but that personage could not bear to serve His Highness in the worst
parlour, which was not, he declared, large enough nor fine enough for
so distinguished a company. In defiance of his orders he had arranged
the dinner in the great oak chamber, with its shelves of brass and
pottery, its fine pictures, its handsome clock, Indian carpet, and
tortoiseshell mirrors that were the pride of his heart.
It was a fine dinner, including such delicacies as spinach tart,
stuffed heron, jellied venison, the famous sweet cakes from Deventer,
ale thickened with honey, and a variety of gorgeous puddings; but the
councillors at least did not enjoy it, even the splendid wines could
not raise their spirits.
The Prince, who saw fairly clearly the end of the comedy, and could not
but enjoy the discomfiture of his enemies, was composed and gracious.
He commended the fare and praised the wealthy appearance of the
prosperous town, but his words could hardly be heard for the clamour in
the streets.
“Our friends without make converse difficult,” he remarked.
M. Bentinck laughed. The prospect of the present triumph had driven his
disappointment at the Prince’s cold dismissal of the English envoys
into the background of his thoughts. He was young enough to carry
himself haughtily, and kept one hand on his sword-hilt and another on
his yellow moustaches, with a fine martial swagger.
Towards the end of the repast the crowd drove back the burgher captains
stationed on guard at the door.
M. Van Beveren could contain himself no longer. He sprang to his feet.
“For God’s sake, Your Highness----!”
The Prince glanced at him sideways.
“What is the matter, Mynheer?”
The burgomaster rose also.
“Sir,” he cried in agitation.
“Well?” asked William calmly, setting down his glittering tankard.
“Your Highness--these people----”
“They show an inclination to enter, do they not, Mynheer?”
“Cannot Your Highness speak to them?” implored M. Beveren.
William smiled coldly.
“I have no authority, Mynheer, the burgomaster----”
“They will listen to no one but you, Your Highness.”
“Not even to their own magistrates, Mynheer?” inquired William
maliciously.
Meanwhile the people were pressing into the hall of the inn, uttering
shouts and threats.
“You do not seem very popular,” said the Prince dryly, surveying the
unhappy councillors.
“Death to the friends of France!”
“Down with de Witt!”
“Down with the Ruard of Putten!”
The magistrates all rose to their feet.
“Do not spoil your dinners, Mynheeren,” said William.
“Your Highness----”
“For Heaven’s sake----”
The crowd broke into the room.
They were armed with muskets, swords, pistols, and hatchets, and headed
by the resolute Henry Dibbets.
William pushed back his chair and looked at them steadily under the
brim of his beaver.
“What do you want, my friends?” he asked calmly.
“Tell them to disperse, Your Highness,” urged the burgomaster.
A mass of people blocked the entrance into the room. They turned
threateningly to the councillors.
“We are here to see justice done to His Highness,” they declared
fiercely.
“You seem very well disposed to my House,” said the Prince, laying down
his napkin.
The pastor pushed forward, flushed and triumphant.
“If there is anything His Highness wants,” he cried, addressing the
Prince, “let him ask for it--and we will see that he gets it.”
William’s eyes flashed under his lowered lids.
The bearing of the crowd confirmed the pastor’s promise, proved that
they were not mere words.
“Tell them to go home, Your Highness,” pleaded the burgomaster; “this
is against the laws----”
“This may alter the laws, Mynheer,” answered the Prince proudly.
“Your Highness sides with this revolt!” cried M. Van Beveren.
William turned his powerful glance on the brother-in-law of M. de Witt.
“I do nothing, Mynheer,” he answered coldly. “I wait for you--who sent
for me--you who have the authority--to act----”
Henry Dibbets broke in--
“If they are at a loss, Your Highness, we will soon teach them what to
do.”
The magistrates stood nonplussed, overwhelmed; for the people were
plainly in earnest, plainly dangerous.
The town secretary, Orent Muys, whispered to the burgomaster that they
had best yield.
The crowd, by now filling the room, caught up the words; with much
violence they swore to massacre the councillors did they not at once
proclaim the Prince as Stadtholder.
William sat immovable. It was obvious that he would neither pacify the
crowd (if indeed he could) nor so declare himself or his wishes as to
shift the responsibility to his from the shoulders of the magistrates;
they, seeing that they could never leave the inn alive without
submitting to the outcry of the people, and, indeed, in their hearts
yielding to the general enthusiasm, consulted together.… How should
they combine dignity with concession?
The Prince, without any attempt to influence them, remained silent at
the head of the table.
The people did not give them long.
Urged forward by the pastor, two of them seized the burgomaster and
presented a pistol to his forehead.
“You have played the fool long enough,” they declared angrily, “it is
time to come to a decision.”
Finding himself in this pass, Van Hallingh called out lustily to
Orent Muys, “Let him draw up a paper declaring the Prince elected as
Stadtholder.”
“What of the Perpetual Edict?” asked William. “You have, I think, sworn
to it.”
“We will absolve them of that oath!” shouted the citizens.
They commanded the landlord to bring pens, paper, and a standish, which
he hastened to set down on the table among the plates and tankards.
With fingers a little trembling, Orent Muys wrote out an article by
which the Council of Dordt elected His Highness as Stadtholder and
commander of the land and sea forces for life.
He was continually urged on by the crowd, who considered that he
dallied in his task.
It was finished at last, amid yells of joy, and one after another the
magistrates hastened to sign.
No one dared hesitate with a loaded blunderbuss at his head.
The only protest came from the Prince himself.
He rose.
The crowd instantly hushed.
He addressed equally the burgomaster, the councillors, and the citizens
pressing round the table.
“Mynheeren,” he said, “I am very sensible of the honour that you do
me, but I have taken an oath--as Captain General--never to attempt the
Stadtholdership.”
The magistrates paused, astonished; but the people were not in the
least confounded.
“Your Highness took no oath to refuse the office if offered to you?”
“I took an oath,” replied William, “nor can I lightly break it.”
He spoke with no emotion, with the cold precision of a statesman, a
manner that sat curiously on his youthful appearance; it did not chill
his supporters.
The magistrates themselves were driven to plead with him.
“For the good of the State we must ask Your Highness to yield.”
“Ah,” said the Prince, “_you_ urge me?”
“In the name of the people----”
“Whose will is above the law,” added Henry Dibbets.
“I swore before God,” replied William.
“Then God shall absolve Your Highness,” returned the pastor. “The
usurper forced you to take an oath against justice … and I solemnly
absolve Your Highness from it.”
With one accord councillors, pastors, and citizens set William free of
his vow to the Republic.
He yielded coldly, and the first act of the revolution was complete.
There is an emotion that bears the name of no one feeling because it
is composed of all--it is the passion that shakes a crowd when it is
witness of any great event; this seized the people of Dordt.
They shouted, laughed, wrung each other’s hands, rushed in a mass to
float the Orange flag from the belfry of their great church, drank the
Prince’s health and confusion to the French, and swarmed and pushed
round the door of the Peacock Inn, where the councillors were still
imprisoned.
The resolution, signed by the seventeen councillors present, the
seals of the town affixed, was snatched up by the pastor Dibbets and
displayed to the townsmen. Loud cries rang out--
“Long live the Stadtholder!”
“Long live His Highness!”
William looked at the magistrates--so they had been forced to return
him the power they had taken from his father William II.
Many of them, indeed, were one and the same with the men who had defied
him.
“Dordt is fortunate for Calvinists, Mynheeren,” he said, smiling. “They
were successful in 1618; they win a victory to-day in me.”
It was his sole revenge on them for twenty years lost from his
birthright; they received it in silence.
“If it be possible,” he added, “I should prefer now to return to
Newerbrugge;” for he hated all display and commotion, and though this
was a proud moment for him, he sighed for the quiet of the camp.
But it was not permitted.
He must hold a reception in the inn and receive the homage of the whole
town of Dordt. Every one wanted to kiss his hand, to swear loyalty, to
see the popular hero for himself.
At a moment when the unbridled enthusiasm was at its height a burgher
captain chanced to notice that one name was missing. Seventeen
councillors had signed for William.
There should have been one more.
One man in the whole of Dordt had not subscribed to the will of the
people--
“Cornelius de Witt.”
In a moment the crowd was on fire with this new idea--the eighteenth
councillor must also sign. Here was a splendid opportunity for
humiliating one of the hated family of the Grand Pensionary.
M. Beveren ventured to protest--
“The Ruard is ill--unable to leave his bed.”
He was answered with derision.
“Not too ill to hold a pen--shall the worst traitor escape!”
M. Beveren appealed to the Prince.
“Highness, these men are miscalling M. de Witt.”
But William answered coldly--
“Mynheer, the faction of M. de Witt have miscalled me for a good many
years.”
“But they will murder the Ruard.”
“Let him sign,” said William.
The crowd took up the cry.
“Let him sign!” they yelled.
The councillors hesitated. The Ruard would not subscribe, to force him
to refuse would be to deliver him over to the fury of the mob.
But William decided for them.
“I think I have some weight in this town now,” he said, with his
immovable air of authority. He took the paper from the hand of the
pastor and gave it to the town secretary. “Take this to M. de Witt, his
signature is lacking.… You also,” he pointed his cane at the captain of
the burghers, “accompany him with some of your men. I am sorry M. de
Witt is too sick to be present. I shall be pleased to see his name to
this resolution.”
CHAPTER V
CORNELIUS DE WITT
The agitated secretary, the triumphant captain, and a vast crowd of
excited citizens whom the civic guard could scarce restrain, proceeded
to the house of M. Cornelius de Witt.
All day the Ruard’s family had been in a state of acute alarm.
The late attack on the Pensionary, the popular feeling in Dordt, the
burning of the pictures in the Stadhuis, the menacing aspect of the
streets, all combined to render them grievously uneasy.
Only a few days previously three suspicious-looking strangers had
demanded to see the Ruard, and on being refused, on account of the
lateness of the hour, had attempted to force a way in, and had only
been repulsed by the promptitude of the servant in calling help. Madam
de Witt firmly believed that this was a murderous plot--a counterpart
to that to which her brother-in-law had fallen a victim, and her fine
courage could not subdue the terror inspired by the surroundings of
hate, malice, and fury against which her helpless husband had no weapon.
To-day she had listened to the shouts that proclaimed a restoration,
and showed that the magistrates, their sole protection, had been
overawed by the people, and that no one in Dordt had dared to stand
firm to the Government of John de Witt.
She could only hope that her husband might be forgotten in the general
excitement, and with this quieted her cruel anxiety.
But when the servant came to tell her that a vast, armed crowd was
advancing down the street she knew her hopes had been illusions. Her
proud spirit, that had always supported her husband’s dangers with high
courage, sank before what she was called upon to face.
With yells, cries, and shouts for the new Stadtholder, on came the
crowd, and surged about the door of the house. Let the town secretary
get the signature of M. de Witt or they would enter and try for
themselves.
Leaving some of the civic guard at the door as a concession to law and
order, Orent Muys the secretary, the captain, and three of his soldiers
entered the house.
