Chapter XII: The Spy of France

The Princess beckoned her grandson with her long gold fan.

“You have been talking to Madame Van Decken the whole evening,” she said.

William, having advanced beside her chair, waited, without any show of interest, for the Princess to enlarge on her remark.

“Madame Van Decken is quite the plainest lady in the room.”

“Is she?”

Amalia of Solms half laughed.

“Why, she squints!”

“Yes, I noticed that,” answered William; “but she is very intelligent.”

The Princess looked at him in a half troubled way.

“At your age!” she exclaimed. “There are half a hundred ladies awaiting your request for a dance----”

“I shall not dance at all,” he interrupted. “What are we here for, Madame? Merely to grace M. de Witt’s triumph.”

The Princess gave a sigh that flashed the diamonds on her purple bodice.

“I wish you would not take it so bitterly.… M. de Witt means to be courteous.”

“What courtesy was it that forced me and M. de Montbas to meet?”

“He wishes to reconcile you.”

William smiled scornfully.

The fiddles were tuning up and the dancers taking their places on the polished floor.

“You make a mistake,” said Amalia of Solms. “These women have some influence--they have a right to feel slighted. You should take more pains to please.”

The Prince made no reply. Amalia of Solms cast a half timid glance at his composed profile, and the fan fluttered nervously on her velvet lap.

“You think that I am a silly old woman, no doubt, William, but believe me I am right. M. de Pomponne said the same to me--that you kept yourself too close.”

The violins struck up a French sarabande, and the dancers began to move slowly to the stately melody.

The Prince looked across the ballroom to where M. de Witt, noticeable in black velvet, stood in the doorway talking to a little group of gentlemen, and so absorbed was he in his scrutiny that he did not hear the Princess rise.

She had to touch him on the arm to attract his attention.

“M. de Pomponne, William.”

He turned quickly.

The Princess swept a courtesy before she sank again into her gilt chair, and the Marquis, gorgeously dressed in crimson satin, bowed till his long love-locks hid his face.

“Is not the Prince dancing, Highness?” he asked.

William’s intent gaze was now fixed on the Frenchman; he said nothing.

The Princess shrugged her shoulders, half vexed.

“You must ask him, Monsieur.”

The Marquis smiled.

“There is a lady present whom I have promised to present to His Highness----”

“One of your countrywomen, Monsieur?” asked the Princess.

“Yes, Madame.”

“I shall be honoured, Monsieur.” The Prince’s tone was quiet.

“I refer to the Duchesse de Lavalette--will Your Highness accompany me?”

Something to his grandmother’s surprise William went instantly. The Princess watched the two figures turn out of the ballroom with some satisfaction. She had always considered the French alliance her grandson’s best hope.

The antechamber was full of the music of the sarabande that came through the open doors, the music and the sound of the ladies’ dresses as they swept the polished floor.

M. de Pomponne stepped quickly up to one of them who sat alone on a carved settee.

“Madame la Duchesse, I present to you His Highness the Prince of Orange--Monseigneur, Madame Lavalette.”

She rose, and each took a swift look at the other.

William saw a woman of a dazzling fairness of hair and complexion, and bright blue eyes, wearing a low-cut and rich gown of green velvet; and Madame Lavalette beheld a slight youth owning a remarkable face, plainly dressed, and of a haughty demeanour.

She gave him a glance of pretty hesitation.

“Alas, I have not your language, Monseigneur!”

“I can speak yours, Madame,” he answered in French.

“Ah, I have heard that Your Highness is an accomplished linguist.”

“It is not an accomplishment, Madame, but a necessity.”

“Many princes do not think so.”

Her eyes flattered him though her lips were unsmiling.

“I do not speak as a prince, Madame.”

He was absolutely grave, and in no way discomposed by her splendid presence.

“As a diplomat, then?”

“As one training to be of service to his country, Madame.”

Her delicate eyebrows slightly arched.

“Do you wish your gifts to be of service to the Republic, Prince?”

“The United Provinces are the Republic, Madame, and the United Provinces are my country.”

Madame Lavalette unfurled her fan.

“It is generous of you, Monseigneur, to be patriotic under the present form of government----”

“Why, Madame?”

She found him at once more difficult than she had expected and it roused her.

“Oh, perhaps it is not generous, but politic,” she said, with a change of tone. Then she laughed and looked at him straightly. “Personally I do not like M. de Witt,” she declared, with a charming air of frankness.

William raised his expressive eyes slowly.

“He is my best friend, Madame.”

The Duchess, gazing at him intently, read in his eyes the contradiction of his words.

“I see what you mean me to believe, Prince,” she murmured.

The second measure of the sarabande had begun; Madame Lavalette beat time to it with her fan on her delicate hand.

“It is a pretty melody--do you like music, Monseigneur?”

