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--
“Fairest Jane, all Janes excelling,
As my wish exceeds my skill,
Tears within your eyes are swelling,
I perceive you love me still!”
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.
“Sweetness best becomes your beauty,
Would you chide when we must part?
To the King belongs my duty
But to you belongs my heart.”
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.
He returned to the table and spoke to Bentinck--
“I have heard from Sir Gabriel.”
“Favourable news, Sir?”
“King Louis is resolved to ruin the States, but is wholly friendly to
me. M. de Louvois said the English asked too much, and were not in a
condition to put forward such terms as his master--so they quarrel
already over the plunder.” He coughed, and seated himself at the
table. “I have other news,” he said in the same even tones, laying his
letters down. “Nymwegen has fallen.”
“Sir!”
“Yesterday,” continued William.
“We have come to a bitter pass!”
“M. Fagel writes there is fierce dissension at the Hague.… We will see
what these English have to say.”
“They are in the camp now!”
“Count Struym conducts them here,” answered William.
He took off his mantle and leant back in his chair. He looked ill, and
coughed continually.
M. Bentinck regarded him curiously. He rather wondered what the Prince
was going to say to these English.
The situation was so desperate that any terms offered were almost bound
to be accepted, but William Bentinck could not think of the Prince as
submitting to either England or France.
Suddenly William broke out--
“Did you hear the terms M. de Groot obtained? Outrageous insolence!
Does he think we will be content to be slaves? But they brought it on
themselves by sending a crawling embassy of submission.”
“Do you imagine the English will be more reasonable, Highness?”
“I think they come to confirm their alliance with France--not to obtain
justice for us.”
“Will you see them alone, Highness?”
“No--you remain, William.”
The Prince spoke in a gasping way, and held his hand to his side.
The room was full of hot air from the camp-fires, and the smell of
the cooking. William rose and closed the window again, and as he was
returning to his chair the English envoys entered, preceded by Count
Struym.
There was a second’s pause of curiosity on either side.
William saw two splendidly dressed gentlemen, who carried themselves
with an air of pride and grandeur, both tall, handsome, and decked out
in the extreme of fashion.
Their persons he remembered perfectly well. The Earl of Arlington,
quiet in manner, of a placid countenance, dark ringlets and moustaches,
his carriage fine, but rather stout; richly habited now in black velvet
and gold brocade, scarlet feathers in his hat, and wearing a collar
of jewels. My lord Buckingham, once “the most beautiful person that
ever graced a European Court,” but now over florid and heavy, his
face suffused and lined, but still with the manner of his youth, and
gorgeously attired in white cut velvet, his blonde hair elaborately
curled, his blue mantle starred with silver, every detail of his attire
sumptuous and costly.
On their part the Englishmen beheld a slight youth of the middle
height, with a thin face, an arched nose, curved lips set disdainfully,
and deep and powerful eyes, wearing plain armour and top-boots, leather
gloves, and a linen cravat.
The envoys swept off their hats and bowed very low; then Buckingham
held his beaver against his breast and looked at his companion over the
curling feathers.
“I must receive you very simply, my lords,” said the Prince in English,
as Count Struym withdrew. “I think that we have chairs--though little
else.”
“I am sorry,” answered my lord Arlington, “to meet Your Highness again
in this pass.”
“And I,” said the Duke, seating himself grandly, “am pleased to see
Your Highness again under any circumstances.”
William gave him a quick look, then addressed himself to the Earl--
“This is my lord Bentinck--he is entirely in my confidence.”
The two noblemen bowed. M. Bentinck knew some English, but did not
trust himself to speak it.
The Prince seated himself. He still wore his hat, that shaded his pale
face and heavy brown hair.
The Duke, filling the room with perfume, splendour, and dazzlement, sat
erect, his right hand on his gold cane, the hazy sunlight winking in
his jewels.
William glanced keenly from one to the other.
“My lord Halifax?” he questioned.
“Is following, Your Highness--he was too late to accompany us.”
Of the three it was Lord Halifax whom William preferred.
“Your Highness,” continued Arlington, “we have to put before you the
terms of the King, our master.”
“And I, my lord, have some reproaches to make on the manner in which
His Majesty has forsaken the Triple Alliance.”
“It is to satisfy Your Highness on that matter that we are now here----”
The Duke interrupted--
“Shall we to business?”
“If you please, my lord,” answered William, not looking at him.
“Your Highness is not too fatigued?” asked Buckingham, who would sooner
have gone to his supper first.
“An it please you I will hear you now,” replied the Prince.
The Earl was drawing off his gloves.
“You must not confuse the King’s action against the States with his
feelings towards yourself, Highness,” he said.
“Yet I must exclaim against my uncle for this war.”
“Sir, I assure you he would never have undertaken it had he not seen
your account very clear.”
The young General lowered his eyes.
“In the war, my lord?”
“Yes; it was always His Majesty’s intention to avenge the ill-treatment
of Your Highness by the States,” replied Arlington. “And this war may
be much to your advantage.”
William looked up.
“My lord, I cannot discuss the matter from that standpoint.… I speak as
the General of the forces of the United Provinces.”
Buckingham smiled.
“It is an army almost non-existent, Your Highness,” he said.
The Prince slightly flushed.
“My lord, I do not admit that--I am expecting help from Brandenburg and
Spain.”
“I trust that they will not be needed, Highness,” replied Arlington.
“Peace, we hope, will render them unnecessary.”
“I do hope, my lord, an honourable peace may be come by, but the terms
the King of France offers are not to be considered----”
“Yet those in desperate straits can scarce be choosers,” answered
Buckingham.
“We have not come to desperation, my lord; the Emperor alone is sending
me fifteen thousand men.”
The Duke shrugged his shoulders.
“Your Highness has heard of the fall of Nymwegen?”
