The next day after the meeting of the council, Burgomaster Van der
Werff, Herr Van Hout, and a notary, attended by two constables, went to
Nobelstrasse to set old Fraulein Van Hoogstraten’s property in order.
The fathers of the city had determined to seize the Glippers’ abandoned
dwellings and apply the property found in them to the benefit of the
common cause.
The old lady’s hostility to the patriots was known to all, and as her
nearest relatives, Herr Van Hoogstraten and Matanesse Van Wibisma, had
been banished from Leyden, the duty of representing the heirs fell upon
the city. It was to be expected that only notorious Glippers would
be remembered in the dead woman’s will, and if this was the case, the
revenue from the personal and real estate would fall to the city, until
the deserters mended their ways, and adopted a course of conduct that
would permit the magistrates to again open their gates to them. Whoever
continued to cling to the Spaniards and oppose the cause of liberty,
would forfeit his share of the inheritance. This was no new procedure.
King Philip had taught its practice, nay not only the estates of
countless innocent persons who had been executed, banished or gone into
voluntary exile for the sake of the new religion, but also the property
of good Catholic patriots had been confiscated for his benefit. After
being anvil so many years, it is pleasant to play hammer; and if
that was not always done in a proper and moderate way, people excused
themselves on the ground of having experienced a hundred-fold harsher
and more cruel treatment from the Spaniards. It might have been
unchristian to repay in the same coin, but they dealt severe blows only
in mortal conflict, and did not seek the Glippers’ lives.
At the door of the house of death, the magistrates met the musician
Wilhelm Corneliussohn and his mother, who had come to offer Henrica
a hospitable reception in their house. The mother, who had at first
refused to extend her love for her neighbor to the young Glipper girl,
now found it hard to be deprived of the opportunity to do a good work,
and gave expression to these feelings in the sturdy fashion peculiar to
her.
Belotti was standing in the entry, no longer attired in the silk hose
and satin-bordered cloth garments of the steward, but in a plain burgher
dress. He told the musician and Peter, that he remained in Leyden
principally because he could not bear to leave the sick maid, Denise,
in the lurch; but other matters also detained him, especially, though he
was reluctant to acknowledge it, the feeling, strengthened by long years
of service, that he belonged to the Hoogstraten house. The dead woman’s
attorney had said that his account books were in good order, and
willingly paid the balance due him. His savings had been well invested,
and as he never touched the interest, but added to the capital, had
considerably increased. Nothing detained him in Leyden, yet he could not
leave it until everything was settled in the house where he had so long
ruled.
He had daily inquired for the sick lady, and after her death, though
Denise began to recover, still lingered in Leyden; he thought it his
duty to show the last honors to the dead by attending her funeral.
The magistrates were glad to find Belotti in the house. The notary had
managed his little property, and respected him as an honest man. He
now asked him to act as guide to his companions and himself. The most
important matter was to find the dead woman’s will. Such a document must
be in existence, for up to the day after Henrica’s illness it had been
in the lawyer’s possession, but was then sent for by the old lady, who
desired to make some changes in it. He could give no information about
its contents, for his dead partner, whose business had fallen to him,
had assisted in drawing it up.
The steward first conducted the visitors to the padrona’s sitting-room
and boudoir, but though they searched the writing-tables, chests and
drawers, and discovered many letters, money and valuable jewels in boxes
and caskets, the document was not found.
The gentlemen thought it was concealed in a secret drawer, and ordered
one of the constables to call a locksmith. Belotti allowed this to be
done, but meantime listened with special attention to the low chanting
that issued from the bedroom where the old lady’s body lay. He knew that
the will would most probably be found there, but was anxious to have the
priest complete the consecration of his mistress undisturbed. As soon
as all was still in the death-chamber, he asked the gentlemen to follow
him.
The lofty apartment into which he led them, was filled with the odor
of incense. A large bedstead, over which a pointed canopy of heavy silk
rose to the ceiling, stood at the back, the coffin in which the dead
woman lay had been placed in the middle of the room. A linen cloth,
trimmed with lace, covered the face. The delicate hands, still
unwrinkled, were folded, and lightly clasped a well-worn rosary. The
lifeless form was concealed beneath a costly coverlid, in the centre of
which lay an exquisitely-carved ivory crucifix.
