Chapter XI: The Ball in the Binnenhof

“You are disappointed?” inquired Mr. Bromley.

Florent Van Mander answered slowly--

“I should have liked to stay in the Hague.”

“But you see it is impossible,” the Englishman assured him, with frank friendliness. “M. de Witt hath already spoken to His Highness about the harbouring of any who forsake his service,--and, indeed, the Prince is scarcely free to choose his household.”

Florent was silent. His desire was to serve the Prince personally, to have some chance of winning his favour, to be in the thick of events at the Hague, the seat of action.

Brandenburg seemed far away, and he had no interest in M. Bentinck. It was not for this that he had left John de Witt; but, having burnt his bridges behind him, there was nothing to do save to go on.

Mr. Bromley saw by his face he was not pleased.

“It shows His Highness thinks something of you, M. Mander,” he remarked, “that he puts himself to this trouble; and M. Bentinck is his best friend.”

They stood in one of the bare ante-chambers of the Prince’s Palace. M. Van Ghent had allowed William to see the secretary he was sending to the Elector’s court, and Florent awaited his audience.

He would rather have been alone or silent; but Matthew Bromley’s pleasant manners would not tolerate pauses. He snuffed the candles, pulled the dark curtains closer, and remarked that it was cold.

“And the night of the ball at the Binnenhof.”

“The Prince is going?” asked Florent.

“Yes,” Bromley answered, with some reserve.

The ball was in honour of the wedding of one of M. de Witt’s cousins; William’s invitation had been a command.

Florent looked at the Englishman keenly.

“You are very devoted to His Highness, are you not?” he asked curiously.

“I am,” said Matthew Bromley simply.

“But you were in M. de Witt’s employ----”

“Only before I knew the Prince.”

“That is what I mean,”--Florent spoke quickly,--“before you knew the Prince. He cannot do for you what M. de Witt could, indeed he can do nothing at all; why are you devoted to him?”

Mr. Bromley’s fair face took on a puzzled expression, he reflected, hesitated.

“I do not know,” he said at last.

Florent drew a deep breath.

“Neither do I.… I also have left M. de Witt, and, in a way, ruined myself, and I do not know why.”

“I like His Highness,” went on Mr. Bromley, still trying to honestly answer the question. “Why are _you_ devoted to him? But every one who comes near him would serve him to the death,” again he reflected; again he added, “I do not know why.”

He glanced up at Florent’s grave face and laughed.

“I have no interest in your politics, you see, Mynheer; for me one is like another. I think M. de Witt is a great and good man, and I really know nothing about the Prince’s character or designs--but, well, I just serve him.… I would follow him anywhere.”

Florent walked up and down the chamber. He wore his dark travelling clothes, for he was impatient, since he must go, to be off at once. The place had become intolerable of late, since he was always afraid of meeting some of his old companions, or even M. de Witt himself.

Mr. Bromley rubbed his hands together. The large, princely, but bare, room was certainly both dreary and cold, scantily furnished, and ill lit by the two-branched candlesticks on the mantelshelf.

The pause was broken by the quick opening of the door.

Both the men looked round.

It was the Prince, though Florent did not instantly know him.

He wore a long dark mantle and a plumed hat. He did not uncover; he exacted as if by instinct the privileges of royalty, and his household conceded them. Despite M. de Witt he was surrounded by a court.

“Mynheer Van Mander,” he said, with his usual slowness.

Florent flushed and bowed--over low for a good republican.

The Prince came down the long chamber.

“Are you prepared to go to Brandenburg?” he asked.

“Yes, Your Highness.”

William made no answer, and Florent glanced, half covertly, at his face.

The Prince was looking thoughtfully at the floor, his features almost concealed by the shadow of his hat. Under his mantle could be seen the soft colour of his pale violet coat; one of his bare hands rested on his cravat, in the other he held a letter.

He spoke without looking up--

“I do not know that you gain much by the change of masters, Mynheer Van Mander. It is very quiet at my uncle the Elector’s court, and M. Bentinck can only pay you moderately.”

“I have decided to accept the post, Your Highness.”

The Prince slowly raised the eyes he knew so well how to use, and let them rest a moment on Florent’s face.

“I can promise nothing to any one,” he said. “So if this is to worship the rising sun--think a little.”

Under William’s glance Florent’s first flush deepened.

“I shall be glad in any way to serve Your Highness,” he answered awkwardly.

William faintly smiled, and, half mockingly, put to him the question he had put to Matthew Bromley--

“Why?”

Florent faced the compelling gaze fixed on him, and found, this time, an answer.

“Your Highness makes me feel as I have never felt till now.”

“That is curious,” said the Prince, “for I have seen very little of you, Mynheer Van Mander.”

