, and a few of Prince Maurice’s servants.
“Has Mynheer Bentinck arrived?” asked the Prince.
“Not yet, Your Highness.”
Bentinck had been sent to the Princess Amalia with the news of her grandson’s triumph.
“Nor the messenger from Sir Gabriel Sylvius?”
“No, Highness—but there have been many to wait upon you——”
“I will see no one save those two.”
On the dark bureau a heap of congratulatory letters had already accumulated. The Prince picked some up, glanced at the writings, and laid them down unopened; a few were from his friends, many from his enemies, some from people he did not know at all.
He put aside his violet velvet cloak, his cane, hat, and gloves, and opened the window regardless of the breeze that set the candles guttering.
It was a beautiful evening, clear, not warm for July, the sky cloudless and a fresh wind blowing.
William stood holding back the heavy curtain and looking out at the dark shapes of the houses above which now and then a shower of light from bonfire or rocket rose into the sky.
The excited murmurs from the crowds filling the Plein came distinctly to his ears; he could almost hear them shouting his name.
M. Heenvliet had withdrawn, for the moment he was alone, but there came no change into the perfect calm of his face and bearing.
An observer might have well thought that he felt no emotion, and concluded that to feel no emotion at such a moment was indeed to show himself incapable of being roused by any feeling ever.
The Groote Kerk struck seven.
William left the window and went to the table glittering with glass and silver, the sheen of china, and the sparkle of the candles in the gold and crimson wines.
The parrot gave a low scream and eyed him in friendly fashion.
William looked at it thoughtfully. It had a drooping air, as if it knew that its master was shut up with the garrison in Maestricht, far away from the luxury of this comfortable room with its Persian carpet, rich hangings, valuable pictures and statuary.
It had also an air of self-containment that moved the Prince’s admiration; he crossed to its ring and gently stroked its head. The bird swung itself in violent agitation of some kind, dropped headlong from its perch, and with a sweep of its gay wing cast several of the letters on the bureau at William’s feet.
He stooped to pick them up; the writing on one caught his eye.
He stared at it a moment and flushed; then quickly broke it open.
It was matter of only a few lines; when he had read it he took up his hat and mantle instantly and left the room.
M. Heenvliet saw him passing hastily down the wide stairs, and could hardly credit his eyes.…
He ran after him.
But the Prince crossed the courtyard without looking back, and as M. Heenvliet gained the gate he saw the slight figure disappearing in the shadows in the direction of the Plein.
His Highness’ gentleman was utterly bewildered. As he stood irresolute, hatless, at the gate, a horseman galloped up and dismounted.
M. Heenvliet knew him for Florent Van Mander, the expected messenger from Sir Gabriel Sylvius.
“The Prince——” began the newcomer.
“Sir,” cried M. Heenvliet, “he has this moment left the house alone—leaving no message——”
“And the Hague in this commotion!”
“He was about to sit down to dinner—he but waited M. Bentinck——”
“He was armed?”
“With only a sword.”
“I will go after him.”
“Dare you?”
“If I can be of any service to him I dare anything, Mynheer.”
“It is the strangest thing.”
Florent was already resolved.
“What was he wearing?”
“A violet coat and mantle—a black hat and feather——”
“See to the horse, I will go after him.… He is rash … the streets are not safe to-night.”
While M. Heenvliet was still half urging, half protesting, Florent started at a run across the Plein.
But his progress was soon stopped by the crowd, the coaches, horsemen and soldiers who thronged the square.
Many of the people were dancing by torchlight before their houses, and handing out wine to every passer-by to drink the health of the new Stadtholder.