Maria de Witt, pale and cold, outwardly calm, received them in the
dining-room.
Her black eyes were full of tears, but she kept them fixed resolutely
on the secretary.
The two men uncovered and bowed.
“What do you want?” she demanded, gripping the back of a chair.
“Your husband, Madam,” answered M. Muys.
“You cannot see him.”
“Madam, we must.”
“He is ill----”
“The business is important.”
“Mynheer, it is impossible----”
Captain Hoogewerf interposed--
“Madam, do you hear that noise outside?”
“Yes--yes.”
“The people of Dordt--they are waiting to see the signature of M. de
Witt to that paper M. Muys carries.”
“What is it?”
“A resolution declaring His Highness William of Orange, Stadtholder of
Dordt.”
“My husband will never sign it.”
“Do you think so, Madam?”
“I do”--this with instinctive pride.
The captain pointed with his gloved hand to the window.
“I should not care to answer for what that crowd may do, if
disappointed, Madam.”
“My husband,” answered Madam de Witt, with a look of agony, “has sworn
to the Perpetual Edict.”
“So had the other councillors.”
“Have they signed?”
“The signature of M. de Witt is the one lacking, Madam.”
She tried to rally herself.
“This is a revolution----”
He corrected--
“A restoration.”
“It has nothing to do with my husband----”
“He is a councillor of Dordt.”
“Mynheer,” she appealed to the secretary in great agitation, “I swear
to you M. de Witt is ill----”
“We only want his signature, Madam.”
“He cannot hold a pen----”
“We must see that for ourselves,” replied the captain.
She drew herself up--
“I will not admit you to his chamber--he is too ill.”
She was desperate to forestall her husband’s inevitable refusal to sign.
But Captain Hoogewerf was not to be moved from his purpose.
“Madam,” he asked, “are not your children in the house?”
She shrank.
“What of it?”
“For their sakes, advise your husband to sign.”
“What do you mean?”
“Madam--the people----”
She interrupted--
“Is the town delivered over to the mob?”
“It is in the hands of the friends of His Highness.”
“I think that means the same thing,” she flashed.
The captain became impatient.
“The paper--Madam--we must see M. de Witt.”
“What if he refuse?” she asked in a desperate voice.
“He will not refuse.”
“Before God, he will!” she cried, knowing him.
“You must persuade him----”
“To his own dishonour?”
“For his own safety.”
“I cannot----”
“Think of your children, Madam.”
She was silent.
“Madam,” urged the secretary, “I entreat you do not make delays that
must further inflame the people.”
Madam de Witt dared resist no longer; she heard the furious din
without, she saw the immovable face of Captain Hoogewerf, and, through
her open door, the scarlet coats of the soldiers in the corridor.
She did not think her husband would sign; she made the anguished
resolve that she must persuade him to it--even against her conscience.
“I will take the paper to him,” she said, with the instinct to soften
the humiliation of her husband’s consent.
But Captain Hoogewerf saw her motive.
“No, Madam, it must be in our presence.”
She passed in silence to the door, the sunlight on her dark velvet
gown, the deep lace collar on her shoulders not more white than her
face.
The secretary followed her reluctantly; he hated his task; he had been
overawed. Hoogewerf, however, an ardent Orangist, had no compunction.
He bade his soldiers follow him.
“Is this necessary?” asked Maria de Witt proudly.
“Such are my orders, Madam.”
“My husband is no criminal, Mynheer, that soldiers should enter his
bedchamber.”
“You lose time--you will regret it,” he answered.
A delicate colour rose into her beautiful, still face.
“This tone is new among us,” she said, “we--who have always boasted of
our liberty----”
“Take care what you say, Madam,” Captain Hoogewerf warned her, “the
Prince of Orange is master now.”
The republican lady paused, her fingers on the handle of her husband’s
chamber door.
“One may know it,” she replied coldly, “by your change of front,
Mynheer--even yesterday _you_ would not have dared to insult a de Witt.”
“Madam!” pleaded the terrified secretary.
She opened the door and passed before them into the darkened and lofty
bedchamber.
The valet had been before them, and had warned his master of what was
happening.
They found him standing by the great bed with its gold and crimson
hangings supporting the Ruard, who, weak and faint with suffering, was
endeavouring to sit up against the pillows.
At the first glance round his simple privacy, the instant impression of
a sick and helpless man, the secretary fell back, but Captain Hoogewerf
strode forward.
The eyes of Cornelius de Witt shone in his worn face with as proud a
light as they had shown when he kept his place on the deck of _The
Seven Provinces_ amid the hurry of battle.
“Captain Hoogewerf,” he said in a feeble but resolute voice, “what
means this unruly entrance?”
“It means,” he was answered, “that this town is now under the
government of His Highness the Stadtholder.”
Cornelius de Witt frowned haughtily. His wife stepped to his bedside,
and stood with her hand on the curtain looking from him to the captain,
from him to the secretary.
Just inside the door the three soldiers waited.
Orent Muys, speaking with more consideration, informed the Ruard of the
revolution in Dordt, and produced his paper with the hanging seals.
“This is against the law,” said M. de Witt
“Mynheer--it _is_ the law--all the magistrates have signed.”
The secretary held out the document as he spoke.
“Then they are perjured,” replied the Ruard proudly.
“Do you use that word of His Highness’ friends?” demanded Captain
Hoogewerf in a loud voice.
Cornelius de Witt drew himself up higher in his bed--
“I use that word of any one who has sworn to the Perpetual Edict and
then declares His Highness Stadtholder.”
His wife turned to him quickly.
“Cornelius--His Highness is master in Dordt--M. Muys hath come to read
you the act so proclaiming him.”
He glanced at her rather curiously, and she, reading some reproach in
his eyes, sank down on the chair at his bedside and hid her face in her
hand.
M. de Witt pushed back the long dark hair from his ravaged face, and
fixed the secretary with a cold and undaunted look.
“Why are you come here to read me that?” he demanded.
The soldier replied--
“We desire your signature.”
“I think,” said the Ruard scornfully, “ye do not find it necessary.”
“As collector of taxes, superintendent of the dykes, magistrate of
Dordt, and Ruard of Putten--your signature is indeed necessary.”
Maria de Witt raised her face.
“Do you not hear them in the street?” she whispered.
Her husband neither answered her nor looked in her direction.
“Read this document,” he ordered curtly.
The secretary obeyed.
When he had finished the Ruard stole a glance at his wife, who sat with
averted face; he seemed to be listening to the impatient and angry
cries without, that, mingled with snatches of St. Aldegonde’s hymn,
and curses on the Grand Pensionary’s name, came clearly through the
curtained window.
“Cannot that be worded less positively?” he asked slowly.
“Mynheer, it is impossible,” answered the secretary.
“We came for your signature, not for your amendments,” remarked the
soldier.
“I would rather be killed in my bed than sign,” answered the Ruard,
with a flush of colour into his face.
Hoogewerf stepped forward threateningly.
“I have sworn an oath to the Perpetual Edict,” said M. de Witt, “and I
will keep it--even if you strike off my head with the sword you have
there at your side.”
“I have not come as an assassin,” replied the captain.
“Well,” answered the Ruard, “there are plenty of vagabonds and ruffians
below who would not hesitate--call up some of them.”
“Oh, Mynheer!” cried the distressed secretary, “those you hear are
friends of His Highness--respectable people--they only clamour for your
signature.”
M. de Witt turned away his head as if in weariness.
“Whatever happens,” he said shortly, “I cannot sign.”
His wife put out her hand and clasped his that lay on the coverlet.
“Cornelius,” she urged in an unsteady voice, “it is not safe to refuse.”
“As a citizen of Dordt I cannot do otherwise,” he answered briefly.
“There are the children,” said Maria de Witt.
The Ruard flashed a stern look at the secretary.
“Are you incapable of protecting my house and family?” he demanded.
Orent Muys answered in great agitation--
“Mynheer, His Highness has been proclaimed Stadtholder--he is now at
the Peacock Inn receiving the homage of the crowd--and I have to take
your signature back to him--otherwise--really, Mynheer, I could not
answer for it--they are all worthy people, such as your own baker or
butcher might be--but they are … excited----”
He paused as the fierce sounds of a tussle between the mob and the
burgher guards rose from the street.
Maria de Witt sprang up and went to the window.
She was seen from below and greeted with a yell of fury and a shower of
pebbles.
“Cornelius--” she came back breathlessly--“they will break in----”
“And if they do?”--the Ruard questioned Captain Hoogewerf.
“Then, I think,” was the answer, “that they will serve you as they
served your portrait in the Stadhuis.”
Madam de Witt gave a little cry, and her husband’s eyes flashed.
“Then make an end now,” he exclaimed passionately. “I would rather be
stabbed in my bed than be torn to pieces by the mob.”
“Oh, my dear Mynheer, if you would only sign!” cried the secretary.
“I cannot.”
Maria de Witt went on her knees, clasping her hands against the
coverlet.
“Oh, Cornelius--I must entreat.”
He turned his sad brown eyes on her with an expression of gentle
reproach.
“Ah, _you_!” he said. “You have always been so brave--so careful of my
honour.”
“I cannot face this,” she answered desperately. “I cannot--they will
murder you--and the children are in the house.”
“You must send them away.”
“It is impossible--there is a crowd back and front.”
“Maria,” he said in an anguished tone, “I cannot sign.”
He turned his face from her, and she sprang to her feet with her hand
to her brow.
The lace on her bosom rose painfully with her agitated breathing, the
pearls pressed tight round her swelling throat; her countenance, framed
in the long black ringlets, was suffused and trembling.
“Have you no regard for your wife?” asked Captain Hoogewerf.
“I have some regard for my honour,” replied the Ruard, wiping his
forehead, damp with anguish of mind and body.
The sound of blows and splintering wood told that the door was being
forced.
Bloodthirsty cries of rage and triumph pierced the din of the attack.
“Down with the friends of France!”
“Show us the signature!”
“Down with the enemies of His Highness!”
“Death to the friends of King Louis!”
“I did not show myself friendly to France in Southwold bay,” said
Cornelius de Witt grimly.
“Sign, Mynheer,” begged the secretary, “or we shall all be murdered!”
A stone hurtled through the window and struck one of the posts of the
bed.
“Oh, God help us!” exclaimed Maria de Witt. She flung herself on her
knees again. “My lord--for the sake of the children----”
A musket was fired below, and one of the servants shrieked.
“Well, Mynheer,” asked Captain Hoogewerf, “how much longer are we to
wait?”
“Put your pistol through my head,” answered the Ruard hoarsely, “for
I will not be torn to pieces by the mob.” He repeated--“That is a
horrible death--to be torn in pieces by the mob.”
Maria de Witt was bitterly weeping.
“If you will not sign,” she said in despair, “then I must leave
you--God help me, I must see to some means of safety for my children.”
The secretary had snatched up a pen, and now came to the bedside and
forced it into the Ruard’s fingers.
