The crackling of fireworks mingled with the murmurs and the shouts; hawkers were selling copies of pamphlets against John de Witt, and the dying speech of Jacob Van der Graef who was held up as a martyr to the Orange cause.
It was a riot of enthusiastic joy. Every one wore an orange ribbon, and from every house, steeple, booth, and coach waved the Orange flag.
Florent, forced to pause, remembered that he had absolutely no clue to the Prince’s destination, but as he made his way on through the press, as best he could, he reminded himself that William would also find crossing the Plein a difficult matter.
He looked eagerly round through the confusion of twilight, torchlight, and the steadier gleam of lantern, and presently noticed a gentleman in a violet mantle making a slow way through a group of burghers gathering round the open door of a tavern.
Van Mander forced himself as near as he could get—not near enough to be sure.…
Finally the violet cavalier turned down the Houtestraat, with Florent not far behind.
It was less crowded here, and by the time they had reached the Kalvermarkt Van Mander had his man clear. But suddenly the gentleman in violet stopped to ask his way of a man seated outside a grocery shop, and upon receiving the answer turned so quickly down an ill-lit side street that Florent lost sight of him.
Breaking into a run, he plunged down the dark turning, his spurs clattering on the cobbles.
The street was almost empty, the houses dark; for the inhabitants were gathered in the principal thoroughfares.
Florent was brought to a stop in a lonely little square planted with chestnut trees. He looked up and saw an orange flag projected from a gabled window, from which issued the ruddy light of a lamp that stained the folds to a deep brilliance against the purple colour of the evening sky.
At the door of this house stood an old man in a white ruff, smoking.
Florent addressed him.
“Has a gentleman wearing violet been past here, Mynheer?”
“A moment ago—yes.”
“Which way did he take?” Florent asked eagerly. For the square was divided by a canal.
The old man was laconic.
“He asked the way.”
“To——?”
“The Heeren Gracht.”
“Which is round the corner is it not?”
“Yes.”
“Did you see this gentleman’s face?”
The other began to grow suspicious.
“What did you want with him?”
Florent did not hesitate.
“I am a servant of his—at least, if it be he whom I think—and am come after him with a message.”
“Well,” said the old man, “he was not tall nor stout—he was young and thin, with a hooked nose like his Highness the Stadtholder has——”
“Then he is my master,” said Florent, and hurried on.
As he turned the length of the dark canal he saw by the light of the lamps with which it was set the violet mantle not far away from him.
Its owner appeared to be hesitating, and endeavouring to distinguish the signs displayed on the tall house-fronts.
Van Mander, rather breathless, ran up to him; there was no one else in sight.
“Your Highness——”
The Prince turned sharply.
Before he could speak, Florent went on—
“Sir, you must forgive me, it is I, Van Mander.… I rode up as you left the Marithuis.… I followed you.”
Somewhat to his surprise the Prince seemed neither astonished nor angry.
“Why?” he asked in an absorbed fashion.
“Sir, it is dangerous.… If you knew what I know—what I heard at Zeyst.…”
“I am safe enough,” said William, still gazing up at the houses.
“There are plots abroad to assassinate Your Highness.”
“Without doubt,” the Prince replied absently. “I wish to find a house that hath for sign a pair of scales—it is somewhere near here, I think.”
“On what adventure is Your Highness engaged?” demanded Florent anxiously.
It seemed to him that William neither knew nor cared who spoke to him. He showed no sign of remembering that he awaited news from Sir Gabriel; he appeared to be entirely engaged in the matter on hand.
“Now, how may we find it?” was his sole comment, as he turned impatiently along the canal.
“It is too dark to see the sign—a few houses have lamps above the door,” said Florent.
“Help me to look. I would rather charge a thousand men with a hundred than lose an hour now.”
The Prince took Florent’s presence as a matter of course, neither desiring nor resenting it.
They proceeded in silence along the stone causeway.
Florent was the first to catch the gleam of a pair of gilt scales dangling over the low portico of one of the doors.
“Shall I wait here for Your Highness?” he asked.
“You may enter if you will.”
Still the Prince gave the impression of being so absorbed in some particular affair that he did not know to whom he spoke.