The visitors bowed mutely before the corpse. Belotti approached it and,
as he saw the padrona’s well-known hands, a convulsive sob shook the old
man’s breast. Then he knelt beside the coffin, pressed his lips, to the
cold, slender fingers, and a warm tear, the only one shed for this dead
form, fell on the hands now clasped forever.
The burgomaster and his companion did not interrupt him, even when
he laid his forehead upon the wood of the coffin and uttered a brief,
silent prayer. After he had risen, and an elderly priest in the
sacerdotal robes had left the room, Father Damianus beckoned to the
acolytes, with whom he had lingered in the background, and aided by
them and Belotti put the lid on the coffin, then turned to Peter Van der
Werff, saying:
“We intend to bury Fraulein Van Hoogstraten at midnight, that no offence
may be given.”
“Very well, sir!” replied the burgomaster. “Whatever may happen, we
shall not expel you from the city. Of course, if you prefer to go to the
Spaniards--”
Damianus shook his head and, interrupting the burgomaster, answered
modestly:
“No, sir; I am a native of Utrecht and will gladly pray for the liberty
of Holland.”
“There, there!” exclaimed Van Hout. “Those were good words, admirable
words! Your hand, Father.”
“There it is; and, so long as you don’t change the ‘haec libertatis
ergo’ on your coins to ‘haec religionis ergo,’ not one of those words
need be altered.”
“A free country and in it religious liberty for each individual, even
for you and your followers,” said the burgomaster, “is what we desire.
Doctor Bontius has spoken of you, worthy man; you have cared well for
this dead woman. Bury her according to the customs of your church; we
have come to arrange the earthly possessions she leaves behind. Perhaps
this casket may contain the will.”
“No, sir,” replied the priest. “She opened the sealed paper in my
presence, when she was first taken sick, and wrote a few words whenever
she felt stronger. An hour before her end, she ordered the notary to
be sent for, but when he came life had departed. I could not remain
constantly beside the corpse, so I locked up the paper in the linen
chest. There is the key.”
The opened will was soon found. The burgomaster quietly unfolded it,
and, while reading its contents aloud, the notary and city clerk looked
over his shoulder.
The property was to be divided among various churches and convents,
where masses were to be read for her soul, and her nearest blood
relations. Belotti and Denise received small legacies.
“It is fortunate,” exclaimed Van Hout, “that this paper is a piece of
paper and nothing more.”
“The document has no legal value whatever,” added the notary, “for it
was taken from me and opened with the explicit statement, that changes
were to be made. Here is a great deal to be read on the back.”
The task, that the gentlemen now undertook, was no easy one, for the
sick woman had scrawled short notes above and below, hither and thither,
on the blank back of the document, probably to assist her memory while
composing a new will.
At the very top a crucifix was sketched with an unsteady hand, and
below it the words: “Pray for us! Everything shall belong to holy Mother
Church.”
Farther down they read: “Nico, I like the lad. The castle on the downs.
Ten thousand gold florins in money. To be secured exclusively to him.
His father is not to touch it. Make the reason for disinheriting him
conspicuous. Van Vliet of Haarlem was the gentleman whose daughter my
cousin secretly wedded. On some pitiful pretext he deserted her, to form
another marriage. If he has forgotten it, I have remembered and would
fain impress it upon him. Let Nico pay heed: False love is poison. My
life has been ruined by it--ruined.”
The second “ruined” was followed by numerous repetitions of the same
word. The last one, at the very end of the sentence, had been ornamented
with numerous curves and spirals by the sick woman’s pen.
On the right-hand margin of the sheet stood a series of short notes
“Ten thousand florins to Anna. To be secured to herself. Otherwise they
will fall into the clutches of that foot-pad, d’Avila.
“Three times as much to Henrica. Her father will pay her the money--from
the sum he owes me. Where he gets it is his affair. Thus the account
with him would be settled.