“But I have seen enough of Your Highness,” replied Florent.

The Prince was silent. His bearing seemed, if anything, to repel this homage, but Florent was sufficiently pleased that it was not utterly refused.

His annoyance at being sent to Brandenburg, his regrets for M. de Witt’s comfortable service, had vanished when he found himself in the presence of the Prince.

William’s subtle but amazingly powerful personal influence outweighed all considerations.

He awaited his instructions. He also had caught the trick of the Court; he followed Mr. Bromley’s example and waited for the Prince to address him.

William looked down again and coughed, then handed Florent the letter.

“This is for M. Bentinck, it is your introduction and your credentials. If you wish to serve me you will serve M. Bentinck--it is the same thing.”

Florent bent his head and placed the letter inside his breast pocket.

“M. Renswoude will meet you downstairs and give you the money for your journey,” continued the Prince. “Good-bye, Mynheer Van Mander.”

That was all.

William uttered none of those things that Florent, up to the last even, might have been expecting. Neither thanks nor caution did the Prince give him; did not bid him be faithful or discreet, yet expressed no trust in him; gave no explanation of, and passed no comment on, his choice of him for this service.

He walked slowly towards the door, and Florent, in leaving the room, must pass him.

The Prince suddenly held out his hand and smiled. Florent felt the blood glow in his face. He went on one knee and raised the soft, white, and beautiful hand to his lips.

William wore a diamond ring, and the lace round his wrist was faintly perfumed. Florent noticed this; it was part of the appeal of rank and tradition, the fascination of royalty.

When he rose the Prince was no longer smiling, but Florent was amply repaid for any sacrifice he had made in joining his service.

William turned away as he left the room and walked back to where Mr. Bromley waited.

“That man can be faithful,” he said as the door closed on Florent.

Mr. Bromley made a little grimace.

“He has not been faithful to M. de Witt, Highness.”

“But he will be loyal to me,” answered the Prince carelessly.

“You have the trick of it, Highness,” admitted Matthew Bromley.

William frowned. Mr. Bromley guessed him to be in an exceeding ill-humour and ventured on no more.

M. Van Ghent sent up to say he was waiting for His Highness. The Prince discovered that he had forgotten his gloves, and Mr. Bromley went for them.

When he returned the Prince was still in his anteroom and M. Van Ghent still waiting below.

William took the gloves leisurely.

“What are these?” he asked.

They were a pair of white doeskin which Mr. Bromley had from the Prince’s valet; he said so.

William turned them over, then put one on.

“They are a misfit and of paltry quality,” he remarked. “Who bought them?”

M. Heenvliet, who had been sent by the Prince’s tutor, entering at the moment, interrupted--

“The coach is ready, Your Highness, and M. Van Ghent is waiting.”

William gave him a half glance.

“Why, so you said.” He turned to Mr. Bromley. “Fetch La Motte.”

Matthew Bromley hesitated; but there was a set to the Prince’s cleft chin intimating to those who knew him that his mood was to override opposition.

Mr. Bromley obeyed.

William pulled off the white glove, and when the valet entered the room turned to him angrily--

“Who bought these?”

“Mynheer Heenvliet, Highness.”

“How much was given for them?”

La Motte looked at M. Heenvliet.

“The gloves cost six gulden a pair, Highness,” said that gentleman, “and they are such as Your Highness hath often worn before.”

“My faith, no!” replied William. “I have never worn such gauntlets. Six gulden a pair! I do not know what is the motive of this economy but I will not endure it, Mynheer.”

Kerckhove Lord of Heenvliet flushed.

“Your clothes are bought under the approval of M. Van Ghent, Highness, and the authority of Mynheer de Witt.”

The Prince’s eyes were dangerously bright.

“All of which makes no difference, Mynheer; my income is sufficient to dress me better than a German count.”

Mr. Bromley held his peace. It seemed to him that the gloves were well enough, and that the Prince wished to provoke his hated tutor, since His Highness lost no possible opportunity for annoying M. Van Ghent.

“This is merely vexatious, Highness,” said M. Heenvliet, “and I must again remind you that for a trifling affair you keep M. Van Ghent waiting.”

“It is no trifling affair, Mynheer,” answered William, “to find myself on every hand ill served.”

“That is not just, Highness.”

The Lord of Heenvliet was forcing back his temper.

William flung the gloves down on a chair.

“I do not intend to wear them, Mynheer, either to-night or any other time.”

M. Heenvliet bit his lip and turned to the valet. “Bring His Highness another pair of gloves.” He pulled out his watch impatiently, “We are already late.”

The Prince gave him a malicious look, and half smiled; to arrive late would be to solve the ugly question of precedence and would also mean a slight to M. de Witt.