“Oh, you are a father before you are a citizen!” exclaimed Maria de
Witt “This is not perjury--you are absolved by the actions of the
others.”
Slowly Cornelius de Witt took up the quill in his feeble fingers.
He bit his full under-lip and his eyes narrowed.
“What will be said of a man who was vanquished by his wife’s tears?” he
muttered.
He could scarcely hold the pen.
He looked at his wife--
“Maria, Maria, dost thou think this compliance can save me from the
inevitable?”
There was a silence as he dipped his quill in the ink and reluctantly
traced his name--the last on the list.
Then, as the secretary took the paper, Madam de Witt rose with a breath
of agonised relief.
But Orent Muys, looking at the writing, cried out--
“What is this, Mynheer?--what have you put after your name--two
letters--V.C.?”
“That means _Vi coactus_,” replied the Ruard shortly; “if you have
forgot your Latin the translation runs--‘constrained by force.’”
“This is but playing with us!” exclaimed Captain Hoogewerf.
“I implore you, Mynheer,” urged the secretary. “You will only rouse the
fury of the people--scratch out those letters.”
“I shall not retract them,” he answered. “‘Constrained by force,’
otherwise I should not have signed.”
The secretary looked at the captain and the captain at the soldiers.
Orent Muys tried persuasions and Hoogewerf threats.
But Cornelius de Witt was immovable; he turned away his face on the
pillow and was silent.
Maria de Witt dropped the red curtain of the bed, and, unseen by her
husband, drew the paper from the secretary’s hand.
With her finger on her lips she silenced them, and withdrawing to the
back of the chamber hastily effaced the two letters--“V.C.”
“You are very scrupulous, Mynheer,” said Captain Hoogewerf.
“It seems I am the only one in Dordt,” returned the Ruard, “who
remembers his duty.”
Captain Hoogewerf clapped on his hat.
“You will be sorry, some day, that you spoke so recklessly,” he said,
and strode out of the room, followed by the soldiers and the secretary.
Maria de Witt leant heavily against the bed-post, pressing her
handkerchief to her reddened eyes.
A loud, triumphant, and insulting shout told the joy of the crowd when
they heard that the Ruard had submitted, and with a mighty turmoil, and
sound of singing and cheering, they swept away up the street to the
Peacock Inn.
Cornelius de Witt clenched his hand on the coverlet.
“I had better have died,” he murmured.
His wife came and bent over his pillow.
“Do you blame me?” she asked, shuddering. “Ah, you think that I have
been weak.”
“No,” he answered, “there were the children … but nothing can save us,
Maria.”
“They have gone,” she breathed.
“Yes, now,” he answered mournfully; “but what can protect us, John and
me, against the whole country’s hate?”
She cried out passionately--
“They cannot hate you--it is impossible!”
He leant back exhausted.
“You have heard to-day, dearest, how they hate me--the Prince is master
now.”
“The Prince,” she said in terror,--“he would not allow any harm to come
to you.”
“I should not ask for his protection; he is not _my_ master--nor shall
be.”
She went on her knees beside the bed and laid her lips to his hand.
“God Almighty guard us,” she whispered. “He who is greater than princes
has us in His charge, Cornelius.”
“Amen, amen,” cried the Ruard. “And may He give me courage to meet the
exceeding bitterness of my inevitable end!”
He laid his free hand on her bowed black head, and the tears welled
up into his eyes for the ruin of the ideals to which he had given his
life.
CHAPTER VI
THE RESTORATION
M. Gaspard Fagel, excited, rather better dressed than usual, with an
orange ribbon in his button-hole, arrived early in the afternoon at the
Grand Pensionary’s house in the Kneuterdyk Avenue.
He found M. de Witt seated languidly at the open window of his library,
wearing a loose Japanese robe and gazing out at the sunny garden and
the doves in the trees.
On the chair beside him lay an open portfolio of sketches.
“You are recovered, Mynheer?” asked M. Fagel, with some embarrassment.
The Grand Pensionary smiled sadly.
“I hope to be able to resume my duties very soon.”
He roused himself and sat up.
“Be seated,” he said. “Will you move those drawings--they are M. Van
der Welde’s sketches of Solebay battle, made from his galiot--His
Highness is fond of pictures, he had best commission the paintings.”
It was said gently, without a trace of bitterness.
M. Fagel coughed.
“I am come,” he said, “to tell you of a restoration.”
“I knew,” answered John de Witt, “that it must be so.”
Gaspard Fagel drew himself up with some importance.
“The Deputies of Holland have proclaimed His Highness Stadtholder
and Captain General of the Republic for life, with all the dignities
formerly belonging to his ancestors.”
In these pompous words sounded the death-knell of the lifelong labour,
hopes, policy, and ideals of John de Witt.
He looked out again upon the doves in the trembling elm boughs.
“They have kept me short of news, for I have been very ill,” he
answered quietly, “but I have known how it must end.”
Gaspard Fagel was full of his subject.
“The Deputies left two days ago for Bodegraven, that they may acquaint
His Highness and bring him to the Hague to take the oaths.”
“Something I heard of that.”
M. Fagel was exultant.
“It is not a fortnight since Dordt gave the signal--Rotterdam was the
next. We had the whole country in a flame--the peasants took possession
of Delft--it was irresistible--irresistible! The States were swept off
their feet--the inexorable conditions imposed by France helped--the
Perpetual Edict was repealed--even Amsterdam clamoured for the Prince.
I tell you, Mynheer, he is King, though without the name.”
“The people have overawed the magistrates,” remarked M. de Witt. “What
need for the details?--the Prince is Stadtholder.”
He was still looking out of the window, and the reflection of the green
trees gave a ghastly hue to his worn, colourless face.
“What of the war?” he asked.
Gaspard Fagel lifted his shoulders.
“The Bishop of Munster overruns Groningen--but the Elector and the
Spanish troops are expected soon. The people are wonderfully heartened,
they can think of nothing but the Prince.”
“How did he take this change of fortune?” asked the Grand Pensionary.
“He met the Deputies of Rotterdam with cold reserve, and said he would
not have the people force the magistrates--he would have his rights by
law, not violence. He met the States at Bodegraven in his carriage,
and asked them first if he was relieved of his oath; they said Yes,
and then he merely told them he took the office for the good of the
country. M. Beuningen was there all the time.”
John de Witt answered quietly--
“The Prince never lacked for prudence, he will not perish by his
father’s fault.”
“He is the idol of the people--M. Beuningen says the soldiers worship
him.”
“He has great qualities,” said M. de Witt, “and I have educated him to
be a patriot,--I hope he may fulfil the expectancy of the people.”
M. Fagel looked uneasy.
“Well,” he said, “I do not know why I talk of this so much. I came
about your business, Mynheer.”
The Grand Pensionary flushed.
“My memorial to Their High Mightinesses?” he asked.
“Even that, Mynheer.”
The Grand Pensionary roused himself.
“I trust,” he said proudly, “they have been pleased to consider how
very bitter it was to me to have to stoop to justify myself against the
attacks of a pamphleteer.”
Gaspard Fagel answered hastily--
“It was, of course, malicious folly.”
“There were many who believed in it, therefore I was forced to reply.”
“Their Noble Mightinesses declare there is no truth in the charges.”
“I am glad they do me that justice,” said John de Witt simply.
Gaspard Fagel frowned.
“But I am obliged to add, Mynheer, that what Their Noble Mightinesses
say carries no weight now whatever--and I fear these charges against
you are as eagerly believed as ever.”
“They must be refuted,” replied the Grand Pensionary with energy. “I
will not have these hideous stains upon my name.”
M. Fagel shook his head.
“There is only one man whose voice can be heard now, Mynheer.”
“The Prince?”
“Yes, His Highness the Stadtholder.”
“Then,” declared John de Witt, proudly and calmly, “I will write to
him. He will have the nobility to see justice done. He knows that I
have not taken the Secret Service money--or----” He made an impatient
gesture, “I cannot repeat them--but the Prince knows what manner of man
I am.”
“The people will listen to him--but to none other; what he says I think
they will credit.”
John de Witt gave a little sigh. The Secretary of the States was
slightly uncomfortable in his presence; disconcerted before his utter
serenity.
Gaspard Fagel had an uneasy feeling that de Witt’s was the calm of a
heart-broken man. He sat looking at the Minister whom he had followed,
envied, rivalled, and now supplanted, and his triumph was by no means
unalloyed.
The Grand Pensionary turned his full brown eyes on him.
“What will the Prince do with his power?”
“One cannot tell. Frankly, he makes no confidant of me or any; it is
thought he will break off the negotiations with King Louis. He still
hopes to detach the English.”
“Yet could not come to terms with them at Newerbrugge----”
“It is not known what passed there. M. Beuningen thinks they made him
secret offers and that he refused them--at least, he is hot against M.
de Groot. Some say he will be arrested on the ground of having exceeded
his commission. M. de Montbas’ action has not helped his case.”
“What hath M. de Montbas done?” demanded John de Witt.
“Joined the French,” returned Gaspard Fagel laconically.
“M. de Montbas--has deserted to the French?” exclaimed John de Witt.
“He was, you know, a prisoner, arrested for gross failure in duty, and
when he saw the Prince was resolved on his life, he became desperate
and, contriving to escape, fled to the enemy. King Louis will forgive
him, doubtless, for the information he is able to supply now.”
The Grand Pensionary was silent.
“You must see,” added M. Fagel, “that this does not improve your credit
with the people.”
John de Witt raised his tired eyes.
“I do not know, Mynheer,” he said quietly, “why you have come to tell
me all this.”
Gaspard Fagel rose restlessly.
On a table near by was a white china pot full of tulips; he stopped
beside this and stared into the flame-coloured cups, where the dusty,
black pistils showed.
“I should advise you to leave the Hague,” he said.
“I cannot leave my post,” answered the Grand Pensionary.
“Your illness is a fair excuse.”
John de Witt shook his head.
“The country still needs me,” he said. “In a few days I hope to be
again in the Assembly.”
Gaspard Fagel pulled at the tulip petals.
“I am your friend,” he declared.
The Grand Pensionary gave him a quiet look.
“Yes, your friend,” Fagel repeated defiantly. “Do not think because I
follow the Prince that I am no friend to you. I have much, very much to
be grateful to you for. I--” he hesitated a second--“I should like to
do you a service now.”
By now John de Witt had turned his eyes from him to the pattern of blue
sky to be seen through the intertwisting leaves and branches of the
elms and limes.
Gaspard Fagel stuck his fingers into his sash.
“In this state we are in,” he said, “we cannot afford internal
dissension.”
The phrase sounded trite to M. de Witt; he raised his long hand on the
arm of the chair and let it fall again.
“I am ambitious,” continued M. Fagel, “to be a mediator----”
“Well?”
“Between you and His Highness.”
The Grand Pensionary answered without turning his head.
“In what manner?”
M. Fagel was rather at a loss to express himself.
“His Highness is Stadtholder,” he remarked.
“Nevertheless, I am still Grand Pensionary, Mynheer.”