“Belotti has behaved badly. He shall be passed over.
“Denise may keep what was given her.”
In the middle of the paper, written in large characters, twice and
thrice underlined, was the sentence: “The ebony-casket with the
Hoogstraten and d’Avila arms on the lid is to be sent to the widow of
the Marquis d’Avennes. Forward it to Chateau Rochebrun in Normandy.”
The men, who had mutually deciphered these words, looked at each other
silently, until Van Hout exclaimed:
“What a confused mixture of malice and feminine weakness. Let a woman’s
heart seem ever so cold; glacier flowers will always be found in it.”
“I’m sorry for the young lady in your house, Herr Peter,” cried the
notary, “it would be easier to get sparks from rye-bread, than such
a sum from the debt-laden poor devil. The daughter’s portion will
be curtailed by the father; that’s what I call bargaining between
relations.”
“What can be in the casket?” asked the notary.
“There it is,” cried Van Hout.
“Bring it here, Belotti.”
“We must open it,” said the lawyer, “perhaps she is trying to convey her
most valuable property across the frontiers.”
“Open it? Contrary to the dead woman’s express desire?” asked Van der
Werff.
“Certainly!” cried the notary. “We were sent here to ascertain the
amount of the inheritance. The lid is fastened. Take the picklock,
Meister. There, it is open.” The city magistrates found no valuables
in the casket, merely letters of different dates. There were not many.
Those at the bottom, yellow with age, contained vows of love from the
Marquis d’Avennes, the more recent ones were brief and, signed Don Louis
d’Avila. Van Hout, who understood the Castilian language in which they
were written, hastily read them. As he was approaching the end of the
last one, he exclaimed with lively indignation:
“We have here the key of a rascally trick in our hands! Do you remember
the excitement aroused four years ago by the duel, in which the Marquis
d’Avennes fell a victim to a Spanish brawler? The miserable bravo
writes in this letter that he has.... It will be worth the trouble; I’ll
translate it for you. The first part of the note is of no importance;
but now comes the point: ‘And now, after having succeeded in crossing
swords with the marquis and killing him, not without personal danger,
a fate he has doubtless deserved, since he aroused your displeasure
to such a degree, the condition you imposed upon me is fulfilled, and
to-morrow I hope through your favor to receive the sweetest reward. Tell
Donna Anna, my adored betrothed, that I would fain lead her to the
altar early to-morrow morning, for the d’Avennes are influential and the
following day my safety will perhaps be imperilled. As for the rest, I
hope I may be permitted to rely upon the fairness and generosity of my
patroness.”
Van Hout flung the letter on the table, exclaiming “See, what a dainty
hand the bravo writes. And, Jove’s thunder, the lady to whom this
plotted murder was to have been sent, is doubtless the mother of the
unfortunate marquis, whom the Spanish assassin slew.”
“Yes, Herr Van Hout,” said Belotti, “I can confirm your supposition. The
marquise was the wife of the man, who broke his plighted faith to the
young Fraulein Van Hoogstraten. She, who lies there, saw many suns rise
and set, ere her vengeance ripened.”
“Throw the scrawl into the fire!” cried Van Hout impetuously.
“No,” replied Peter. “We will not send the letters, but you must keep
them in the archives. God’s mills grind slowly, and who knows what good
purpose these sheets may yet serve.”
The city clerk nodded assent and folding the papers, said: “I think the
dead woman’s property will be an advantage to the city.”
“The Prince will dispose of it,” replied Van der Werff. “How long have
you served this lady, Belotti?”
“Fifteen years.”
“Then remain in Leyden for a time. I think you may expect the legacy she
originally left you. I will urge your claim.”
A few hours before the nocturnal burial of old Fraulein Van Hoogstraten,
Herr Matanesse Van Wibisma and his son Nicolas appeared before the city,
but were refused admittance by the men who guarded the gates, although
both appealed to their relative’s death. Henrica’s father did not come,
he had gone several days before to attend a tourney at Cologne.