“It is your place, Mynheer,” he answered, “to see that I am better furnished.”

He had never liked M. Heenvliet, who leant to the side of the Grand Pensionary.

“La Motte is a wearisome time,” remarked the first gentleman-in-waiting to cover a somewhat heavy pause.

“He finds it difficult to discover anything wearable, Mynheer,” answered the Prince calmly.

And to point his dislike of M. Heenvliet he approached Mr. Bromley, turning his back on the other.

“Are not you cold, Bromley? There should have been a fire here.”

“Indeed I think so, Highness,” answered the Englishman, who was not cold in the least, but who would have seconded the Prince in anything, even at the risk of his own disgrace.

It seemed that M. Heenvliet was about to answer this thrust at the management of the Palace, when M. Van Ghent entered with a vexed and flushed countenance.

“What is the cause of this delay?” he demanded, looking about him.

The Prince was coldly silent.

“His Highness complains of the gloves brought him,” answered M. Heenvliet, “and takes this occasion to complain of the way in which he is served.”

M. Van Ghent fixed his eyes on the Prince.

“Have I been kept waiting for this?”

“For this, Mynheer,” replied William.

The Prince’s governor appeared both angered and agitated. William’s dislike made his post a burden.

“M. de Witt will be displeased at our late arrival--and what excuse shall I make?”

William gave him a haughty look.

“Tell him I will not wear gloves at six gulden a pair, Mynheer; and that till I have a voice in the choice of my personal appointments I shall continue to be dissatisfied with them.”

M. Van Ghent, goaded, turned, with a weakness that further earned William’s contempt, on M. Heenvliet.

“Why is not His Highness consulted?”

“His Highness is shown the accounts,” answered the unfortunate gentleman-in-waiting.

“The accounts!” repeated His Highness sardonically. “’Tis the difference between them and what I am served with that I complain of.”

M. Heenvliet with difficulty controlled a hot answer.

M. Van Ghent picked up the gloves.

“What does Your Highness find fault with?” he asked.

“No gentleman in the Hague would wear them,” replied the Prince; “and I complain, Mynheer, of the insult offered me in providing them.”

“The gloves were bought after the pattern of others that have been to His Highness’ liking,” protested M. Heenvliet.

La Motte entered with another pair, white, trimmed with silver, that the Prince deigned to approve.

As he drew them on, his glance travelled from one to another with a malicious pleasure in the general discomfiture.

M. Van Ghent reprimanded M. Heenvliet, who in turn blamed the valet; Mr. Bromley looked uncomfortable.

William was the one unmoved; he even slightly smiled to see how red and annoyed was M. Van Ghent, and when he reflected how late they would be at the Binnenhof his smile deepened.

He would have refused to attend the ball at all had he dared; but the humiliation of his forced appearance was softened by the thought of a late arrival that would annoy M. de Witt, and cheat M. de Montbas and M. de Pomponne of the triumph of precedence.

“It is a pity to keep the horses waiting in the wet, Mynheer,” he remarked as he finished lacing his gloves. “I am ready.”

M. Van Ghent had to make the best of this, as he had to make the best of numerous encounters in which His Highness was invariably victorious.

The Prince made another difficulty about the coach, wishing to ride alone with Mr. Bromley. But here M. Van Ghent was firm; he trusted neither William nor Matthew Bromley, and himself accompanied His Highness.

It was a foggy night, a little rain falling, and the Prince avenged himself on his tutor by insisting on having both the coach windows down. He declared he could not breathe with them closed, and M. Van Ghent had to submit and allow the damp and the mist to enter, to his great discomfort. He shivered in his mantle; and William coughed in a way that seemed to show he did not greatly benefit by the arrangement himself, but he remained resolutely by the window, looking out at the streets of the Hague, his back towards his tutor and the mist gathering in drops of moisture on his velvet coat.

M. Van Ghent, who by no means enjoyed thrusting his company where it was so obviously resented, was greatly pleased when they reached the Binnenhof.

They had some difficulty in making their way through the coaches that blocked the courtyard. William noted with satisfaction, and M. Van Ghent with annoyance, that theirs was the last arrival.

It was on Mr. Bromley’s arm that the Prince leant in entering.

M. Van Ghent had no choice but to follow.

The Binnenhof was brilliantly lit, and decorated with an air of solid, unpretentious wealth characteristic of the United Provinces.

The Truce Saloon, built by the last Stadtholder, had been arranged as a ballroom.

This was a pleasant chamber. A row of handsome windows overlooked the Vyver, giving in summer a charming view over the water and as far as M. de Witt’s house in the Kneuterdyk Avenue; in autumn only the dim shapes of trees and the swans on the island were visible through the almost perpetual mist.