“Yes, my lord,” answered William composedly, “but we have not the
losses of the campaign under discussion--but the exorbitance of the
demands of France.”
“The second is the result of the first, Highness--the King of France is
in a position to make these demands.”
“And we,” returned the Prince, “are in a condition to refuse them.”
“Your Highness speaks confidently.”
“I would not have my words bolder than my actions--I am prepared to
stand by what I say.”
Buckingham answered--
“Sir, what terms do you object to?”
William fixed his eyes on him.
“My lord, to all of them.… M. de Groot offered the King of France
Maestricht and the towns on the border, such as Breda, Bergen-op-Zoom,
and Hertogenbosch--and in this I think he exceeded his commission.”
“His Majesty rejected these terms haughtily,” commented Arlington.
The Prince glanced at him gravely.
“The King of France’s demands are these--that the frontiers of the
Republic be withdrawn to the river Leek, leaving in his hands Guelders,
Overyssel, Utrecht and Brabant, Delfzyl and its dependencies, which
are, my lords, the keys of Groningen; the free exercise of the Romish
faith in the States; the revocation of all edicts detrimental to French
commerce; the rights of our East India Company waived in favour of
his; a tribute of 12,000,000 florins; and lastly, sir, to complete the
humiliation of the States he demands that a formal embassy be sent
every year to do homage to him and thank him for having left us so
much.”
“Well,” answered Buckingham, “the terms of a conqueror, Your
Highness--and what avails it to complain when there is no alternative?”
Arlington replied more gently--
“We will endeavour, Sir, to soften these terms.”
William looked from one to another.
“I think these terms are of M. de Louvois’ suggestion--they will prove
the worst piece of policy he ever set his hand to. If he had taken M.
de Groot’s terms he had had a great advantage; but now he will obtain
nothing.”
The two envoys exchanged a glance.
“Sir,” said the Earl, “you confuse yourself with the States--this does
not ruin you.”
William coughed and drew a painful breath.
“What does my uncle desire of the States?” he asked quietly.
“I have the heads of His Majesty’s demands in my mind, Highness,”
answered Arlington. “Firstly, the right of the flag, and a yearly rent
for the herring fisheries, £100,000 a year or less; secondly, the
expenses of the war, fixed at £500,000, to be paid in next October;
thirdly, three or four towns as hostages--Flushing, Sluys, the Brill,
or such.”
“The States will never agree to those terms, nor could I in conscience
advise them to,” answered William firmly.
Arlington was suave.
“They might be moderated----”
Buckingham interrupted--
“Why, by God?… Is France to get all and England nothing?”
The Prince bit his lip with the effort to keep back a violent answer.
“My lords,” he said in a low voice, “I have no power to treat with you
save as General of the States, and with the object to detach you from
the French alliance. I do not think it would be to the advantage of
England to see the Republic in the hands of France, and it is my aim to
separate you from your ally.”
Again the envoys looked at each other. Both trained in small
dissimulation, neither great enough statesmen to know that candour is
often more effective than deception, they regarded this statement as
boyish simplicity. It emboldened Arlington to bring out his trump card.
“To return to the terms of France----”
“Sir,” interrupted the Prince, “talk no more of them--we would sooner
die a thousand deaths than submit to them.”
“I will take it upon me,” answered the Earl, “to moderate them--so that
we find our account in the adjustment; but we must have the cautionary
towns.”
“I am confident the States--will never give them,” returned William.
Buckingham rose suddenly and came to the table.
“There is somewhat else to add,” he said, with his air of good-humoured
insolence. “You will not lose by this----”
Arlington took it up--
“This in confidence between us: so you cede these terms His Majesty
will make you greater than any of your House have been.”
“Is that in your instructions?” asked William quietly.
“It is a point His Majesty made with the King of France,” answered
Arlington eagerly. “If you make this peace, not only will the war be
removed from your country, but you will be made Sovereign of it, and
both the Kings will secure you, at home and abroad. For their Majesties
agree to make this a condition of peace with the States, that they take
you for King over such of the Low Countries as be left after we have
had our partage.”
William kept his eyes lowered, and leant a little sideways over the arm
of the chair.
“Ye were to make this proposal to me?” he asked.
My lord Buckingham put the matter more bluntly.
“We are to offer you the hereditary sovereignty of the United
Provinces, Sir, if you will give up to the King of England the towns
he demands from the States, forbear to contest the conquests of the
French, and place in King Louis’ hands those remaining towns he has not
yet taken.”
For the first time since the interview William looked at Bentinck, who
stood motionless by the window.
“Sir,” said my lord Arlington, “do you hesitate?--you will be a
sovereign Prince.”
“I like better,” replied William, “the condition I am in of Captain
General of the United Provinces.”
“It is to your interest,” said Buckingham strongly, “to take this
offer.”
William gave him a proud look.
“Maybe, sir,” he replied; “but I believe myself in honour, and in
conscience, bound not to prefer my interest before my obligation.”
My lord laughed, half wearily.
“Honour and conscience!” he repeated; “it is strange diplomacy that
quotes them.”
“They are things,” answered the Prince, “that I have some regard
for----”
My lord Arlington interposed--
“I think you are ambitious. This offer may well rouse your hopes of
glory--Louis’ ranks offer many chances--you will be protected by the
two most powerful kings in the world.”
William put his hand to his forehead.
“Did you come to bait me with these prospects, my lords, or to treat
for an honourable peace?”
“This is a peace wholly advantageous----”
“To me, my lord; not to the States.”
Buckingham was contemptuous.
“The States! do they any longer exist?--a handful of traders--always
opposed to Your Highness.”
“I must not remember that now, sir, for I am entrusted with their sole
defences.”
“Why, the better for you--since you have your revenge put into your
hand.”
The Prince narrowed his eyes on him.
“I am Dutch, my lord.”