“The office remains--yes,” replied M. Fagel. “But it must be filled by
a man who will work with His Highness.”
John de Witt showed some signs of agitation.
“M. Fagel,” he said, sitting erect, “if you are here to suggest that
I work under His Highness, the mere secretary of his ambition, the
servant of his designs--I beg you, say no more.”
“This is not reasonable.”
“It is very reasonable.” John de Witt’s voice was stern. “For twenty
years I have stood at the helm of this Republic. I have guided her
through storms and perils; through God’s help I have always maintained
her dignity and prosperity. An uncorrupt, free Republic was my ideal.
Well, I served it, I have fallen, I have failed--I have been repaid
with hate where I worked for love--but I will never be the tool of the
Prince who has destroyed my work, nor help the people set a yoke again
upon their necks.”
“Mynheer, you talk rashly--we are as free as ever we were.”
John de Witt’s eyes flashed.
“You deceive yourself. You have put at the head of the State a young
man with a temper as imperious as any of his House--a Stewart for
pride, a Nassau for firmness. Were we free in the days of Prince
Maurice? We shall not be free under this youth. For twenty years we
have tasted real liberty, and now he will make us pay.…”
Gaspard Fagel replied vehemently--
“Indeed you wrong His Highness … he is the sole hope of the country.… I
believe that he will save us.”
“Others could have saved you, had you permitted them.… If he be a
patriot, he is not the only one in the United Provinces.”
“This attitude is dangerous,” said Gaspard Fagel.
John de Witt looked at him with an air almost of pity.
“Do you think that I will alter the whole aim of my life to buy a
little favour now? Do you imagine that I will trim my course to please
this youth who was my pupil?”
“And now is your master.”
“I do not admit it, nor ever will--there is no master in this Republic.”
M. Fagel answered with some impatience--
“So--you are not tractable--you will not work under the Prince?”
“I will work with him, when I agree with him.”
“Very well--you cannot expect, Mynheer, to find the Stadtholder
friendly.”
“I expect,” said John de Witt proudly, “to find him just.”
“This attitude of yours will not please him.”
“I cannot care for that.”
“He is all powerful----”
John de Witt interrupted--
“I do not think that he will use his power to gratify his political
dislikes. He knows my principles, he knows that I am likely to abide by
them; he cannot be either surprised or angered that he does not see me
swell the crowd gathered to do him homage.”
Gaspard Fagel frowned.
“That is your decision--your final decision?”
John de Witt bent his head.
“Yes.” Then he added keenly, “Did the Prince send you?”
“I have not seen him since the opening of the war, nor has he mentioned
this question in his letters, but M. Beuningen says he remarked to him
that you must bend or break.”
John de Witt faintly smiled.
“I also can be inflexible,” he said. “I can serve my ideal as steadily
as His Highness serves his ambition.”
Gaspard Fagel seemed troubled.
“If you continue to oppose the Prince,” he said bluntly, “you will
scarcely be safe at the Hague.”
“Are you trying to frighten me?”
“I am warning you. Join with the Prince, or resign and leave the Hague.”
The Grand Pensionary replied firmly--
“Neither one nor the other, Mynheer. I will not forsake the policy
I have adhered to all my life, nor will I leave my post until I am
relieved of it.”
M. Fagel bit his forefinger. He had a sincere regard for M. de Witt,
and his conscience troubled him because the Grand Pensionary had
given him this secretaryship he now held, and did not utter a word of
reproach.
“It is like a great storm,” he said, “sweeping everything before it;
they who fling themselves down may escape, but they who remain erect
are certainly carried away--and perish.”
John de Witt gazed at him steadily.
“You are an able man, Mynheer Fagel. I think you will be of great
service to the Prince and the country, but for me you can do nothing …
there is no more to be said.”
The Secretary smoothed the bands at his wrists, slightly coloured, and
bit his lip.
Hesitating, he glanced sideways at the Grand Pensionary once or twice.
John de Witt had turned his eyes away, and by his demeanour seemed not
to know there was another with him in the room.
At last Gaspard Fagel gathered up his hat and cane and left the quiet
library without another word.
John de Witt kept his gaze still on the sky.
The leaves, and the chinks of it seen between them, took on a thousand
different, changing shapes--gold, green, and blue.
The sun reached the glossy box hedges in tendrils of spangled light and
gilded the tulips (over-blown now and ragged) with a keen yellow.
The Grand Pensionary’s vision was bounded by a deep red beech tree,
through whose heavy branches the sky appeared bright and pale, and in
the shadow it threw, two ash-coloured doves were walking on the smooth
sweep of close grass.
John de Witt felt so weary that there was a pain even in resting, a
disquietude in gazing at the pictured peace of the high-walled garden.
It seemed that only oblivion could give ease to his languid body and
aching soul.
In a breath had gone the labour of a lifetime.
He had worked incredibly, with sincerity, with passion, with unsparing
patience and energy; and for reward he was thrust aside with hatred and
curses for the sake of the heir of the old House from whose tyranny he
had saved his country.
No one believed in him, no one trusted in his honour.
He had always been of an integrity above suspicion, but it did not save
him from being accused of the vilest crimes. He had given his life to
his country, and was reproached with having sold her to her enemies.
He had always lived as simply as an ordinary citizen, nevertheless it
was laid to his charge that he had appropriated large sums from the
public funds.
Calumny was triumphant; there was no stain she did not try to cast on
the name of a man who had never committed a single unworthy action.
His former good fame availed him nothing; the prosperity of the country
under his rule was not remembered to his credit now.
Malice would not listen to reason nor justice.
And there was no one who dared speak for him save those helpless in
a like case. There were a few faithful, his brother-in-law, Vivien,
Pensionary of Dordt, Peter de Groot, Colonel Bampfield, but their
voices could not be heard above the shrieks of the factions. They had
their own several lives and honours to look to; if they could no longer
support him he could no longer protect them.
He laid his hand on the bandage round his right arm, that covered a
still aching wound.
The little senseless chatter of the birds in the branches, the faint
murmurs of the wind, were not so strong as a tumult of imaginary sounds
that beat loud and threatening on the inner senses of John de Witt.
The cries of an angry crowd, the beating of alarm bells, the hurrying
of eager feet, swelling in volume, coming nearer.…
Through the green and gold and blue glimpsed a vision of these people:
furious faces, threatening gestures, brandished weapons; dangerous,
powerful, irresistible; a hymn of triumph, of hatred, on their lips,
and their hearts hot for blood.
John de Witt rose and held out his hand before him as if sound and
sight were real, and so stood for a moment, in the attitude of an
orator, pleading before his enemies.
Then he turned quickly from the window and walked up and down the long,
sunny room.
After a few moments he stopped and took down a gilt-clasped Bible from
the shelf.
He opened it; but before his eyes were still the furious faces of his
countrymen, and in his ears the ominous sound of their greedy, oncoming
hate.
CHAPTER VII
“I WILL MAINTAIN”
The new Stadtholder took his seat in the Assembly, accepted the
position offered him, swore the oaths to the Republic, tactfully
abstained from any speech, and merely expressed his intention of
returning to Bodegraven at once.
The Hague was in a frenzy. The hero of the moment was offered a
triumph, a banquet, a ball.…
He declined all, something coldly, and reminded the Deputies the
Republic was in no condition for rejoicing.
He intended obviously to avoid as much as possible the demonstrations
of the crowd. He refused a public entry; but he could not prevent the
people from drinking his health at every street corner and sending up
fireworks as soon as it was dark.
As he left the Assembly M. Fagel advanced to speak to him.
“Is Your Highness satisfied now?” he asked eagerly.
“I am pleased with the title,” answered the Prince; “see to it I have
the substance--I will be no Duke of Venice, Fagel.”
The Secretary could not but remember M. de Witt’s words of that
morning.… Certainly they would find no puppet ruler in William of
Orange.
Already his manner had changed. As cold, as composed as before, it now
showed openly that imperious haughtiness he had often had to conceal
under mere reserve or enforced graciousness.
He bore himself as if a king. His excessive pride might not deign to
express itself in any outward show, but he revealed clearly enough
that if he was to be the deliverer of his country he would also be her
master.
Secure in the support of the people, he could do as he pleased with the
magistrates. The whole country was at his mercy.
Those who had been in opposition to him trembled; his enemies were in
despair.
Now, as he paused on the stairs to speak to Fagel, M. de Groot came out
of the room of the Assembly.
“Mynheer,” William called him.
Gaspard Fagel shivered.
Pale, tired, but erect, Peter de Groot came forward.
“Your Highness?”
The Stadtholder was drawing on his gloves.
“I advised you, Mynheer, not to undertake that journey to Zeyst, you
remember?”
“Perfectly, Your Highness.”
“Well”--the Prince, having finished with his gloves, removed his cane
from under his arm and tapped the baluster--“I now advise you to leave
the Hague.”
M. de Groot was undaunted.
“I am aware that Your Highness blames _me_ for the terms of peace
I brought from the King of France--I would rather die than accept
them--but as an ambassador it was my bare duty to carry them to Their
Noble Mightinesses--who had sent me.”
“M. de Groot,” replied the Prince unpleasantly, “we will have no
discussion, if you please. Again--I should recommend the Spanish
Netherlands.”
M. Fagel moved instinctively a step aside, but Peter de Groot stood his
ground. He saw himself a fallen man, a ruined man, and a slow paleness
overspread his countenance, but there was no alteration in his proud
demeanour.
Followed by Mynheer Fagel, William III. turned away without a salute,
and, with the curtest acknowledgment of the councillors and nobles
gathered about him, passed out into the courtyard of the Binnenhof.
It was too late to return to the camp, against his will he found
himself obliged to stay overnight at the Hague.
His own Palace being closed, William was lodged in the splendid house,
almost adjoining the Binnenhof, where Prince John Maurice had gathered
all the treasures collected in his travels.
No attendants following, the Stadtholder crossed the courtyard and
gained the mansion without being observed by any.
Dinner was already served in the gorgeous dining-room, where the old
Prince’s parrot from Brazil (who could distinguish a black man from a
white, could swear nicely in Spanish, and knew his master for a great
man) swung in his glittering ebony ring.
M. Heenvliet was in attendance, and a few of Prince Maurice’s servants.
“Has Mynheer Bentinck arrived?” asked the Prince.
“Not yet, Your Highness.”
Bentinck had been sent to the Princess Amalia with the news of her
grandson’s triumph.
“Nor the messenger from Sir Gabriel Sylvius?”
“No, Highness--but there have been many to wait upon you----”
“I will see no one save those two.”
On the dark bureau a heap of congratulatory letters had already
accumulated. The Prince picked some up, glanced at the writings, and
laid them down unopened; a few were from his friends, many from his
enemies, some from people he did not know at all.
He put aside his violet velvet cloak, his cane, hat, and gloves,
and opened the window regardless of the breeze that set the candles
guttering.
It was a beautiful evening, clear, not warm for July, the sky cloudless
and a fresh wind blowing.