But as they waited on the winged steps, after having hastily knocked, he suddenly explained himself.
“My old tutor, Mynheer Cornelius Triglandt, wrote to me that he was lying ill here. I did not even know that he was at the Hague.”
Florent looked sharply at the Prince. After all, despite his gravity, reserve, and caution, William had then an honest simplicity; … and, with all his pride, the frankness of single-mindedness, and the winning modesty of youth and quick affection.
The door was opened by a girl wearing a garnet necklace, a white cap, and long gold earrings glimmering in the lamp-light.
“Mynheer Cornelius Triglandt is here?” asked the Prince quickly.
“Yes, Mynheer.”
She opened the door wider and they passed into the cedarwood hall.
“Is he very ill?” questioned William.
The maiden looked at them with a faint surprise.
“I do not think that he expects any one to visit him, Mynheer.”
“No?” the Prince’s voice was gentler than Florent had thought it could be, “but he will be glad to see me.”
The girl hesitated with her hand on the newel post.
“Who shall I say is here—to M. Triglandt?” she asked.
The Prince stood in a slightly awkward fashion, holding his hat across his chest; he fixed the speaker with his luminous eyes in a bewildered manner.
The girl glanced over him; took in his velvet mantle, his fringed gloves, his square-toed shoes with the stiff satin bows.
“M. Triglandt is a friend of the Stadtholder,” she said half defiantly; “and you look to me like one of M. de Witt’s men.”
“Is he alone?” asked William abruptly.
“Yes. The doctor has been and gone; he says he cannot live the night. I have been sitting with him.”
“You are a good girl,” said the Prince. “Now I will relieve you.”
Her face brightened.
“Ah, I can go to the fair on the Plein!… I had promised to go—but could not, when a poor old man lay dying.… There are great rejoicings, are there not? … because of His Highness.”
The Prince gave her an absent look.
“Yes, you can go—though this is no time for rejoicing, with the French on the border. Tell M. Triglandt it is his pupil come to see him.”
“His pupil?” she echoed, and went lightly up the stairs.
William turned to Florent.
“I am glad the people are good to him,” he said impulsively. “He escaped from Arnheim just before the French—entered.”
The girl called softly over the banisters—
“Will you come up, Mynheeren?”
They ascended the smooth, well-worn steps, and on a landing where a brass lamp burnt she pointed them to a door.
“I will go out now—not for long,” she said, excusing herself. “My mother is below and our servant, and there are other lodgers.”
She smiled, and with a little courtesy pattered down the stairs.
William pushed open the door.
It led into a chamber lined with cedar, and empty save for a few chairs.
Directly opposite, a second door stood open upon a bedroom full of candlelight.
The Prince went forward, but Florent hung back and remained in the unlit shadows.
William stepped breathlessly into the light. He found a lofty apartment, illumined by a row of candles set on a black bureau.
The windows were flung wide on to the summer night, the canal and the lime trees, the stars, and a great moon that hung low above the silent houses.
Close to the candles stood a blue bowl of sweet-peas and roses.
Sideways to the window was a bed curtained in patterned chintz, and on it lay an elderly man whose firm face was turned expectantly towards the door.
“Mynheer Triglandt!” exclaimed the Prince, casting down his hat and gloves.
“Your Highness!”
The words came with a deep note of joy and passion; the sick man’s face utterly changed into an expression of rapture.
“Ah, why did I not know before?” William exclaimed. He came to the bedside and pulled back the curtains.
M. Triglandt held out his thin hands and grasped the Prince’s.
“I have not been here long.… Arnheim was sacked … they killed most.…”
He tried to kiss the Stadtholder’s hands. William prevented him and dropped on his knees beside the low bed.
“You are ill—how do I find you!”
“That your Highness should think of me!… It is nothing.… I tried to do what I could for the people, out there … you would not believe, the cruelties!”
William ground his teeth.
“I took the fever … there was not enough food.… They mutilated the people … as in Farnese’s day.”
The Calvinist pastor drew himself painfully up.
“I have seen our churches burnt and heard Mass sung.…”
He gasped, and stared down into the agonised face of the young man kneeling at his bedside.