Now red velvet curtains screened the night, and a hundred wax candles gave a soft and lovely light.

It was an historic chamber also, and one that commemorated the dearly bought freedom of the Republic.

The pride of the Assembly and the fantasy of the artist had designed a symbolic decoration: circular ceiling paintings represented the different nations gazing down at the spectacle of the regained liberty of the United Provinces. A fine, warmly flushed picture of “Peace” faced the door, and above the deep fireplace its companion “War.”

In the centre of the ceiling “England” looked down, and appeared to be coming down too, since the foremost cavalier of the group had placed a red-stockinged leg outside his frame; which was good painting and better symbolism, said some sourly. Twenty years had passed, and there had begun to be reason to doubt the friendly “onlooking” of England. Her regard appeared of late to be filled with coldness and envy.

France, represented by an effeminate cavalier, had its place above the picture of “Peace.”

Every one agreed that as for symbolism this was not so good.

In the antechamber of the Truce Saloon, a fine apartment in panelled wood, the Prince found the Grand Pensionary.

With M. de Witt were M. Vivien, his brother-in-law and Pensionary of Dordt, Sir William Temple, and M. de Montbas.

M. Van Ghent stepped up to these gentlemen; but William’s hand tightened on Matthew Bromley’s arm and held him back.

The Englishman was quick to understand. His Highness’ gaze was resting on M. de Montbas, who wore the splendid uniform of the Captain General and was girded with the sword that meant command of all the forces of the United Provinces.

A shiver went through the Prince’s slender body; after a moment he left his gentleman and came forward.

M. de Witt greeted him quietly.

“I am sorry you are late, Highness,” he added quietly.

William gave his reply with perfect composure--

“It was greatly against my wish, Mynheer,” he said, and he spoke softly and even smiled.

“I will believe you, Highness.”

The Prince glanced at M. de Witt’s companions. He did not dislike Sir William Temple, but the others were his avowed opponents.

Several members of the Assembly advanced to greet him. He had to put a strain on himself and speak to them graciously, but when he came to M. de Montbas it seemed that his control would fail him.

This man had been in his father’s employ, had deserted him for the republican party. He had been one of those who held the gates of Amsterdam against the late Stadtholder, one of those who had spoken most hotly against him.

Later M. de Montbas had made overtures to the widowed Princess; they had been haughtily spurned, though Amalia of Solms remained inclined to encourage a person of so much influence.

To complete the bitter hatred in which William held him, de Montbas was a man of wealth and abilities, and now in possession of those offices that were his birthright--the birthright of the heir of Nassau.

As de Montbas approached him the Prince perceptibly drew back, and his pallor disappeared under a slow blush.

He straightened himself, pressed his handkerchief to his lips, and eyed the Count with an expression of scorn and dislike not to be concealed nor mistaken.

No one there could guess what throbbing rage filled his proud soul that he had to stand thus, swordless, before his father’s enemies--a show for those who were both his inferiors and his masters; but all could see the sudden expression that sprang into his eyes, and all were startled.

M. de Montbas, ill at ease, made a mistake. He resorted to a courtesy not untouched by cringing; it was the one thing above all others to rouse William’s fiercest scorn.

“I am glad to have this opportunity of paying my duty to Your Highness,” he said, and bowed like a courtier.

William smiled bitterly.

“Your duty!” he repeated. “Your duty, M. le Comte!”

Then he turned on his heel and passed into the ballroom.

M. de Montbas, flushing hotly, looked at M. de Witt, and the Grand Pensionary frowned.

It fell to Sir William’s easy tact to break the pause.

“I think the dance has come to an end, sir; are we too grave to attend the ladies?”

Secretly he admired the Prince; and his admiration grew with his observation. His eyes twinkled now with enjoyment of M. de Montbas’ discomfiture. M. de Witt was quick enough to see where his sympathies lay, but he accepted the diversion of Sir William’s remark, for the Prince’s daring could not be publicly noticed.

M. de Witt, composed in mien but with a troubled heart, followed into the ballroom.

Most noticeable as he entered was the figure of the young man in the long violet coat, his bright, heavy hair glittering like copper in the candlelight.

He was speaking to the Princess Dowager; above them glowed the picture of “Peace.”

“Your charge troubles you, Mynheer?” said Sir William in his soft, lazy voice, after watching de Witt a moment.

“In so far that I do not understand him, yes,” answered the Grand Pensionary.

The company, walking to and fro in their velvet and satin dresses, shut out the long violet coat and William’s slender figure.

“He is a remarkable young man.” The Englishman spoke reflectively.

“He is like his father,” responded John de Witt.

“With a difference.” Sir William smiled. “The late Stadtholder failed--this Prince, I think, would not.”