William stood holding back the heavy curtain and looking out at the
dark shapes of the houses above which now and then a shower of light
from bonfire or rocket rose into the sky.
The excited murmurs from the crowds filling the Plein came distinctly
to his ears; he could almost hear them shouting his name.
M. Heenvliet had withdrawn, for the moment he was alone, but there came
no change into the perfect calm of his face and bearing.
An observer might have well thought that he felt no emotion, and
concluded that to feel no emotion at such a moment was indeed to show
himself incapable of being roused by any feeling ever.
The Groote Kerk struck seven.
William left the window and went to the table glittering with glass and
silver, the sheen of china, and the sparkle of the candles in the gold
and crimson wines.
The parrot gave a low scream and eyed him in friendly fashion.
William looked at it thoughtfully. It had a drooping air, as if it knew
that its master was shut up with the garrison in Maestricht, far away
from the luxury of this comfortable room with its Persian carpet, rich
hangings, valuable pictures and statuary.
It had also an air of self-containment that moved the Prince’s
admiration; he crossed to its ring and gently stroked its head. The
bird swung itself in violent agitation of some kind, dropped headlong
from its perch, and with a sweep of its gay wing cast several of the
letters on the bureau at William’s feet.
He stooped to pick them up; the writing on one caught his eye.
He stared at it a moment and flushed; then quickly broke it open.
It was matter of only a few lines; when he had read it he took up his
hat and mantle instantly and left the room.
M. Heenvliet saw him passing hastily down the wide stairs, and could
hardly credit his eyes.…
He ran after him.
But the Prince crossed the courtyard without looking back, and as M.
Heenvliet gained the gate he saw the slight figure disappearing in the
shadows in the direction of the Plein.
His Highness’ gentleman was utterly bewildered. As he stood irresolute,
hatless, at the gate, a horseman galloped up and dismounted.
M. Heenvliet knew him for Florent Van Mander, the expected messenger
from Sir Gabriel Sylvius.
“The Prince----” began the newcomer.
“Sir,” cried M. Heenvliet, “he has this moment left the house
alone--leaving no message----”
“And the Hague in this commotion!”
“He was about to sit down to dinner--he but waited M. Bentinck----”
“He was armed?”
“With only a sword.”
“I will go after him.”
“Dare you?”
“If I can be of any service to him I dare anything, Mynheer.”
“It is the strangest thing.”
Florent was already resolved.
“What was he wearing?”
“A violet coat and mantle--a black hat and feather----”
“See to the horse, I will go after him.… He is rash … the streets are
not safe to-night.”
While M. Heenvliet was still half urging, half protesting, Florent
started at a run across the Plein.
But his progress was soon stopped by the crowd, the coaches, horsemen
and soldiers who thronged the square.
Many of the people were dancing by torchlight before their houses, and
handing out wine to every passer-by to drink the health of the new
Stadtholder.
The crackling of fireworks mingled with the murmurs and the shouts;
hawkers were selling copies of pamphlets against John de Witt, and the
dying speech of Jacob Van der Graef who was held up as a martyr to the
Orange cause.
It was a riot of enthusiastic joy. Every one wore an orange ribbon, and
from every house, steeple, booth, and coach waved the Orange flag.
Florent, forced to pause, remembered that he had absolutely no clue to
the Prince’s destination, but as he made his way on through the press,
as best he could, he reminded himself that William would also find
crossing the Plein a difficult matter.
He looked eagerly round through the confusion of twilight, torchlight,
and the steadier gleam of lantern, and presently noticed a gentleman in
a violet mantle making a slow way through a group of burghers gathering
round the open door of a tavern.
Van Mander forced himself as near as he could get--not near enough to
be sure.…
Finally the violet cavalier turned down the Houtestraat, with Florent
not far behind.
It was less crowded here, and by the time they had reached the
Kalvermarkt Van Mander had his man clear. But suddenly the gentleman in
violet stopped to ask his way of a man seated outside a grocery shop,
and upon receiving the answer turned so quickly down an ill-lit side
street that Florent lost sight of him.
Breaking into a run, he plunged down the dark turning, his spurs
clattering on the cobbles.
The street was almost empty, the houses dark; for the inhabitants were
gathered in the principal thoroughfares.
Florent was brought to a stop in a lonely little square planted with
chestnut trees. He looked up and saw an orange flag projected from a
gabled window, from which issued the ruddy light of a lamp that stained
the folds to a deep brilliance against the purple colour of the evening
sky.
At the door of this house stood an old man in a white ruff, smoking.
Florent addressed him.
“Has a gentleman wearing violet been past here, Mynheer?”
“A moment ago--yes.”
“Which way did he take?” Florent asked eagerly. For the square was
divided by a canal.
The old man was laconic.
“He asked the way.”
“To----?”
“The Heeren Gracht.”
“Which is round the corner is it not?”
“Yes.”
“Did you see this gentleman’s face?”
The other began to grow suspicious.
“What did you want with him?”
Florent did not hesitate.
“I am a servant of his--at least, if it be he whom I think--and am come
after him with a message.”
“Well,” said the old man, “he was not tall nor stout--he was young and
thin, with a hooked nose like his Highness the Stadtholder has----”
“Then he is my master,” said Florent, and hurried on.
As he turned the length of the dark canal he saw by the light of the
lamps with which it was set the violet mantle not far away from him.
Its owner appeared to be hesitating, and endeavouring to distinguish
the signs displayed on the tall house-fronts.
Van Mander, rather breathless, ran up to him; there was no one else in
sight.
“Your Highness----”
The Prince turned sharply.
Before he could speak, Florent went on--
“Sir, you must forgive me, it is I, Van Mander.… I rode up as you left
the Marithuis.… I followed you.”
Somewhat to his surprise the Prince seemed neither astonished nor angry.
“Why?” he asked in an absorbed fashion.
“Sir, it is dangerous.… If you knew what I know--what I heard at
Zeyst.…”
“I am safe enough,” said William, still gazing up at the houses.
“There are plots abroad to assassinate Your Highness.”
“Without doubt,” the Prince replied absently. “I wish to find a house
that hath for sign a pair of scales--it is somewhere near here, I
think.”
“On what adventure is Your Highness engaged?” demanded Florent
anxiously.
It seemed to him that William neither knew nor cared who spoke to him.
He showed no sign of remembering that he awaited news from Sir Gabriel;
he appeared to be entirely engaged in the matter on hand.
“Now, how may we find it?” was his sole comment, as he turned
impatiently along the canal.
“It is too dark to see the sign--a few houses have lamps above the
door,” said Florent.
“Help me to look. I would rather charge a thousand men with a hundred
than lose an hour now.”
The Prince took Florent’s presence as a matter of course, neither
desiring nor resenting it.
They proceeded in silence along the stone causeway.
Florent was the first to catch the gleam of a pair of gilt scales
dangling over the low portico of one of the doors.
“Shall I wait here for Your Highness?” he asked.
“You may enter if you will.”
Still the Prince gave the impression of being so absorbed in some
particular affair that he did not know to whom he spoke.
But as they waited on the winged steps, after having hastily knocked,
he suddenly explained himself.
“My old tutor, Mynheer Cornelius Triglandt, wrote to me that he was
lying ill here. I did not even know that he was at the Hague.”
Florent looked sharply at the Prince. After all, despite his gravity,
reserve, and caution, William had then an honest simplicity; … and,
with all his pride, the frankness of single-mindedness, and the winning
modesty of youth and quick affection.
The door was opened by a girl wearing a garnet necklace, a white cap,
and long gold earrings glimmering in the lamp-light.
“Mynheer Cornelius Triglandt is here?” asked the Prince quickly.
“Yes, Mynheer.”
She opened the door wider and they passed into the cedarwood hall.
“Is he very ill?” questioned William.
The maiden looked at them with a faint surprise.
“I do not think that he expects any one to visit him, Mynheer.”
“No?” the Prince’s voice was gentler than Florent had thought it could
be, “but he will be glad to see me.”
The girl hesitated with her hand on the newel post.
“Who shall I say is here--to M. Triglandt?” she asked.
The Prince stood in a slightly awkward fashion, holding his hat across
his chest; he fixed the speaker with his luminous eyes in a bewildered
manner.
The girl glanced over him; took in his velvet mantle, his fringed
gloves, his square-toed shoes with the stiff satin bows.
“M. Triglandt is a friend of the Stadtholder,” she said half defiantly;
“and you look to me like one of M. de Witt’s men.”
“Is he alone?” asked William abruptly.
“Yes. The doctor has been and gone; he says he cannot live the night. I
have been sitting with him.”
“You are a good girl,” said the Prince. “Now I will relieve you.”
Her face brightened.
“Ah, I can go to the fair on the Plein!… I had promised to go--but
could not, when a poor old man lay dying.… There are great rejoicings,
are there not? … because of His Highness.”
The Prince gave her an absent look.
“Yes, you can go--though this is no time for rejoicing, with the French
on the border. Tell M. Triglandt it is his pupil come to see him.”
“His pupil?” she echoed, and went lightly up the stairs.
William turned to Florent.
“I am glad the people are good to him,” he said impulsively. “He
escaped from Arnheim just before the French--entered.”
The girl called softly over the banisters--
“Will you come up, Mynheeren?”
They ascended the smooth, well-worn steps, and on a landing where a
brass lamp burnt she pointed them to a door.
“I will go out now--not for long,” she said, excusing herself. “My
mother is below and our servant, and there are other lodgers.”
She smiled, and with a little courtesy pattered down the stairs.
William pushed open the door.
It led into a chamber lined with cedar, and empty save for a few chairs.
Directly opposite, a second door stood open upon a bedroom full of
candlelight.
The Prince went forward, but Florent hung back and remained in the
unlit shadows.
William stepped breathlessly into the light. He found a lofty
apartment, illumined by a row of candles set on a black bureau.
The windows were flung wide on to the summer night, the canal and the
lime trees, the stars, and a great moon that hung low above the silent
houses.
Close to the candles stood a blue bowl of sweet-peas and roses.
Sideways to the window was a bed curtained in patterned chintz, and on
it lay an elderly man whose firm face was turned expectantly towards
the door.
“Mynheer Triglandt!” exclaimed the Prince, casting down his hat and
gloves.
“Your Highness!”
The words came with a deep note of joy and passion; the sick man’s face
utterly changed into an expression of rapture.
“Ah, why did I not know before?” William exclaimed. He came to the
bedside and pulled back the curtains.
M. Triglandt held out his thin hands and grasped the Prince’s.
“I have not been here long.… Arnheim was sacked … they killed most.…”
He tried to kiss the Stadtholder’s hands. William prevented him and
dropped on his knees beside the low bed.
“You are ill--how do I find you!”
“That your Highness should think of me!… It is nothing.… I tried to do
what I could for the people, out there … you would not believe, the
cruelties!”
William ground his teeth.
“I took the fever … there was not enough food.… They mutilated the
people … as in Farnese’s day.”
The Calvinist pastor drew himself painfully up.