“It seemed God had turned His face from us … but I knew that He would raise Your Highness up to be our deliverer.”
William coloured and trembled.
“That you should come here to see me,” whispered M. Triglandt in a tone of infinite tenderness. “Now I shall die very glad.”
“You must not die,” replied the Prince. “I have so much to say.… How many years since we saw each other and you taught me of the ancient saints,”—he caught his breath eagerly, “and how they endured—and the true happiness they had?”
“Not so long,” said the tutor. “But now Your Highness has moustaches and a sword—and is a great man.” He smiled faintly. “Yet you are still like your mother.… I did not hope to see you again—to-night of all nights. I have heard the people shouting for the true House restored.”
The Prince answered passionately—
“What is their rejoicing to me? This is rather a time for prayer … the country is almost lost.… Oh, God who hears me, almost lost!”
He pushed back the hair from his forehead and looked up into the white face of the pastor. His coldness had left him completely; he was all fire and eagerness, passion and agony.
Florent, motionless in the outer shadows, stared at him in an enthralled amazement.
“Mynheer, you used to tell me that my ancestors had been heroes—that God had appointed them to guard His faith.… I want to do as they did.… I want to save the country and the Reformed religion.… The odds are fearful … no one understands, not even Bentinck.”
The suppressed emotion of years strove to express itself; but long silence had put it well-nigh beyond expression. William, speaking to the man to whom he had given his rare love, had to force the very soul of him into words.
“You know, you told me—it seemed possible I might do this thing. No one understands, if they did they would laugh; but you know. M. de Witt never trusted me, he thought I meant to play the traitor with France; it was the last insult—they all believed. You saw how utterly unhappy I was. I would have died, gladly. But now, three Provinces gone! You have heard the terms?—but never!—Not slavery again, no Romish rule for us!”
M. Triglandt looked at him with sparkling eyes.
“You have refused?”
“Yes,” breathed William; “the negotiations still hang, but now I have the power—I shall refuse. Ah! you will not laugh at me.”
He caught the sick man’s hand in his cold fingers.
“I am not quick nor clever,” he said, with his soul in his voice, “nor a soldier like M. de Condé nor a statesman like M. de Louvois; but I can endure, and wait, and take any hardship so that I attain my end—and do you not believe that God will help me, Mynheer Triglandt?”
“With all my soul I do believe—that He has set Your Highness in this place to be His soldier.”
The pastor raised himself still higher; his haggard features glowed with an earnest rapture.
“You have before you a long and difficult task—but a holy one; you will need to be strong, and resolute, and calm—you have half Europe to hearten, half Europe to defy.”
“Speak to me!” cried William. “Speak to me like that!”
The old man stared at the row of candles on the black bureau; his pale blue eyes were clear and shining.
“This is a dark hour, a time of misery, of bitterness, of despair. The tyrant triumphs; vanity, lust, and blood walk hand in hand across our land! But God, who planted in your breast this fervour, will not patiently endure the blasphemer. You can save His faith, you can raise His land from bondage, you can be the captain of His armies; you can humble the arrogant, break the power of France, and establish a freedom the world has never yet known.”
He turned his luminous gaze on to the upturned face of the young Prince, who seemed to have hushed his very breath to listen.
“Your way will not be easy; there will be dangers, disappointments, sneers, oppositions, failures. You must taste humiliation, you must endure sickness, you must have great patience and great courage. When you long for peace you will be driven into the combat. Very few will understand; there will be railing, calumny—factions to be met and silenced. I see ahead down the years, and I see this: struggles, bitterness, despair—but in your heart you will know that you are the elect of God, and that you fight His battles.”
There was a tense silence. Slowly, in a low voice, at last the Prince answered—
“I will try to be worthy.”
He dropped his face into his hands and hid it against the coverlet. M. Triglandt lightly stroked the long brown locks.
“And I see something of your reward too. I see this land a refuge for God’s people, I see them bless your name. In sickness and defeat it shall comfort you that you have so protected the Reformed religion that she shall never be in danger again; you will have opened the floodgates of liberty, and no one shall close them more.”
He gasped, struggling with his breath; then his clear, inspired voice went on—
“Maybe you will die before this reward comes, maybe you will never see the result of your labours. Men may never give you the honour; but yours will be the glory if now you dare what no other man does dare—or will!”