Buckingham accepted the rebuke with a shrug.
“You are King Louis’ cousin, Highness, and King Charles’ nephew.”
“But I am neither Stewart nor Bourbon, my lord, but of my father’s
House.”
The envoys were silent a while. They had bartered away their own honour
so long ago that they had forgotten they had ever had any. They were
clever at overcoming scruples, but a firm attitude of cold honesty
bewildered them both; it roused, too, my lord Buckingham’s sneers. He
let his glance run with a galling look of mockery over the young man
who presumed to have a conscience.
“If you refuse these offers what other course have you open to you?” he
asked. “In whom will you trust?”
William looked at him straightly--
“In God.”
“God!” echoed my lord, with a jesting accent of sarcasm.
The Prince flushed.
“He is not dead because ye have forgotten Him at Whitehall, my lord.”
“I perceive that Your Highness is a fanatic,” sneered Buckingham.
“I am a Calvinist,” returned the Prince; “and I take such comfort in my
faith that no mocks can touch me.”
The Duke smiled at Arlington.
“What have we here?” he asked. “This would sound like Tom o’ Bedlam
in London. If Your Highness is to talk like a country parson, I am
silenced.”
The Earl spoke--
“I must entreat Your Highness to consult your advisers on what we have
said--this matter may not be decided easily.”
William rose and held on to the back of his chair.
“It may be decided in a breath, my lord.” He addressed himself to
Arlington, and had his back half turned to the Duke. “But the terms of
peace--I will appeal to you to consider those. In the name of wisdom,
of generosity, of policy, my lord, offer us terms we can with honour
accept.”
Arlington rose.
“Sir, if you prove not tractable in this matter we must go to the
French, and I have small hopes of concessions from them.”
“I beseech you to try your best, my lord.”
“I shall always be mindful of Your Highness’ interests.”
“If Your Highness is mindful of them yourself,” added Buckingham.
William took no heed of him.
“My lord,” he continued to Arlington, “I should wish you to see some of
the States; M. Beuningen is with me--we will approach this matter after
supper.”
“Highness,” answered the Earl, “I would warn you--at the present
juncture--to make no mention to the States of the offer of the
sovereignty of the Provinces.”
“I will make no promise,” said William, who, being jealous of his word,
was always loath to bind himself. “I must say what I think fit, my
lord.”
“It is for your own good we give the caution,” advised Buckingham
arrogantly.
Again the Prince ignored him.
“Count Struym has found accommodation for you, my lord,” he told
Arlington. “I will see you at supper.… It were better, perhaps, we
considered privately before we said anything further in this matter.”
The English deputies departed, leaving the Prince very pale, very
composed, standing by his chair in the modest room, and William
Bentinck silent against the window-frame.
“Here’s a proud piece,” said Buckingham, as he flaunted out into the
twilight. “Here’s a to do over a few miles of marsh!”
He was, in truth, deeply mortified by the Prince’s cold reception.
“Wait until he has seen his advisers--he will subscribe to our
proposals yet,” answered Arlington, himself disappointed. “What
prince of one-and-twenty ever preferred his country to his
interests?--besides----”
“Besides he hath no alternative,” added Buckingham, “and must know
it. This is but playing with us to enhance his own value. Wait till
to-night, my lord, you will see me prove myself a pretty politician.”
CHAPTER III
THE ANSWER
William Bentinck, carrying a candle, went up the narrow, polished
stairs to the Prince’s apartment.
It was between four and five of the morning, within the house still
quite dark and silent at last.
The conference with the English commissioners had been opened again
after supper and continued till long past midnight.
M. Van Beuningen had talked on the folly of the Anglo-French Alliance,
adorning his speech with scriptural quotations, illustrations drawn
from his vast learning, and a copiousness of logic, until Arlington had
grown restive and Buckingham blasphemous.
But his arguments were not without effect. The Duke, who had drunk
heavily, swore at last he was in the right, and had almost offered
to sign a treaty with the States when my lord Arlington, who was a
moderate man at table, restrained him.
M. Beverningh, who had taken at least enough wine for volubility,
declaimed loudly against the injustice of the demands made by Charles
and Louis. Buckingham became noisy, offending the Prince with his
swearing and profanity, and refused to abate his terms, repeating that
France should not have everything and England nothing.
Arlington, grave, good-natured, but weak and unscrupulous, was more
reasonable. He promised, though not very confidently, to endeavour to
moderate Louis’ preposterous demands; he insisted, however, on the
cautionary towns, as he termed them, for Charles.
On this point the Dutch deputies were firm: they would not place an
inch of their territory in the hands of France or England, beyond the
border towns, such as Maestricht, with which William had already asked
the Allies to content themselves.
Buckingham, speaking violently, argued that it was absurd to offer
a king a few towns in exchange for three provinces he had already
conquered, and three more that he was prepared to conquer; and hinted
that the Dutch were in no condition to argue about terms at all, but
must take thankfully what was given them--and this in face of it that a
while before he had been offering to sign an alliance with them.
So, veering and unstable, he embarrassed the discussion with constant
changes of opinion and capricious arguments based upon neither justice
nor reason.
For his part, the Prince appealed to England’s ancient friendship, to
the principles of the Triple Alliance, to his uncle’s protestations,
to the unwisdom of allowing the French to upset the balance of power
in Europe, and to the one religion common to England and the United
Provinces, threatened by the encroachments of Louis.
But this policy was too far-seeing, too slow, and too lofty to appeal
to men eager for immediate gain and applause, indifferent to their
country’s ultimate good, only vaguely concerned even for her present
glory, and absorbed purely in their own selfish interests, that lay
entirely with France.
Arranging for another private interview with the Prince in the morning,
the commissioners and the deputies separated. After hours of talk,
nothing had been conceded one side or the other, the English refusing
to abate their terms and the Dutch resolved not to accept them.