“I have seen our churches burnt and heard Mass sung.…”
He gasped, and stared down into the agonised face of the young man
kneeling at his bedside.
“It seemed God had turned His face from us … but I knew that He would
raise Your Highness up to be our deliverer.”
William coloured and trembled.
“That you should come here to see me,” whispered M. Triglandt in a tone
of infinite tenderness. “Now I shall die very glad.”
“You must not die,” replied the Prince. “I have so much to say.… How
many years since we saw each other and you taught me of the ancient
saints,”--he caught his breath eagerly, “and how they endured--and the
true happiness they had?”
“Not so long,” said the tutor. “But now Your Highness has moustaches
and a sword--and is a great man.” He smiled faintly. “Yet you are still
like your mother.… I did not hope to see you again--to-night of all
nights. I have heard the people shouting for the true House restored.”
The Prince answered passionately--
“What is their rejoicing to me? This is rather a time for prayer … the
country is almost lost.… Oh, God who hears me, almost lost!”
He pushed back the hair from his forehead and looked up into the white
face of the pastor. His coldness had left him completely; he was all
fire and eagerness, passion and agony.
Florent, motionless in the outer shadows, stared at him in an
enthralled amazement.
“Mynheer, you used to tell me that my ancestors had been heroes--that
God had appointed them to guard His faith.… I want to do as they did.…
I want to save the country and the Reformed religion.… The odds are
fearful … no one understands, not even Bentinck.”
The suppressed emotion of years strove to express itself; but long
silence had put it well-nigh beyond expression. William, speaking to
the man to whom he had given his rare love, had to force the very soul
of him into words.
“You know, you told me--it seemed possible I might do this thing.
No one understands, if they did they would laugh; but _you_ know.
M. de Witt never trusted me, he thought I meant to play the traitor
with France; it was the last insult--they _all_ believed. You saw
how utterly unhappy I was. I would have died, gladly. But now, three
Provinces gone! You have heard the terms?--but never!--Not slavery
again, no Romish rule for us!”
M. Triglandt looked at him with sparkling eyes.
“You have refused?”
“Yes,” breathed William; “the negotiations still hang, but now I have
the power--I shall refuse. Ah! _you_ will not laugh at me.”
He caught the sick man’s hand in his cold fingers.
“I am not quick nor clever,” he said, with his soul in his voice,
“nor a soldier like M. de Condé nor a statesman like M. de Louvois;
but I can endure, and wait, and take any hardship so that I attain my
end--and do you not believe that God will help me, Mynheer Triglandt?”
“With all my soul I do believe--that He has set Your Highness in this
place to be His soldier.”
The pastor raised himself still higher; his haggard features glowed
with an earnest rapture.
“You have before you a long and difficult task--but a holy one; you
will need to be strong, and resolute, and calm--you have half Europe to
hearten, half Europe to defy.”
“Speak to me!” cried William. “Speak to me like that!”
The old man stared at the row of candles on the black bureau; his pale
blue eyes were clear and shining.
“This is a dark hour, a time of misery, of bitterness, of despair.
The tyrant triumphs; vanity, lust, and blood walk hand in hand across
our land! But God, who planted in your breast this fervour, will not
patiently endure the blasphemer. You can save His faith, you can raise
His land from bondage, you can be the captain of His armies; you can
humble the arrogant, break the power of France, and establish a freedom
the world has never yet known.”
He turned his luminous gaze on to the upturned face of the young
Prince, who seemed to have hushed his very breath to listen.
“Your way will not be easy; there will be dangers, disappointments,
sneers, oppositions, failures. You must taste humiliation, you must
endure sickness, you must have great patience and great courage.
When you long for peace you will be driven into the combat. Very few
will understand; there will be railing, calumny--factions to be met
and silenced. I see ahead down the years, and I see this: struggles,
bitterness, despair--but in your heart you will know that you are the
elect of God, and that you fight His battles.”
There was a tense silence. Slowly, in a low voice, at last the Prince
answered--
“I will try to be worthy.”
He dropped his face into his hands and hid it against the coverlet. M.
Triglandt lightly stroked the long brown locks.
“And I see something of your reward too. I see this land a refuge for
God’s people, I see them bless your name. In sickness and defeat it
shall comfort you that you have so protected the Reformed religion that
she shall never be in danger again; you will have opened the floodgates
of liberty, and no one shall close them more.”
He gasped, struggling with his breath; then his clear, inspired voice
went on--
“Maybe you will die before this reward comes, maybe you will never see
the result of your labours. Men may never give you the honour; but
yours will be the glory if now you dare what no other man does dare--or
will!”
William looked up; his face was changed, almost distorted.
“I will do it. I am often ill, but I can put a good face on it--I shall
live long enough … to do my task.”
“People will misunderstand--you must not care--to this one thing be
true. You must forego pleasure, ease, popularity, friends.”
“I will do it,” repeated the Prince in a choking voice. “Speak to
me--bless me--there is no other who understands.… Nevermore shall I
speak to any as now I speak to you … to--you--who leave me.”
“What more can I say? Your own soul will guide you. Be tolerant, be
just, be true to your word, be patient and be brave.”
“I will not falter--I will not despair--even though I go forth alone
and never reach the goal.” The Prince’s voice failed him; he covered
his face and his shoulders heaved.
M. Triglandt lay back on the white, fragrant pillows.
“I can speak no more,” he said faintly. “You know the way.”
William spoke without raising his head--
“Stay with me a little--for I love you.”
“William.”
“Ah, Heaven pity me, I am so lonely!”
“God--God has set you apart.”
The Prince looked up; the hazel eyes were full of tears.
“I will be resolute--I will be calm--only if you could stay.”
“I am dying; but you will not forget me nor how--I spoke.”
The tears ran down the young man’s cheeks; he trembled violently.
“I love you--no one else--I think. If you could stay--and see--how I
obey you.”
The pastor smiled faintly.
“I am very happy.”
William caught his hands.
“Mynheer Triglandt,” he cried in a tone of terror, “I am afraid! Can
I do it? They all look to me--to save them. M. de Witt passes on to me
his hopeless task--to save them!”
He cowered against the bed.
“I feel as if my soul fainted--but I will not fail them. Ah, heart,
heart!”
“God will inspire you,” gasped the pastor. “He--alone.”
“I trust in Him; if He should try me with bitternesses I will try
to submit--but sometimes----Yesterday I saw an old man on the
Rhine--struggling with a barge--and as it advanced a little it was
swept back; and he strove again--and once more gained an inch--and was
driven back; and as I watched he made a little desperate headway. My
affairs are even as that poor man’s--I must strive and strive, and be
content if with much labour I gain a little.”
He staggered to his feet and bent low over the pillow.
“What can I do for you?” he whispered. He was sobbing bitterly.
“Nothing--do not weep.”
The old man caught his coat and arm.
“I am content,” he said. “I dreamt of this--when M. de Witt divided us
because I taught you who you were.”
There fell a soft, meaning silence. There could be heard the faint peal
of the joy-bells coming through the summer dark.…
William supported the old man in a trembling embrace.
M. Triglandt caught one of the loose curls that hung over the Prince’s
shoulder and pressed it to his lips … then his hands clasped tightly on
his breast.
He nodded like one falling asleep.
Then suddenly his eyes opened wide.
“Say--‘God bless you,’” sobbed the Prince desperately.
“God bless you--God be with you always.”
He gathered sudden energy; he smiled and raised his right hand.
“Thou art King, O God; send help unto Jacob. Through Thee will we
overthrow our enemies, and in Thy name will we tread them under that
rise up against us; for we will not trust in our bow.”
The dying man’s voice swelled with exaltation--
“It is not our sword that shall help us; but it is _Thou_ who savest us
from our enemies and puttest them to confusion that hate us.…”
He fell into soft, yet triumphant accents--
“We will make our boast of … God … all day long … and will … praise Thy
name … for ever.”
His hand sank.
“William … my child.…”
M. Triglandt closed his eyes … his breath was almost stilled.
Outside the joy-bells rang, and the Stadtholder cast himself across the
homely bed in a passionate agony of bitter tears.
“God--be merciful--to me--a sinner--and alone!”
CHAPTER VIII
THE STADTHOLDER
A heavy mist of sun-filled vapour lay over the camp at Bodegraven.
The vivid green meadows lay flat to the dun-coloured sky. A white
cottage with painted shutters, a vine-covered porch, and a garden full
of sweet-peas and roses, poppies and herbs, stood by a clump of alders
amid the tents and pickets.
Above it floated the Orange flag. In one of its small rooms the young
Stadtholder sat, his elbow on the table, his brow in his hand.
M. de Zuylestein and William Bentinck stood by the open window; and
Florent Van Mander was speaking with a force and an energy to which he
had never before been roused.
“If Your Highness would consider.”
His Highness would consider nothing. Cornelius Triglandt had died
in his arms at dawn that day, and already time was closing over the
event--but not over the pain.
Van Mander addressed himself to the two gentlemen in the window
embrasure.
“I swear to you these overtures were made to me in Zeyst. Will you take
no heed of them?”
M. de Zuylestein frowned.
“What you say amounts to this--that some agents of King Louis have
broached to you a scheme for the assassination of His Highness.”
Van Mander answered firmly--
“I journeyed straight to the Hague to inform the Prince--I have had
till now no opportunity of speaking.”
Inwardly he was referring to the past night. He could have cried out
the great pride and joy he felt in serving a Prince who had revealed
himself at the death-bed of Cornelius Triglandt, a master whom he knew
at last.
He longed to prove his devotion, to die for the Prince and the country.
He burned with shame when he recalled that he had once tampered with
France.
“Madame Lavalette is at the bottom of it.…”
He continued his narration.
“And one Hyacinthe St. Croix.… She hath a spite against His Highness.…
M. de Louvois thinks there could be no greater disaster to the country
than the loss of the Prince.… They approached me--” he paused, “because
I had formerly dealings with St. Croix,” he added with an effort.
The Stadtholder raised swollen eyes.
“Let it be,” he said wearily.
M. Bentinck interrupted--
“Sir, you must take some notice of this plot.”
“It is beneath me to consider my own safety,” said William in the same
tone.
Van Mander approached the table earnestly.
“This is deep--there is one Michael Tichelaer in it--a Dutch barber; a
higher name than his----”
“I will not hear it,” replied the Prince with impatience.
“This is mere bravado,” exclaimed M. de Zuylestein.
“We have other things to occupy us,” replied the Prince.
“Sir,” declared Van Mander ardently, “I must insist that you listen to
me.… Once more the French will send you terms … should you again refuse
them--they have resolved to compass your death.”
The Stadtholder was still indifferent.
“These plots are hatched against every man of position.”
“There is danger at home as well as in the French camp,” insisted
Florent. “A great name was mentioned.”
“Whose?” asked M. Bentinck eagerly.
“That of M. Cornelius de Witt.”
The Prince looked up sharply, roused at length by this.
“Impossible!” he exclaimed.