William looked up; his face was changed, almost distorted.
“I will do it. I am often ill, but I can put a good face on it—I shall live long enough … to do my task.”
“People will misunderstand—you must not care—to this one thing be true. You must forego pleasure, ease, popularity, friends.”
“I will do it,” repeated the Prince in a choking voice. “Speak to me—bless me—there is no other who understands.… Nevermore shall I speak to any as now I speak to you … to—you—who leave me.”
“What more can I say? Your own soul will guide you. Be tolerant, be just, be true to your word, be patient and be brave.”
“I will not falter—I will not despair—even though I go forth alone and never reach the goal.” The Prince’s voice failed him; he covered his face and his shoulders heaved.
M. Triglandt lay back on the white, fragrant pillows.
“I can speak no more,” he said faintly. “You know the way.”
William spoke without raising his head—
“Stay with me a little—for I love you.”
“William.”
“Ah, Heaven pity me, I am so lonely!”
“God—God has set you apart.”
The Prince looked up; the hazel eyes were full of tears.
“I will be resolute—I will be calm—only if you could stay.”
“I am dying; but you will not forget me nor how—I spoke.”
The tears ran down the young man’s cheeks; he trembled violently.
“I love you—no one else—I think. If you could stay—and see—how I obey you.”
The pastor smiled faintly.
“I am very happy.”
William caught his hands.
“Mynheer Triglandt,” he cried in a tone of terror, “I am afraid! Can I do it? They all look to me—to save them. M. de Witt passes on to me his hopeless task—to save them!”
He cowered against the bed.
“I feel as if my soul fainted—but I will not fail them. Ah, heart, heart!”
“God will inspire you,” gasped the pastor. “He—alone.”
“I trust in Him; if He should try me with bitternesses I will try to submit—but sometimes——Yesterday I saw an old man on the Rhine—struggling with a barge—and as it advanced a little it was swept back; and he strove again—and once more gained an inch—and was driven back; and as I watched he made a little desperate headway. My affairs are even as that poor man’s—I must strive and strive, and be content if with much labour I gain a little.”
He staggered to his feet and bent low over the pillow.
“What can I do for you?” he whispered. He was sobbing bitterly.
“Nothing—do not weep.”
The old man caught his coat and arm.
“I am content,” he said. “I dreamt of this—when M. de Witt divided us because I taught you who you were.”
There fell a soft, meaning silence. There could be heard the faint peal of the joy-bells coming through the summer dark.…
William supported the old man in a trembling embrace.
M. Triglandt caught one of the loose curls that hung over the Prince’s shoulder and pressed it to his lips … then his hands clasped tightly on his breast.
He nodded like one falling asleep.
Then suddenly his eyes opened wide.
“Say—‘God bless you,’” sobbed the Prince desperately.
“God bless you—God be with you always.”
He gathered sudden energy; he smiled and raised his right hand.
“Thou art King, O God; send help unto Jacob. Through Thee will we overthrow our enemies, and in Thy name will we tread them under that rise up against us; for we will not trust in our bow.”
The dying man’s voice swelled with exaltation—
“It is not our sword that shall help us; but it is Thou who savest us from our enemies and puttest them to confusion that hate us.…”
He fell into soft, yet triumphant accents—
“We will make our boast of … God … all day long … and will … praise Thy name … for ever.”
His hand sank.
“William … my child.…”
M. Triglandt closed his eyes … his breath was almost stilled.
Outside the joy-bells rang, and the Stadtholder cast himself across the homely bed in a passionate agony of bitter tears.
“God—be merciful—to me—a sinner—and alone!”
CHAPTER VIII
THE STADTHOLDER
A heavy mist of sun-filled vapour lay over the camp at Bodegraven.
The vivid green meadows lay flat to the dun-coloured sky. A white cottage with painted shutters, a vine-covered porch, and a garden full of sweet-peas and roses, poppies and herbs, stood by a clump of alders amid the tents and pickets.
Above it floated the Orange flag. In one of its small rooms the young Stadtholder sat, his elbow on the table, his brow in his hand.