William Bentinck, who had listened eagerly, but said very little, had
decided privately that the Prince could and must do no other than
come separately to terms with the envoys, on the basis of a secret
arrangement such as they had themselves offered and urged.
Excited, and unable to sleep on the hard settle that was his only
bed (since an English gentleman had his room), Bentinck determined
to consult with the Prince. William had desired to be roused early,
to allow himself time before his final interview with the English
commissioners.
But Bentinck discovered that he had not been to bed at all, but was
sitting fully dressed by the open window.
“Ah, you,” he said affectionately. “I am glad to see you.”
M. Bentinck placed the candle beside the one already on the mantelshelf.
“And I am sorry you have not been asleep, Sir.”
“Have you?” smiled the Prince.
“No--but it was not my fault.”
“Whose then?”
“The hardness and narrowness of the settle, Highness, which was as
unyielding as the English demands.”
The Prince rose.
“You had been welcome to mine. Bentinck, I could not sleep to-night.”
“The arguments of M. Buckingham and M. Beuningen buzz too much in your
ears?”
“M. Beuningen is an immoderate talker,” answered William. “I think he
spoke too long to-night.”
“M. Buckingham thought so too.”
“Oh, he!” said the Prince impatiently; “half the time he was not sober.”
“None the easier to deal with for that.”
“M. Beverningh, also,” added William, with an air of disgust, “hath the
vice of drinking too much.”
M. Bentinck smiled.
“It makes him eloquent.”
The Prince stood at the window in a weary attitude.
“What hour is it?”
“Not yet five, Highness.”
William spoke abruptly.
“Bentinck--they are going to repeat their offer to me.”
His friend looked at him.
“I think so, Highness.”
“They advised me to consult some one that I had trust in.”
“You have spoken to M. Beuningen? My faith!” exclaimed M. Bentinck,
“there is little to consult about.”
For a moment William was silent; then he said, looking out of the
window--
“M. Fagel writes to me that I alone keep the people from despair.… My
name, Bentinck.”
“They begin to repent their ingratitude, Highness.”
“The country is without a head since the illness of M. de Witt … if
they should turn to me----”
“I think they may----”
“--and offer me the Stadtholdership----”
“Now that it is worthless.”
“Not worthless,” said William.
“At least not what the French and English can offer you.”
The Prince gave him a strange, almost a wistful, glance.
“Oh, this is a little age,” he said wearily. “Of such little men … I …
but, no.…”
He turned his gaze over his camp, spread beneath the gold and silver
dawn.
“Perhaps some men could have done better,” he said. “I would I could
have served one campaign _under_ Condé before I had to serve against
him … yet against all odds something may be accomplished.”
M. Bentinck stared at him.
“You do not seriously think of resistance, Highness?”
“Would you consider it madness?” asked William.
“The most utter madness!”
M. Bentinck was vehement.
“The country is lost--half conquered, wholly despaired of. Nothing will
soften King Louis’ demands--you must see it.”
William turned towards the room and seated himself in the
chintz-cushioned chair by the yellow-glazed hearth.
“And if I pitted myself against Louis?” he queried.
“It would be----”
“As if a child should set itself to stem a river with its unaided
hands?” finished William grimly.
M. Bentinck shrugged his shoulders--
“It would be an impossibility--there is no one in Europe to stand
against Louis----”
“One might arise.”
“England is his ally--the Empire afraid--the rest of Europe
overawed----”
“One might rouse them.”
“It would be a task--well, I call it impossible.”
William coughed, and fixed his bright eyes on the empty hearth.
“You are weary,” said Bentinck tenderly, coming nearer.
“I am very weary and sick to-night,” answered the Prince faintly; “in
body and soul, William, I can get no rest. At times--despair cannot be
always held at bay--my head hath a horrible inclination to ache, and
I think I have the fever still. Yet, it will pass; I pray you do not
notice me.”
“Console yourself, Sir, that your prospects are more hopeful than for
some time.”
The Prince made no answer, and M. Bentinck regarded him anxiously.
“I would have you consider well what you say to these envoys,” he
added earnestly. “Your terms will never be listened to … Louis is
a conqueror.… By making yourself King of Holland, you save it, and
revenge yourself on the republicans.”
“I have considered that,” answered the Prince.
“Well,” returned M. Bentinck, “you have always been reserved, even with
me, Highness, and you take advice of no man … but I make bold to tell
you that only a foolish mind would refuse these offers the French and
English make you.”
Again William was silent. His attitude was one of utter exhaustion; he
continually coughed and shivered.
“You cannot stand the occupation of war,” said William Bentinck. “If
you would not kill yourself you must make peace, Highness.”
The Prince roused himself and sat up.
“Will you wait on the English, Bentinck, presently, and tell them I
will receive them here as soon as they wish?”
M. Bentinck understood his dismissal in this and felt offended.
Once more he proved the uselessness of any attempt on his part to offer
advice to his master.
He put out the needless candles, for the small room was filled with the
glitter of the sun, and left without further speech.
William sat quite still, gazing at the homely tiles with their little
rural scenes in blue on a yellow ground--a cow, a milkmaid, a windmill,
a barge, a dog, a man and a woman skating.
The languor of fatigue and pain made him sit heavily and droopingly,
his head supported in his right hand.
The childhood he had scarcely left behind rose in his memory, one
incident after another, back to the early years when his mother had
taught him he was of the proudest blood in the world.…
He looked back on the loneliness, the dreariness; the rankling and
constant sense of humiliation; the illnesses; the hunts in Guelders;
the bitterness of having to part with M. de Zuylestein; the espionage
of the republicans; the lofty governorship of M. de Witt; the perpetual
feeling of injustice and restraint, the agony of having to take quietly
treatment his imperious nature longed to spurn; the overtures from M.
de Pomponne, first insinuating to him that he could revenge himself by
leaguing with Louis; the visits of Sir William Temple, so different
from the others, treating him with homage as a grandchild of England;
the long hours of arduous study, followed by blinding headaches; the
quiet Sundays with the lengthy sermons in the Groote Kerk,--all his
training teaching him to be reserved, self-reliant, cautious, and to
conceal his quick passions under an unreadable exterior.