“I spoke with the fellow he had confided in,” Van Mander answered;
“this Michael Tichelaer, who saw him soon after Your Highness was
proclaimed in Dordt.… He was very precise: M. de Witt railed against
Your Highness, said you would marry a foreign Princess and make
yourself absolute in the United Provinces--and to prevent this and to
bring the republicans back to power he desired this Tichelaer to go to
the camp and kill Your Highness----”
The Stadtholder interrupted.
“I believe none of it.”
M. Bentinck, however, was not so sure.
“At least investigate the story.”
But all further speech was arrested by the announcement of the expected
envoys from the Allies.
M. de Zuylestein drew Van Mander aside.
“I will see you afterwards; your tale requires looking
into--particularly as regards M. de Witt. The Prince is too rash.”
It was Sir Gabriel Sylvius who brought the final answer from King
Louis; the terms that William III. hoped, through the intervening
influence of the English, might prove more reasonable.
Sir Gabriel was accompanied by Mr. Jermyn and an Englishman very
different from either Buckingham or Arlington, Sir Edward Seymour, of
the proudest name in the three kingdoms.
The young Stadtholder received them with perfect composure; all trace
of weariness left his manner.
“Your Highness,” began Sir Gabriel, “I bring to you the final
conditions of peace of the Kings of France and England.”
He handed the Prince a letter.
“I would advise Your Highness not to look at it till you have dined--I
fear it will not please you.”
William swept a glance over the assembled faces, then tore open the
envelope.
It contained a letter from the two English Ministers, and a copy of
a treaty recently drawn up at Heeswyck between Charles and Louis, in
which the two monarchs agreed to press their demands in concert and not
to enter into any separate treaty with the Republic, whom they thus
hoped to reduce to extremity.
Turning from this document, which destroyed all his hopes of detaching
Charles from the French alliance, William cast his eyes over the
Articles of Peace.
They stood the same as before, save that to the haughty demands of
France were added the immoderate claims of England.
A passionate colour rushed into the young Stadtholder’s thin cheek.
He gave a stifled exclamation, and for a second it seemed as if he
would tear the papers across and fling them in the face of the envoys
who had brought them.
But he controlled himself, and made a movement as if he would have
thrust them into the breast of his coat, forgetting he wore a cuirass.
Recollecting himself he flung the documents down on the table.
“Your Highness,”--Sir Edward addressed him, coming forward--“we are
directed to ask for your answer, and the answer of the States, within
ten days.”
William looked at him, and saw a high-bred gentleman, handsome and
proud, with languid brown eyes; and dressed richly in a murrey-coloured
travelling costume.
“You are Sir Edward Seymour?” queried the Stadtholder.
The Englishman bowed.
“Why are you sent here, Sir Edward?” demanded William. “Sir Gabriel
could have brought the dispatch alone.”
The bluntness of this slightly discomposed Sir Edward’s stateliness.
He made a little motion with his riding-whip towards the Dutch nobles--
“These are in Your Highness’ confidence?”
“Oh, say what you have to say, Sir Edward,” cried the Prince
impatiently.
Seymour was considering him curiously.
“My lord Buckingham made an offer to Your Highness----”
“Which I refused.”
“--in the hope of detaching the English from the French alliance,”
added Sir Edward. “You now see, Sir, that such a hope is useless.”
“Well?”
“It is my embassage to repeat that offer to Your Highness. To show the
consideration in which their Majesties hold you--they again offer you
the sovereignty of Holland--in exchange for the towns not yet in King
Louis’ possession.”
William III. looked at him straightly.
“I thank you and your master for these proposals,” he said coldly, “but
they are renewed twenty-four hours too late.… Yesterday I took an oath
of fidelity to the States as Stadtholder.… You have my answer.”
Sir Edward bowed.
“I may remind Your Highness that you stand in a desperate--almost a
hopeless--position.”
The Prince answered proudly--
“I am not by nature timorous, Sir Edward, and do not fear to have to
fight for liberty.”
“Have you well considered----”
William interrupted--
“Sir, I would rather spend the rest of my life hunting on one of
my German estates than sell my country for any price that could be
offered.”
Sir Edward was not as Buckingham, nor even as Arlington; he bowed
again, this time with an air of respect.
Every one was silent, holding himself with reserve.
The slanting ray of sun that fell through the open lattice window,
laden with the scent of the roses and sweet-peas, seemed incongruous
with this contained and grave assembly.
The Prince turned about as if considering something. They felt that
he was going to speak, and waited for it. Seymour regarded him keenly,
with the air of a man who knows and values what he sees.
The Stadtholder paused by the table, and rested his beautiful hand upon
the papers his messenger had brought.
“You shall have an answer in less than ten days,” he said. “I will take
these terms myself to the Assembly----”
He paused, and drew himself erect with something of an effort; his
reddened eyes flashed with an intense expression of dauntless defiance.
He spoke again, and with irresistible force--
“The King of France considers it a fine amusement to ruin an
unoffending country--he thinks it will be easy to crush a petty Prince.
You, my lords, doubtless pity me my vain resistance--but you know not
what you smile at. The French insult us with outrageous terms. Not
Cæsar to the Gauls, nor Alexander to the Persians was more haughty; but
we are not as Darius--France will repent this insolence. We will, from
this little spark, blow up a war shall see Europe in arms and shake the
Continent! No peace, they say; but they shall come to sue for it, be
it thirty years or fifty years hence! There is a force can hold back
Condé’s blood-flushed cavalry and keep in check the battalions Turenne
leads; there is a strength can pit itself against these servitors of
the Pope and match itself against the pride of France; and from this
conquered land it springs. Long and bloody the struggle may be that
forces the aggressor back across his frontier; but it will break his
pride, and he shall come to wish that he had taken our honourable
terms--for, by my soul! as I am Captain of my country’s hopes, and of
their faith the Protector, I shall not sheathe the sword until this
presuming arrogance is tamed and Europe breathes in liberty!
“We are not vanquished yet! Though they reckon we are beneath their
heel, yet we will show them otherwise. We are no nation of weaklings,
nor am I a puppet ruler.
“I am the guardian of this Republic, and I will be worthy of the
charge--so help me God!
“My lords, there is no more to say.”
A long minute’s stillness followed. Then Sir Edward Seymour spoke.
“I do not trespass on my duty if I say that I admire the temper that
Your Highness shows; I should be pleased to be as fortunate as King
Louis, but better pleased to be as courageous as Your Highness.”
“Thank you, my lord,” answered William. “I hope that we may meet again
under fairer conditions.”
He held out his hand and Sir Edward kissed it, bowed, very courtly, and
withdrew, followed by M. St. Jermyn, his suite, and the Dutch nobles
who formed his escort.
The Stadtholder, coughing, turned to the mantelpiece and put his hand
over his aching eyes.
“Bentinck, I must return to the Hague--at once.”
“With these dispatches?”
“Yes--the States must assemble----”
M. Zuylestein stepped forward--
“This assassination plot----”
“Can I think of that--now?”
“M. Cornelius de Witt is involved----”
“I do not believe it.” This impatiently, with a frown.
Florent Van Mander came from the window embrasure and went on one knee
on the red-tiled floor.
William looked at him and hesitated to speak harshly.
This young man seemed to him a link with the past night; he had been
witness of his tears.…
William bit his under-lip and listened.
Florent told his story hurriedly but clearly. Madame Lavalette, under
the guise of a traveller from Brussels, accompanied by St. Croix and
Michael Tichelaer as her servants, was to take up her quarters in some
village near the Prince’s camp.…
Florent broke off.
He looked at M. Zuylestein.
William was not attending.
“The matter is serious!” cried Van Mander desperately.
The Stadtholder did not seem to know that the narrative had ceased.
“Highness,” said M. Bentinck.
William was looking at the dispatches on the table.
“I will hear it presently,” he said.
“Presently may be too late----”
Florent was again interrupted.
A messenger from the Hague with a letter from M. de Witt.
The Prince flushed at sight of the writing, and was breaking the seal
when an officer entered to say that a private messenger from King
Charles desired a secret audience of the Prince.
William cast down the letter and listened eagerly.
It had always been his passionate hope to detach his uncle from the
King of France.
“Who was it?”
“A Frenchman, who had his passport and credentials and had shown them
to Count Struym.”
The Stadtholder would see him--at once. He turned all save Bentinck
from the room, he knew that Charles liked to act under a mask of
secrecy.
“Though you may,” smiled William, “listen at the window.”
He was all animation, hope, and eagerness. If Charles should come to
secret terms the Republic was saved.
Florent, very pale, still urged his interrupted tale--
“This may be the very man!”
“Afterwards,” said William,--“afterwards!”
The messenger was introduced; a Frenchman of commonplace exterior, his
demeanour very humble. The Stadtholder, alone with him save for M.
Bentinck, spoke with impetuous frankness.
“What does my uncle want of me? I will do anything consistent with my
vows to the Republic.”
Arlington had sent an extraordinary proposal. Lord Halifax was in the
King’s confidence, he said, and was now in Holland.… Would the Prince
meet him, unknown to the French--secretly?
William gave an immediate consent, but Bentinck interrupted.
“You are dangerously rash, Highness; this man’s tale is strange, and
his errand still stranger for a Frenchman to have come upon. Sir Edward
Seymour gave you no hint of this.”
But the Prince was dazzled by the bait.
“I can refuse no chance of coming to an agreement with King Charles.”
He turned to the messenger, but before his first word the door was
opened and Florent Van Mander entered, his hand on his sword and his
face resolute.
“Sir, that man is Hyacinthe St. Croix--a tool of M. de Pomponne--a spy
of M. de Louvois--an assassin!”
St. Croix saw himself betrayed by a man whom he had been very sure of;
his face lowered with the rage of it, but he had his answer.
“Does Your Highness allow your private business to be thus interrupted?”
The Stadtholder looked from one to another. M. Bentinck came nearer to
him.
“This is the plot of which I warned Your Highness--the attempt to get
you into the power of your enemies--to compass your death!” cried
Florent hotly.
St. Croix affected to sneer.
“I do not know the man--will Your Highness listen to these children’s
tales----?”
“Do not know me?--I have some letters of yours.”
William marked St. Croix’ expression.
“By your leave, Monsieur,” he said, “I will look into this.”
The Frenchman saw the game was up; he seized his last, flying chance.…
Quick his little, keen dagger was out, and he made a swift movement to
thrust it above the armlet of the Prince’s cuirass; there, where, by a
little unguarded space, the heart might be reached.
Florent threw himself upon him.…
With a passionate sound of rage against the stolid Hollander who had
roused at last, St. Croix turned. There was a second’s struggle; the
sunlight winked along the steel.…
Florent pitched over backwards with closed eyes and an open mouth; St.
Croix tore the door wide and fled.
The thing had not taken two minutes--it was less than ten since St.
Croix had entered the room.
The Prince and William Bentinck caught Van Mander.
“He was right!” cried William fiercely; “the man was one of Louvois’
spies.”