M. de Zuylestein and William Bentinck stood by the open window; and Florent Van Mander was speaking with a force and an energy to which he had never before been roused.
“If Your Highness would consider.”
His Highness would consider nothing. Cornelius Triglandt had died in his arms at dawn that day, and already time was closing over the event—but not over the pain.
Van Mander addressed himself to the two gentlemen in the window embrasure.
“I swear to you these overtures were made to me in Zeyst. Will you take no heed of them?”
M. de Zuylestein frowned.
“What you say amounts to this—that some agents of King Louis have broached to you a scheme for the assassination of His Highness.”
Van Mander answered firmly—
“I journeyed straight to the Hague to inform the Prince—I have had till now no opportunity of speaking.”
Inwardly he was referring to the past night. He could have cried out the great pride and joy he felt in serving a Prince who had revealed himself at the death-bed of Cornelius Triglandt, a master whom he knew at last.
He longed to prove his devotion, to die for the Prince and the country. He burned with shame when he recalled that he had once tampered with France.
“Madame Lavalette is at the bottom of it.…”
He continued his narration.
“And one Hyacinthe St. Croix.… She hath a spite against His Highness.… M. de Louvois thinks there could be no greater disaster to the country than the loss of the Prince.… They approached me—” he paused, “because I had formerly dealings with St. Croix,” he added with an effort.
The Stadtholder raised swollen eyes.
“Let it be,” he said wearily.
M. Bentinck interrupted—
“Sir, you must take some notice of this plot.”
“It is beneath me to consider my own safety,” said William in the same tone.
Van Mander approached the table earnestly.
“This is deep—there is one Michael Tichelaer in it—a Dutch barber; a higher name than his——”
“I will not hear it,” replied the Prince with impatience.
“This is mere bravado,” exclaimed M. de Zuylestein.
“We have other things to occupy us,” replied the Prince.
“Sir,” declared Van Mander ardently, “I must insist that you listen to me.… Once more the French will send you terms … should you again refuse them—they have resolved to compass your death.”
The Stadtholder was still indifferent.
“These plots are hatched against every man of position.”
“There is danger at home as well as in the French camp,” insisted Florent. “A great name was mentioned.”
“Whose?” asked M. Bentinck eagerly.
“That of M. Cornelius de Witt.”
The Prince looked up sharply, roused at length by this.
“Impossible!” he exclaimed.
“I spoke with the fellow he had confided in,” Van Mander answered; “this Michael Tichelaer, who saw him soon after Your Highness was proclaimed in Dordt.… He was very precise: M. de Witt railed against Your Highness, said you would marry a foreign Princess and make yourself absolute in the United Provinces—and to prevent this and to bring the republicans back to power he desired this Tichelaer to go to the camp and kill Your Highness——”
The Stadtholder interrupted.
“I believe none of it.”
M. Bentinck, however, was not so sure.
“At least investigate the story.”
But all further speech was arrested by the announcement of the expected envoys from the Allies.
M. de Zuylestein drew Van Mander aside.
“I will see you afterwards; your tale requires looking into—particularly as regards M. de Witt. The Prince is too rash.”
It was Sir Gabriel Sylvius who brought the final answer from King Louis; the terms that William III. hoped, through the intervening influence of the English, might prove more reasonable.
Sir Gabriel was accompanied by Mr. Jermyn and an Englishman very different from either Buckingham or Arlington, Sir Edward Seymour, of the proudest name in the three kingdoms.
The young Stadtholder received them with perfect composure; all trace of weariness left his manner.
“Your Highness,” began Sir Gabriel, “I bring to you the final conditions of peace of the Kings of France and England.”
He handed the Prince a letter.
“I would advise Your Highness not to look at it till you have dined—I fear it will not please you.”
William swept a glance over the assembled faces, then tore open the envelope.
It contained a letter from the two English Ministers, and a copy of a treaty recently drawn up at Heeswyck between Charles and Louis, in which the two monarchs agreed to press their demands in concert and not to enter into any separate treaty with the Republic, whom they thus hoped to reduce to extremity.
Turning from this document, which destroyed all his hopes of detaching Charles from the French alliance, William cast his eyes over the Articles of Peace.