He had never been happy, often utterly dreary, dispirited, and sad.…
He remembered his recent entry into Middelburg as the fairest episode;
for the rest he shuddered at the recollection of the slights, rebuffs,
reprimands, loneliness, disputes, illnesses and neglects that made up
the sum of his life.
With a little, broken sigh he moved at last and slowly rose.
His cuirass and his sword lay on the ground beside his bed. He picked
up the weapon, buckled it on and went languidly downstairs.
The small farm was full of young Dutch noblemen, and the English
forming the train of the envoys.
Avoiding these, he entered the little front room where the previous day
he had received the commissioners.
Half an hour later M. Beuningen found him there, breakfasting alone
on brown bread, radishes, and cock ale, and making notes on a slip of
paper.
“Highness----” began Coenraad Beuningen.
William looked up gravely--
“Ah, have you had breakfast, Mynheer?”
“Not yet.”
“Well, will you share mine?” the Prince drew forward a chair.
M. Beuningen seated himself, murmuring thanks.
He looked agitated and overwrought; his handsome eyes were red, his
dress dishevelled.
The Prince folded up his paper and placed it in his pocket. He had
changed his suit, and wore a prune-coloured velvet, very plain, and a
black sash.
“I have made some notes on the converse of last night,” he remarked.
M. Beuningen poured out the ale from the silver jug.
“Your Highness has to see the envoys again?” he inquired in a humble
way.
“This morning, yes,” answered William; “before they leave for Zeyst.”
He leant back and looked full at his companion, with a penetrating and
almost smiling glance.
M. Beuningen set his tankard down.
“We have gained little good by this conference,” he said distractedly.
William was silent.
M. Beuningen crumbled his bread on the table.
“Your Highness,” he said desperately, “I have been thinking … all night
… this wretched country.… O God! my country.…”
A light flashed into William’s eyes, but still he said nothing.
M. Beuningen pushed back his chair. He could hardly control his
features and his voice.
“I must appeal to Your Highness--in the name of the States,” he said
thickly, “for we have no hope but in you.…”
“What do you mean, my lord?” asked William softly.
Coenraad Beuningen rose.
“I think these men have made private overtures to Your Highness,” he
answered, “and you are free to take them … but … have pity on the
country.” He clasped his hand passionately over his heart. “To such
wretched straits are we reduced.… Ah, they tempted your ambition I
doubt not, but if Your Highness would be truly great, save the United
Provinces.”
“Do you believe I could?” asked the Prince breathlessly.
“Before God I believe Your Highness could.”
An extraordinary change came over the Prince’s face; he replied with
vivacity--
“M. Van Beuningen, you have been a good republican--I will forgive it
you for that.”
“I have been opposed to Your Highness,” said M. Beuningen, “but the
time of party is over--I can see only that the country is conquered,
ruined … and that our one hope is in the courage and firmness of Your
Highness.”
He went restlessly to the window and put his hand before his eyes.
William gazed at him, still with that expression of animation and
pleasure.
“You must not despair, Mynheer,” he said gently; “too many despair.”
“I shall not--if Your Highness does not forsake us.”
The Prince rose.
“What of your former rulers?” he asked.
“They can do nothing with the people. M. de Witt is ill--loathed.”
“Mynheer,” answered William, “the States dealt hardly with me--I have
been virtually a prisoner all my life--it is strange they should come
to me now.”
“It may be, but Your Highness’ voice is the only one that can make
itself heard,” said M. Beuningen in a tone of despair. “The people will
turn to you.… If in vain … God have mercy upon us.”
“You credit me with great powers.… Do I not hear it said that the man
who pits himself against France must be mad?”
Coenraad Beuningen looked round sharply--
“Or a hero,” he said.
“They are rarer than madmen,” answered the Prince.
“Your Highness’ House has been rich in great men.”
William drew back from the suspicion of flattery.
“Leave them, Mynheer,” he said coldly, and picked up a copy of _The
Gazette_ that lay on the table.
M. Beuningen turned away, his hands clasped behind his back.
William regarded him covertly and keenly.
“Mynheer,” he said in another tone.
M. Beuningen raised his head, there were tears in his eyes.
Before he could speak M. Heenvliet announced the English envoys, who
were accompanied by M. Bentinck.
Coenraad Beuningen gave the Prince a quick look, bowed to the company
and left the chamber.
William remained where he was, standing by the breakfast-table, his
hand resting on the rail of M. Beuningen’s chair.
The Duke, over-dressed and flamboyant, trailing a purple velvet mantle
over one shoulder and carrying his hat with long rose-coloured
feathers, seated himself without ado; but Arlington, more respectful,
remained on his feet.
“I trust the night has brought wisdom to Your Highness,” said
Buckingham, swinging his embroidered gloves by the tassels.
“I can only repeat the proposals I made yesterday,” replied the Prince.
“My influence with the States permits me to promise their execution.
As to what you propose, my lords, the States will never accede to such
terms, nor could I advise them to.”
Arlington answered with great earnestness. The success of his mission
lay with this attempt to gain the Prince--
“Sir, forget the States awhile,” he said. “We speak to you--as a
Prince of our Royal House--to show the consideration and friendship
of His Majesty.… Sir, you must believe that we are sincere.… Cromwell
made your exclusion from power a condition of peace with the United
Provinces.… King Charles will make your restoration a condition--yea,
restoration to a greater position than ever your ancestors possessed.”
William seated himself and looked on the ground.