“Murderers,” said M. Bentinck; “he has stabbed the fellow.”
The handle of the dagger, silver and ivory, stuck out horribly from the
breast of Florent Van Mander, who gasped thickly and beat his heels on
the tiles.
“Ah, poor fool,” muttered William, supporting him, “he was saving me.
After the Frenchman, Bentinck!”
Florent clutched at the dagger-hilt with convulsive fingers.
“Take care--M. de Witt--Tichelaer----” He struggled; but the Prince,
for all his frail look, supported him easily enough.
“I am sorry for this,” he said. “I am sorry.”
Florent Van Mander, selfish place-seeker, careless of his country, and
in the pay of France once, has died for a sentiment of honour in the
Stadtholder’s arms, even as last night he had seen Cornelius Triglandt
die.…
Can William of Orange so inspire one man?--then he may so inspire a
whole nation with the last desperate courage. If Florent Van Mander
will die for him there will be others also reckless of their lives if
they may serve Nassau by laying them down.…
It is calling to horse now, riding to and fro, excitement rising up,
reined in.… The last defiance has been flung to France!… The States
must refuse these terms.…
The Stadtholder thrusts the dispatches and the letter from M. de Witt,
unopened, into the pocket of his mantle, mounts his grey horse and
spurs off for the Hague.
The last rays of the sun that peep over the tiger-lilies and
sweet-peas at the dead face of Florent Van Mander shine also in the
harness of the Stadtholder and his suite, as they ride along the smooth
road, between the canals, the locks where the water-lilies rest, the
deep, thick-grown meadows where the cattle graze, the little homes with
the coloured shutters, the thatched windmills, the poplars and alders,
the low fields where the storks sit, through the silent twilight
towards the Hague.
CHAPTER IX
IN THE ASSEMBLY
In the old Palace of the Princes of Orange, that had been the dwelling
of the Counts of Holland when the Hague was merely their hunting
estate, and now for twenty years the meeting-place for the Government
of John de Witt, Their High Mightinesses, the States, were assembled.
The sunshine filled the great chamber, showing the tapestry on the
walls, the marble chimney-pieces, the painted ceiling, in the full
dazzle of their gorgeous colours.
In the centre, within a space enclosed by a balustrade, sat the nobles
and the Deputies of eighteen towns.
At the end of the table at which they sat stood the Grand Pensionary’s
chair--empty during a debate for the first time in twenty years.
Behind this chair were the benches, filled by the councillor deputies;
next them a table belonging to the Deputies of Haarlem, Delft, Leyden,
and Brill.
Opposite were the tables belonging to Amsterdam, Rotterdam, Gouda,
Gorcum, Schiedam, and Schoonhoven.
Either side the western fireplace sat the secretaries of the towns, and
directly facing them was the raised velvet arm-chair of the Stadtholder.
An air of expectancy and gloom lay over the whole Assembly. The white,
anxious faces of the States were in sharp contrast to the peaceful
scene visible through the fine tall windows; the sparkling water of the
Vyver, the swans sailing round their green islands, the stately avenues
of chestnuts and elms beyond.
Every one in the chamber was looking at the Stadtholder.
He stood on the step before his chair and held the dispatches brought
him yesterday by Sir Gabriel Sylvius. He wore the habit he had
travelled in: cuirass, high boots, dark velvet, and a purple scarf.
He wore his beaver with the long black plume; across his chair were
thrown mantle and gloves.
His bright glance swept the silent, agitated faces turned towards him.
He opened the dispatches and read the terms of France:--
“Possession of all the towns of the Republic in Brabant and
Flanders--the frontiers of the United Provinces to be withdrawn
as far as the river Leek--this leaving Guelders, Beteuse, and
Loevenstein in the hands of France.
“Overyssel to be given to the Bishop of Munster. Rynberg to be
ceded to the Elector of Cologne. Delfyzl and its dependencies
to be ceded to the King of England.
“Crevecœur, Hertogenbosch, and Maestricht to be handed over to
the French.
“The Catholic religion to be freely allowed in the States.
“The revocation of all edicts hurtful to French commerce.
“The Dutch East and West India companies to submit to the
French companies; a separate treaty on this matter to be
concluded in three months.
“Free passage and passport for any subject of France.
“An indemnity of war, the tribute of 12,000,000 florins.
“A formal embassy to be sent every year to France, to present
the King with a gold medal as token of homage; the motto on it
to be a humble thanksgiving for His Majesty’s mercy in leaving
the United Provinces some liberty.”
William paused, and again looked round the States.
“These are the final terms of France,” he said. “You have heard them
before, my lords--they are not softened nor abated, and to them now
are added these, which His Majesty of France demands for the King of
England.”
Consternation and anguish showed in every face.
The senators of Rotterdam were weeping. Some sat rigid, with clasped
hands and fixed eyes; others drooped with hanging heads, bowed by the
bitterness of this humiliation.
No one spoke.
The Prince read from the next page--
“This, demanded on behalf of the King of England, in
consideration of the treaty of Heeswyck, whereby the King of
France is resolved to accept no peace if the King of England is
not satisfied with his claims.
“First the salute of the flag, even from an entire Dutch fleet
to a single British vessel.
“Satisfaction in Surinam.
“The extradition of political refugees.
“1,000,000 pounds for the expenses of the war, 400,000 in the
following October, the remainder in six annual instalments of
100,000.
“A rent of 100,000 pounds for the herring fishery.
“The sovereignty of the remaining portion of the United
Provinces for the Prince of Orange, as reigning and hereditary
King.
“A new treaty of commerce, relative to the Indies.
“The surrender of Sluys, Walcheren, Cadzant, Goree, and Voorne
as guarantee.”
The Stadtholder raised his head and once more surveyed the Assembly.
“My name is mentioned here--not my friends but my enemies desire for me
this infamous honour.… France and England have had my answer--what do
_you_ say, my lords?”
He sat down, still looking at them, grave, reserved, and stern.
The States remained dumb and helpless; they dare not decide. The utter
bitterness and hopelessness of their situation robbed them of their
courage and their resolution. They felt themselves already slaves; they
saw their country already a province of France. They were mute, and in
most eyes the tears glittered.
Gaspard Fagel rose. He pressed for the opinion of His Highness.… The
States flung themselves on the wisdom and valour of His Highness … the
people had elected him to be their Captain and guide.
“Most noble lords,” answered the Stadtholder, “your decision is
required.”
They joined in persuading him to give his advice; they turned to him
desperately as the one spark of hope in all the black prospect.
He rose again.
The sun was streaming through the window at his side, and made a star
in his cuirass; the little silver-gilt chains round his ankles, that
held his spurs over the soft riding-boots, gave a pleasant clink as he
moved.
He held his left hand on the great basket-work hilt of his sword, and
his right on the scarf across his breast.
“Your Noble Mightinesses ask for my advice. I will say to you what I
know you all have in your hearts.
“There is but one answer to these terms--the coldest, most contemptuous
refusal.
“Who but an abject wretch would subscribe to such conditions while he
had breath in his body?
“By Heaven! I would rather be torn to pieces than consent to any such
humiliation and shame.”
A stir ran through the Assembly.
“I do not despair,” continued the Stadtholder passionately. “Though we
seem reduced to desperate extremity, yet is our case not hopeless if we
make our answer to France sword in hand.… To die honourably is better
than a miserable safety.… It is not possible for us to be the slaves of
France. My lords, you will reject these shameful conditions.”
They sat mute. They had placed their fortunes between his hands; he was
the master of their destiny--the destiny of the United Provinces.
Most of them were learned men of much experience who had been long in
office; all of them were older than the man they looked to, by many
years.
He and they could remember when he was a mere name in the State, the
prisoner of Their Noble Mightinesses. Some of them had slighted, all
ignored him.
Yet now this young man’s voice, calm, decisive above the tumult and
the anguish, swayed them all. They caught desperately at his words, and
trusted themselves to the power of his dominant will.
For he alone stood resolute and undaunted before such dire straits as
could cause the guardians of the State to weep aloud.
He spoke again. If he had been schooled to silence all his life he did
not lack expression now, nor a natural eloquence and passionate force.
Some of the fire that animated him crept into his listeners’ hearts;
they could not listen to him and still despair.
“Are ye afraid of war? What greater ills can it bring than this peace
that makes us slaves?
“Is your trust in God so little that ye fear He will forsake us?
“This is not our downfall, but rather the downfall of the French. They,
intoxicated with success, have refused the concessions we made them;
and now they shall have no concessions, but lose all they ever gained.
“We have still enough men to defend the frontiers of Holland; Spain and
Brandenburg hasten to our aid.
“Break off these negotiations, my lords! They degrade us and dishearten
our allies. Shall we feed the pride of France by considering these high
mounting terms?
“By my honour, there is nothing I would not rather do than subscribe to
such a peace as this offered us!
“Sooner would I be an exile at the Elector’s court, dependent on his
bounty, than be a King at the instance of France.
“My lords, I have no fear that I shall fail. God, who set apart Samson
and raised up Gideon to smite the Midianitish host, will strengthen me.
“Even if the country goes--even if we lose the United Provinces--our
Faith is stronger than our country and may survive it. If we are the
only people in Europe true to the pure Church, still may we save her
from the tyranny and corruption of the enemy. There is another land, a
wider continent, where we may worship in peace and live unmolested;
where we may raise another Amsterdam as rich as this. As we have built
our cities here on land reclaimed from the sea, so may we build others
there in the wilderness.
“My noble lords, in your ports is shipping sufficient to carry two
hundred thousand people to our colonies.
“In the Indian Archipelago we may rear other churches in which the Mass
will never be heard, and found another commonwealth in which liberty
will be secure.
“Even if we are driven from Europe, in Asia we may still seek a refuge.
This were better than submission; but first, there is one ally to whom
we may turn for aid.”
He paused, breathing a little hurriedly, and flung off his hat as if it
irked him.
His composed, inspired, and courageous face was fully visible now to
the States gazing at him. His eyes clear, bright and unflinching as an
eagle’s, took in the Assembly at a glance.
No one wept now.
Enthusiasm rose high, swelled, and gathered. They began to forget that
they had ever despaired. The weakest was braced by inward fire, the
throb of pride, the uplift of patriotism and piety.
The Prince smiled.
“One ally,” he repeated, “who saved us once before.”
He loosened his grip on his sword, and the gilt steel slipped with a
rattle.
“The sea,” he said, “the sea!”
A sound like a muffled sob broke from the Assembly.
Some of the Deputies rose to their feet.
M. Beuningen hid his face in his hands, and his shoulders shook.
“My noble lords,” said the Stadtholder, “we can open the dykes.”
The burgomaster of the famous city of Amsterdam held out his hand.
“I will answer for Amsterdam, Your Highness!”
“You know what it will mean,” returned the Prince. “Ruin to
many--villas, farms, pleasure gardens buried beneath the water--a
sacrifice! I ask no light thing of you--but is it not better than
foreign dominion?”
“We will set the example,” cried the burgomaster of Amsterdam.