They stood the same as before, save that to the haughty demands of France were added the immoderate claims of England.
A passionate colour rushed into the young Stadtholder’s thin cheek.
He gave a stifled exclamation, and for a second it seemed as if he would tear the papers across and fling them in the face of the envoys who had brought them.
But he controlled himself, and made a movement as if he would have thrust them into the breast of his coat, forgetting he wore a cuirass.
Recollecting himself he flung the documents down on the table.
“Your Highness,”—Sir Edward addressed him, coming forward—“we are directed to ask for your answer, and the answer of the States, within ten days.”
William looked at him, and saw a high-bred gentleman, handsome and proud, with languid brown eyes; and dressed richly in a murrey-coloured travelling costume.
“You are Sir Edward Seymour?” queried the Stadtholder.
The Englishman bowed.
“Why are you sent here, Sir Edward?” demanded William. “Sir Gabriel could have brought the dispatch alone.”
The bluntness of this slightly discomposed Sir Edward’s stateliness.
He made a little motion with his riding-whip towards the Dutch nobles—
“These are in Your Highness’ confidence?”
“Oh, say what you have to say, Sir Edward,” cried the Prince impatiently.
Seymour was considering him curiously.
“My lord Buckingham made an offer to Your Highness——”
“Which I refused.”
“—in the hope of detaching the English from the French alliance,” added Sir Edward. “You now see, Sir, that such a hope is useless.”
“Well?”
“It is my embassage to repeat that offer to Your Highness. To show the consideration in which their Majesties hold you—they again offer you the sovereignty of Holland—in exchange for the towns not yet in King Louis’ possession.”
William III. looked at him straightly.
“I thank you and your master for these proposals,” he said coldly, “but they are renewed twenty-four hours too late.… Yesterday I took an oath of fidelity to the States as Stadtholder.… You have my answer.”
Sir Edward bowed.
“I may remind Your Highness that you stand in a desperate—almost a hopeless—position.”
The Prince answered proudly—
“I am not by nature timorous, Sir Edward, and do not fear to have to fight for liberty.”
“Have you well considered——”
William interrupted—
“Sir, I would rather spend the rest of my life hunting on one of my German estates than sell my country for any price that could be offered.”
Sir Edward was not as Buckingham, nor even as Arlington; he bowed again, this time with an air of respect.
Every one was silent, holding himself with reserve.
The slanting ray of sun that fell through the open lattice window, laden with the scent of the roses and sweet-peas, seemed incongruous with this contained and grave assembly.
The Prince turned about as if considering something. They felt that he was going to speak, and waited for it. Seymour regarded him keenly, with the air of a man who knows and values what he sees.
The Stadtholder paused by the table, and rested his beautiful hand upon the papers his messenger had brought.
“You shall have an answer in less than ten days,” he said. “I will take these terms myself to the Assembly——”
He paused, and drew himself erect with something of an effort; his reddened eyes flashed with an intense expression of dauntless defiance.
He spoke again, and with irresistible force—
“The King of France considers it a fine amusement to ruin an unoffending country—he thinks it will be easy to crush a petty Prince. You, my lords, doubtless pity me my vain resistance—but you know not what you smile at. The French insult us with outrageous terms. Not Cæsar to the Gauls, nor Alexander to the Persians was more haughty; but we are not as Darius—France will repent this insolence. We will, from this little spark, blow up a war shall see Europe in arms and shake the Continent! No peace, they say; but they shall come to sue for it, be it thirty years or fifty years hence! There is a force can hold back Condé’s blood-flushed cavalry and keep in check the battalions Turenne leads; there is a strength can pit itself against these servitors of the Pope and match itself against the pride of France; and from this conquered land it springs. Long and bloody the struggle may be that forces the aggressor back across his frontier; but it will break his pride, and he shall come to wish that he had taken our honourable terms—for, by my soul! as I am Captain of my country’s hopes, and of their faith the Protector, I shall not sheathe the sword until this presuming arrogance is tamed and Europe breathes in liberty!
“We are not vanquished yet! Though they reckon we are beneath their heel, yet we will show them otherwise. We are no nation of weaklings, nor am I a puppet ruler.