The Earl continued, in his smooth, pleasant voice--
“These burghers have behaved insolently to you, Your Highness. It
hath always been His Majesty’s intention to make them repent their
ingratitude to your House. He now proves his entire friendship by this
offer--which is, we repeat, the sovereignty of Holland and other lands,
in return for your alliance with His Majesty, the cautionary towns, and
the delivery of the remaining forts into the hands of His Majesty of
France.”
The Prince glanced up.
“My lord, you had my answer last night.”
“I trust Your Highness has considered since then.”
“Reflect,” added Buckingham, “that resistance is useless--by God! you
must see it.”
“I see,” returned the Prince, “that you propose to me an infamous
thing.”
Arlington slightly coloured, but the Duke laughed.
“Your Highness is very young,” said the Earl. “M. de Witt has filled
your head with fantastic notions.”
“M. de Witt is an honest man,” replied William, “and a wise one--I
learnt no folly from him.”
“I do not understand Your Highness’ attitude,” urged Arlington. “Our
agents and those of M. de Pomponne assured you some time since----”
William interrupted.
“My lord, the French have made advances to me very often--they have
always been rejected. I would not owe my elevation in the State to
foreign intervention, but to the will of God and the wish of the
people.”
Arlington was nonplussed.
“Your Highness has not learnt the language of diplomacy,” he said.
“Your lordship must lay that to the charge of my inexperience--I am
new to affairs,” answered the Prince proudly. “Maybe I speak too
bluntly--but the meaning is the main thing, is it not, my lord?”
Buckingham spoke now.
“Consider well your meaning before you utter it, Highness--think of the
alternative. The terms that you propose we should not dare put before
M. de Louvois, I tell you plainly; and there is nothing before you but
a continuation of the war--that is, a continuation of the conquest of
the Republic--if you refuse us. You and the States go to ruin together,
for there is no help for you.”
M. Bentinck came anxiously forward.
William looked straight at the Duke.
“Nevertheless I refuse your offer, my lord.”
Buckingham rose impatiently.
“You do not know what you say. Have you no ambition?--We offer you
dominion--power.”
William rose; for the first time some agitation showed through the
composure of his manner.
“You offer me what I would not stoop to pick up, my lord,” he answered.
“I thought you a Prince desirous of reigning,” said Arlington.
“Not at the price of my honour, sir.”
Buckingham struck his gloves across his open palm.
“Whatever you do the country is lost,” he sneered.
“If it be I will not connive at it,” replied the Prince. “Nor make my
profit out of that misfortune.”
The Duke was contemptuous.
“Your Highness dreams of resistance--a second Hannibal!”
William coloured and breathed deeply.
“I do think I might do even as he did.”
“Press not the parallel too close, Highness. This is our second Punic
war, and in a week or so M. de Louvois may say--‘Delenda est Carthago.’”
“Rome fell also,” returned William, “and in a less noble fashion by her
own corruption. Go carefully, my lord, that the like fate comes not on
England.”
Buckingham affected to laugh.
“We get no nearer the matter.”
“I must ask for Your Highness’ final decision,” added Arlington.
William stood with his back against the table, looking from one to the
other with slightly narrowed eyes.
“My lords, for what concerns me privately you have had my answer; for
what concerns Their High Mightinesses--you must go to the States.”
William Bentinck murmured impatiently--
“I would as lief that a dozen of the States were hanged, so that the
war was taken out of the country and Your Highness king of it.”
“Is that your final decision?” asked Arlington, deeply mortified.
“Yes,” replied the Prince firmly; “and nothing will move me, my lord.”
So curt, unfaltering, and stern were his words that the envoys saw no
hope of persuading him. They prepared to leave; but Buckingham was too
angry to go in silence.
“If you do not put yourself wholly in the King’s hands you are lost,”
he declared. “If you have any wisdom you will consider----”
The Prince cut him short--
“My countrymen,” he said, “have trusted me, and I will never deceive
nor betray them for any base ends of my own.”
Buckingham, his hand on the door, answered hotly--
“Think no more of your country, for it no longer exists--do you not see
that it is lost? If it survive this campaign it will be a miracle--do
you not see that it is lost? There is nothing before you but despair;
you must see your country conquered.” And again he repeated, “Do you
not see that it is lost?”
William’s calm changed into a passionate emotion.
He answered with an air of exaltation; he was so lifted up, he cared
little for any of them--
“My lord, I indeed see that the country is in great danger; but there
is one way never to see it lost--and that is to die in the last ditch.”
There was a little pause. Arlington glanced at Buckingham, and after a
second the Duke answered--
“Very well, Sir, in a short while you will regret this.… I am sorry you
are so intractable.”
“We shall have a different reception at Zeyst,” added the Earl. “I must
warn Your Highness that we shall there conclude a closer union between
England and France.”
“The rearrangement of the terms is between you and the States,” replied
the Prince. “As to what touches me--I have answered.”
He moved away towards the hearth, averting his face from them.
The envoys bowed coldly and withdrew, both angry, and Buckingham, at
least, his enemy.
William Bentinck stared at the door that had closed after them.
“They have gone, Highness!” he exclaimed, “and in wrath--you have
destroyed your last hope.”
“They are shallow men,” returned William calmly.
He came back to the table, coughing a little.
Bentinck appeared alarmed and troubled.
“You were ill advised!--What have you done?” he cried. “What is to
become of us all?”
“This is not the language of a friend,” returned the Prince, who seemed
little to heed the other’s exclamations.
“The States may accept the terms,” said M. Bentinck, catching at straws.
“Not if I can prevent them.”
William Bentinck answered angrily--
“Sir, you throw away your own advantage wilfully! M. de Buckingham was
right--there is nothing but despair before all of us.”
The Prince sat immovable, composed, with an absent look in his eyes,
gazing out of the window at the camp.
M. Bentinck, exasperated, went violently from the room.
William glanced round as the door banged, then sat still, taking his
aching head in his hand.
There was a thoughtful, absorbed expression on his pale face, a
relaxing of the usual disdainful curve of his lips that gave him an air
of gentleness.
He was not long alone.
Count Struym and M. Heenvliet entered with more eagerness than ceremony.
“Sir,” said the first gentleman, “here are two burgomasters, two
burgher captains, and others, come from Dordt----”
“Dordt?” repeated the Prince; this town, the residence of the de Witts,
had always been considered particularly republican.
“Dordt, Highness--they desire to see you immediately.”
“Why? For what reason?”
“Sir, they are confused with haste and agitation, but I gather the town
is in such a tumult none save Your Highness can quell it--and to save
their own lives the magistrates have sent for Your Highness.”
William answered rather impatiently--
“It is impossible for me to journey to Dordt.”
“They will not return without you.”
“I must remain at my post.”
“Sir, they are afraid of being torn to bits if they disappoint the
people----”
“Ah,” said William sharply, “is it as serious as that?”
“I think it is the signal for a restoration, Highness.”
The Prince rose.
“Is it more than a riot?”
“I think so, Sir.”
“They want me--the people want me?”
“The burgomasters say so. It seems they were fired by the example of
Ter Veere--which has proclaimed Your Highness Stadtholder with much
enthusiasm.”
William flushed.
“But Ter Veere is my own lordship.”
“You will at least see this deputation from Dordt, sir?”
“Yes--I will see them.”
He had reassumed now his usual composure and reserve; he gave no sign
that he was moved, yet it was a triumph. Dordt, the home of the de
Witts, had risen in his favour----
“Bring the burghers here, Count,” he said.
CHAPTER IV
THE WILL OF THE PEOPLE
In the frantic state of angry despair to which the United Provinces
were reduced, Holland, the proudest, wealthiest State, was the first to
take fire at the injuries inflicted on her, and to turn fiercely on the
Government that she conceived had betrayed her into ruin.
The mission of M. de Groot had been vastly unpopular. The submission
shown in this embassy was looked upon as a sign of degrading, nay,
criminal weakness, and the people violently accused their Ministers of
selling them to the French.
They reminded each other that Rhynsberg had not had enough powder to
defend the counterscarps; that all the saltpetre belonging to the East
India Company had been allowed to be sold to the French, even when war
appeared inevitable; that the land forces had been greatly reduced of
late, that such soldiers as they had were ill-trained and ill-paid;
that tedious difficulties had been put in the way of the election of
the Prince of Orange to the Captain Generalship, and even now his power
was so restricted as to be almost useless.
They flattered themselves that the King of France would not have had
such easy success but for complicity on the part of the governors
of the country, and all overtures of peace were regarded as a final
attempt to deliver them to the enemy.
The idea of peace became one with slavery and disgrace, and the
Government was regarded as vile and infamous in even listening to
Louis’ terms; and on John de Witt, the head of the Government and the
apostle of peace, all rage and hate were poured. All the disasters
of the war were imputed to his charge; he was accused of every crime
frenzy could find a name for, and blamed bitterly for having so long
kept the Prince out of power and for having clipped such authority as
he had been obliged to give him.
On the other hand, the idea of war and resistance was associated with
the image of the young Captain General, austere, composed, religious,
of the old House, the only man who had dared to show firmness in the
face of the overwhelming public misfortunes. He became the idol of the
people, who ran frantic in his name.
At Dordt they had broken into open revolt. On hearing of the terms
offered by France, and that the States were considering them, and a
rumour being abroad that their representatives had advocated peace,
a company of burghers marched to the town hall and demanded of the
councillors if they were prepared to defend the town, or if they
already negotiated its delivery into the hands of the enemy?
The magistrates replied that they would resist to the utmost, but did
not succeed in pacifying the citizens, who, suspecting their republican
sympathies, demanded permission to inspect the arsenals.
The keeper was absent, the keys with him. This gave the signal for a
cry of treason that was echoed throughout the town, and the subsequent
opening of the magazines did not suffice to restore order.
Angry cries were started against John de Witt and his followers; the
Orange flag was paraded through the streets with shouts for the Prince
of Orange, the white flag flying contemptuously beneath William’s
colour.
The magistrates assembled in agitation, but no concession would quiet
the people. The burgomaster, not daring to act without authority from
the Government, endeavoured to escape from the town, but was stopped in
a side street by a workman armed with a hatchet, who offered to brain
him if he resisted the wishes of the populace.
In this fashion conducted back to the town hall, the burgomaster was
forced to again summon the councillors to consult on the situation.
It was an ugly one for them. They had sworn to maintain the Perpetual
Edict, and would have to answer to the States General if they violated
their oath. On the other hand, they were in immediate danger from the
violence of the people.
They discovered, as they thought, an expedient to shift the
responsibility, and announced, with sound of trumpets, that they
would at once send a deputation to the Prince, begging him to come
immediately to Dordt.
The town secretary, Orent Muys, two members of the council, two
burgomasters, two burgher captains, and two citizens were chosen, and
escorted to the gates by the people, shouting--
“Long live His Highness!”
“Death to the bad magistrates!”
“Down with John de Witt!”
“To hell with the friends of France!”
All night long the town seethed. The magistrates trembled when they
considered what the outburst of fury would be should the deputation
return, the Prince not with them.
As soon as it was light the people were out on the quays, gazing down
the flat, grey waters of the Maas and the Merwede, which stretched
almost to the horizon where Rotterdam lay, and spread to right and left
encircling the town in a belt of water.
The burgher companies were up and armed, patrolling the streets,
clattering their blunderbusses under the windows of Cornelius de Witt’s
house, where the Ruard lay sick, and shouting in insulting tones for
the Prince, so that he could hear them in his bed.