“I am the guardian of this Republic, and I will be worthy of the charge—so help me God!
“My lords, there is no more to say.”
A long minute’s stillness followed. Then Sir Edward Seymour spoke.
“I do not trespass on my duty if I say that I admire the temper that Your Highness shows; I should be pleased to be as fortunate as King Louis, but better pleased to be as courageous as Your Highness.”
“Thank you, my lord,” answered William. “I hope that we may meet again under fairer conditions.”
He held out his hand and Sir Edward kissed it, bowed, very courtly, and withdrew, followed by M. St. Jermyn, his suite, and the Dutch nobles who formed his escort.
The Stadtholder, coughing, turned to the mantelpiece and put his hand over his aching eyes.
“Bentinck, I must return to the Hague—at once.”
“With these dispatches?”
“Yes—the States must assemble——”
M. Zuylestein stepped forward—
“This assassination plot——”
“Can I think of that—now?”
“M. Cornelius de Witt is involved——”
“I do not believe it.” This impatiently, with a frown.
Florent Van Mander came from the window embrasure and went on one knee on the red-tiled floor.
William looked at him and hesitated to speak harshly.
This young man seemed to him a link with the past night; he had been witness of his tears.…
William bit his under-lip and listened.
Florent told his story hurriedly but clearly. Madame Lavalette, under the guise of a traveller from Brussels, accompanied by St. Croix and Michael Tichelaer as her servants, was to take up her quarters in some village near the Prince’s camp.…
Florent broke off.
He looked at M. Zuylestein.
William was not attending.
“The matter is serious!” cried Van Mander desperately.
The Stadtholder did not seem to know that the narrative had ceased.
“Highness,” said M. Bentinck.
William was looking at the dispatches on the table.
“I will hear it presently,” he said.
“Presently may be too late——”
Florent was again interrupted.
A messenger from the Hague with a letter from M. de Witt.
The Prince flushed at sight of the writing, and was breaking the seal when an officer entered to say that a private messenger from King Charles desired a secret audience of the Prince.
William cast down the letter and listened eagerly.
It had always been his passionate hope to detach his uncle from the King of France.
“Who was it?”
“A Frenchman, who had his passport and credentials and had shown them to Count Struym.”
The Stadtholder would see him—at once. He turned all save Bentinck from the room, he knew that Charles liked to act under a mask of secrecy.
“Though you may,” smiled William, “listen at the window.”
He was all animation, hope, and eagerness. If Charles should come to secret terms the Republic was saved.
Florent, very pale, still urged his interrupted tale—
“This may be the very man!”
“Afterwards,” said William,—“afterwards!”
The messenger was introduced; a Frenchman of commonplace exterior, his demeanour very humble. The Stadtholder, alone with him save for M. Bentinck, spoke with impetuous frankness.
“What does my uncle want of me? I will do anything consistent with my vows to the Republic.”
Arlington had sent an extraordinary proposal. Lord Halifax was in the King’s confidence, he said, and was now in Holland.… Would the Prince meet him, unknown to the French—secretly?
William gave an immediate consent, but Bentinck interrupted.
“You are dangerously rash, Highness; this man’s tale is strange, and his errand still stranger for a Frenchman to have come upon. Sir Edward Seymour gave you no hint of this.”
But the Prince was dazzled by the bait.
“I can refuse no chance of coming to an agreement with King Charles.”
He turned to the messenger, but before his first word the door was opened and Florent Van Mander entered, his hand on his sword and his face resolute.
“Sir, that man is Hyacinthe St. Croix—a tool of M. de Pomponne—a spy of M. de Louvois—an assassin!”
St. Croix saw himself betrayed by a man whom he had been very sure of; his face lowered with the rage of it, but he had his answer.
“Does Your Highness allow your private business to be thus interrupted?”
The Stadtholder looked from one to another. M. Bentinck came nearer to him.
“This is the plot of which I warned Your Highness—the attempt to get you into the power of your enemies—to compass your death!” cried Florent hotly.
St. Croix affected to sneer.
“I do not know the man—will Your Highness listen to these children’s tales——?”
“Do not know me?—I have some letters of yours.”
William marked St. Croix’ expression.
“By your leave, Monsieur,” he said, “I will look into this.”
The Frenchman saw the game was up; he seized his last, flying chance.…
Quick his little, keen dagger was out, and he made a swift movement to thrust it above the armlet of the Prince’s cuirass; there, where, by a little unguarded space, the heart might be reached.
Florent threw himself upon him.…
With a passionate sound of rage against the stolid Hollander who had roused at last, St. Croix turned. There was a second’s struggle; the sunlight winked along the steel.…
Florent pitched over backwards with closed eyes and an open mouth; St. Croix tore the door wide and fled.
The thing had not taken two minutes—it was less than ten since St. Croix had entered the room.
The Prince and William Bentinck caught Van Mander.
“He was right!” cried William fiercely; “the man was one of Louvois’ spies.”
“Murderers,” said M. Bentinck; “he has stabbed the fellow.”
The handle of the dagger, silver and ivory, stuck out horribly from the breast of Florent Van Mander, who gasped thickly and beat his heels on the tiles.
“Ah, poor fool,” muttered William, supporting him, “he was saving me. After the Frenchman, Bentinck!”
Florent clutched at the dagger-hilt with convulsive fingers.
“Take care—M. de Witt—Tichelaer——” He struggled; but the Prince, for all his frail look, supported him easily enough.
“I am sorry for this,” he said. “I am sorry.”
Florent Van Mander, selfish place-seeker, careless of his country, and in the pay of France once, has died for a sentiment of honour in the Stadtholder’s arms, even as last night he had seen Cornelius Triglandt die.…
Can William of Orange so inspire one man?—then he may so inspire a whole nation with the last desperate courage. If Florent Van Mander will die for him there will be others also reckless of their lives if they may serve Nassau by laying them down.…
It is calling to horse now, riding to and fro, excitement rising up, reined in.… The last defiance has been flung to France!… The States must refuse these terms.…
The Stadtholder thrusts the dispatches and the letter from M. de Witt, unopened, into the pocket of his mantle, mounts his grey horse and spurs off for the Hague.
The last rays of the sun that peep over the tiger-lilies and sweet-peas at the dead face of Florent Van Mander shine also in the harness of the Stadtholder and his suite, as they ride along the smooth road, between the canals, the locks where the water-lilies rest, the deep, thick-grown meadows where the cattle graze, the little homes with the coloured shutters, the thatched windmills, the poplars and alders, the low fields where the storks sit, through the silent twilight towards the Hague.
CHAPTER IX
IN THE ASSEMBLY
In the old Palace of the Princes of Orange, that had been the dwelling of the Counts of Holland when the Hague was merely their hunting estate, and now for twenty years the meeting-place for the Government of John de Witt, Their High Mightinesses, the States, were assembled.
The sunshine filled the great chamber, showing the tapestry on the walls, the marble chimney-pieces, the painted ceiling, in the full dazzle of their gorgeous colours.
In the centre, within a space enclosed by a balustrade, sat the nobles and the Deputies of eighteen towns.
At the end of the table at which they sat stood the Grand Pensionary’s chair—empty during a debate for the first time in twenty years.
Behind this chair were the benches, filled by the councillor deputies; next them a table belonging to the Deputies of Haarlem, Delft, Leyden, and Brill.
Opposite were the tables belonging to Amsterdam, Rotterdam, Gouda, Gorcum, Schiedam, and Schoonhoven.
Either side the western fireplace sat the secretaries of the towns, and directly facing them was the raised velvet arm-chair of the Stadtholder.
An air of expectancy and gloom lay over the whole Assembly. The white, anxious faces of the States were in sharp contrast to the peaceful scene visible through the fine tall windows; the sparkling water of the Vyver, the swans sailing round their green islands, the stately avenues of chestnuts and elms beyond.
Every one in the chamber was looking at the Stadtholder.
He stood on the step before his chair and held the dispatches brought him yesterday by Sir Gabriel Sylvius. He wore the habit he had travelled in: cuirass, high boots, dark velvet, and a purple scarf.
He wore his beaver with the long black plume; across his chair were thrown mantle and gloves.
His bright glance swept the silent, agitated faces turned towards him. He opened the dispatches and read the terms of France:—