Others amused themselves with breaking into the town hall, destroying
the remaining portraits of John and Cornelius de Witt, and savagely
tearing out of its frame Baan’s picture of the Victory at Chatham,
which was dedicated to the glory of the Ruard.
About ten o’clock the feeling rose to frenzy; it became known that the
deputation had returned in company with the young Prince.
The magistrates hastened to receive William, who was landing at the
Groothoofd Poort, one of the finest gates of the wealthy city, situate
on the junction of the Merwede and the Maas.
The inhabitants formed themselves into a guard of honour, and the
Prince was greeted by a shout of pure wild joy.
The councillors, including among them Jacob de Beveren, the
brother-in-law of the Grand Pensionary, greeted him humbly, even
kissing his hand.
One offered him a coach.
William declined, and to the great satisfaction of the people walked
among them on foot to the town hall.
He was plainly dressed, without armour, wore only a light sword and
carried a cane.
He kept his hat on, and took no notice in his solemn entry of the
people or of the councillors who accompanied him.
The distance was not great between the Groothoofd Poort and the
Stadhuis, but William, as he walked slowly down the Wynstraat, had time
to observe both that he could do what he pleased with the people and
that the magistrates intended to thrust on him all responsibility.
They followed him with heads uncovered, but they made no suggestion.
The enormous crowd gathered as they advanced through the Groenmarkt,
and considerably impeded their progress to the fine Gothic Stadhuis.
The canals were choked with boats laden with armed citizens, and people
came crowding up from the ship-building yards, from the barges and
timber-yards, till the streets could hold no more.
On the Stadhuis steps William paused.
“Mynheer Hallingh,” he said to the burgomaster, “I acknowledge my
reception--but what object do I serve by entering your town hall?”
The burgomaster bowed very low, for the eyes of thousands were on him.
“We hope Your Highness may do us the extreme favour of taking a seat in
our council.”
“To what end, Mynheer?” asked William steadily.
M. Beveren answered, with his eye on the expectant crowd--
“Has Your Highness any proposal to make us?”
The Prince saw clearly by this that they hoped to delude the people by
an outward show of deference, managing that the Prince should return
without any further concession to their revolutionary wishes.
On William’s part it was not his desire to put himself at the head of
a mob, and neither his nature nor his policy to encourage sedition.
He was as prudent as the councillors, and as resolute not to commit
himself to their intention that if there must be a revolution it should
be laid to him.
At the same time he was angry that they should send for him merely to
fool the people of Dordt.
He answered with composure--
“Mynheer, I must remind you that I came here at your request--your
urgent request--to hear what you had to say to me.”
The councillors refused to be drawn; with many protestations of respect
they invited him to inspect the arsenals and fortifications of the town.
William looked at them, at M. Bentinck, at the crowd, and he smiled.
He could not help being amused at the cunning with which these
republican magistrates were endeavouring to keep the law and please the
people.
“Very well, Mynheer,” he answered gravely. “I shall be pleased to see
your fortifications.”
Followed by the eager crowds, the Prince set out for the ramparts and
the powder magazines.
M. Beveren, the husband of John de Witt’s sister, galled by the
position in which he found himself, ventured to put on his hat.
It was instantly knocked off, with threats that it would be his head
next time if he did not treat the Prince with proper respect.
William affected neither to see nor hear. He conversed with M.
Bentinck, and occasionally with the burgomaster, his manner showing the
same calm as if no mob clamoured at their heels. He passed interested
comments on the beautiful architecture of the wealthy town that he had
never seen before.
Outside the Latin Grammar School, where John de Witt had studied the
history of his country with a joyous and ambitious heart, and not far
from the house of Jacob de Witt, where the Grand Pensionary, in the
days when he wore a sword and love-locks, had written French verses to
Wendela Van Bicker, the people closed round the Prince and his escort
and demanded that he should not leave the town until the magistrates
had proclaimed him.
M. Van Beveren murmured something about the Perpetual Edict, upon which
one, Henry Dibbets, a Calvinist minister, levelled a gun at his head
and shouted to the Prince that he would soon have his father’s offices
restored to him.
The Prince himself put the musket aside.
“My friends, I am content,” he said gravely.
The burgomaster, thrust up against the wall of the school, shouted
lustily--
“Long live the Prince!”
But the magistrates, still resolved not to yield, hastily invited
William to a repast at the Peacock Inn.
“In truth,” said the Prince, regarding them with smiling eyes, “I am a
little fatigued.”
The angry crowd demanded if he had been proclaimed Stadtholder.
“Thou old, fat villain!” cried Henry Dibbets to the burgomaster. “Thou
art deceiving us! Hast thou brought the Prince here to walk him up and
down the town?”
He was seconded by furious cries of--
“Knipperdolling!”
“Traitor!”
“Down with the MM. de Witt!”
They swarmed after the Prince to the Peacock Inn, where the frightened
landlord, overwhelmed at the honour, prostrated himself before His
Highness.
In the fine dining-room on the ground floor a meal was hastily but
sumptuously prepared.
William, still wearing his hat, took the head of the table.
The magistrates, white and flustered, seated themselves, giving anxious
glances towards the door and the long windows that overlooked the
street.
“Your citizens,” said William to the burgomaster, “seem to be of a
noisy disposition.”
It was his first allusion to the nature of his reception.
“They are very fond of Your Highness,” answered Van Hallingh fatuously.
“Ah?” The Prince spoke dryly. “It seems as if they might be dangerous,
Mynheer, to any they were _not_ fond of.”
And he gave the councillors a sarcastic look.
The magistrates winced; they became every moment more uncomfortable.
They had only inflamed the popular feeling by sending for the Prince,
who they now perceived was too wise to commit himself by any illegal
act; nor were they at all reassured by the shouts and tumults without
and the excited faces at door and window.