“I think it can be made useful, Madame.”

“That is a curious thing to say--you mean----?”

“In war,” he said.

She gave her rare, effective smile.

“And in peace?”

“It is not necessary, Madame.”

Now the Duchess sighed.

“You can say as much of all the arts--but Your Highness is not always so stern?”

“I am very ignorant on these matters, Madame,” he answered.

“You like gardening?” she asked, knowing he did.

“It is a pleasant recreation--and I think the building of houses a fair pastime for a gentleman.”

She flushed into enthusiasm.

“You should see Meudon, Marli, Versailles!” she cried. “You would appreciate them--palaces----”

He interrupted her.

“Such as I shall never achieve, Madame. My father built these modest rooms, nor am I like to build anything finer.”

She glanced at his grave young face.

“Now why?” she asked, her voice falling softly.

“Because I think to have other things to do, Madame.”

The sarabande had come to an end.

The Prince turned to his companion with a composed air of courtliness--

“May I lead you out for the next measure, Madame?”

“I shall be honoured, Monsieur.”

Her eyes added more. There was something in the very carriage of her body, as she bent towards him, her head slightly drooping, that was subtly flattering--the more so that it came from a beautiful woman to a youth. She was more deferential and charming than she had meant to be, for his grave coldness forced her to use her weapons.

“Seventeen!” she said to herself. “Mon Dieu, seventeen!”

The next dance was a minuet.

“The music by Lulli,” she informed the Prince, “and called ‘Le Temple de la Paix’--take me to represent France, Monseigneur, and the title as an omen----”

“Of peace, Madame?”

“Do you not care to think of peace, Monsieur?”

“I am, Madame, in no position to think of war.”

As they passed into the ballroom she shot a look at M. de Pomponne. The Prince was at least dancing with her, her eyes bid the Marquis take note of it.

He was not the only one to observe them. The Princess marked with satisfaction, and M. de Witt with uneasiness, the Prince’s partner for the minuet.

Happily la Lavalette was below the middle height, and William tall for his age, so she was able to rest lightly on his arm and look up to him with blue, languishing eyes that held a very flattering deference.

M. de Pomponne turned away to hide his smile; M. de Witt looked on sternly.

The Duchess glanced at the paintings round the ceiling.

“Your Highness likes history?” she asked. “You like to read it?”

“I would prefer to make it, Madame.”

She looked at him quickly.

“Your House has made it, Prince.”

He smiled.

“Madame, it is through my House that we are here now,--it is through my ancestors, and by what they have done, that the United Provinces are a kingdom.”

“The country hath been ungrateful, Prince.”

His smile made her air of sympathy seem foolish.

“You think so?” he said.

She was piqued by his sovereign manner.

“Do not you, Monseigneur?” she retaliated with meaning.

“I think it remains to be proved, Madame la Duchesse.”

They stood by the open hearth, waiting for the dance to begin. She was very well aware of the curious eyes upon them, and of the cold regard of the Grand Pensionary.

The Prince appeared absolutely unconscious.

“M. de Witt does not dance, I see,” she remarked.

“He hath other things to think of, Madame.”

She gave him a grave but ardent look.

“Such as--revolutions?” she breathed.

“Maybe, Madame; the most securely placed will sometimes think of revolutions.”

Madame Lavalette was silent. De Pomponne had not prepared her for a youth so haughtily self-possessed, so (seemingly) impervious to flattery and enticements.

She knew of his upbringing in austere surroundings, she knew something of the Dutch stateliness of manner; but this perfect composure and gravity on the part of a Prince of seventeen were, nevertheless, a surprise.

Madame Lavalette was familiar with most of the Courts of Europe, and had considered herself equally familiar with most types of men--even men like John de Witt; such were rare, but she had met them.

But in William of Orange she found what she could not place or label. She went cautiously, a little bewildered, a little piqued, and more impressed by this boy’s personality than she would have cared to admit.

The musicians played the prelude; the couples took their places.

Madame Lavalette glanced again at the Marquis, who danced with Lady Temple, and he raised his brows and slightly shrugged his shoulders as if he commiserated her on an impossible task.

Sully’s lilting melody began.

The Prince danced as he rode, with consummate excellence, but, unlike his horsemanship, his dancing was without animation. It seemed to his partner that he was not listening to the music in the least nor thinking of her at all.

Once or twice he looked distinctly away from her, in a mournful, absent manner down the room; as if he looked through the dancers and saw something else beyond. When their hands touched she felt his cool fingers resting on hers as lightly as they might have rested on his gentleman’s shoulder.

She was silent until the elaborate figures had come to an end; then she laughed.

“Your Highness does not like dancing.”

He turned his great eyes on her.

“I have been clumsy, Madame?”

“No--you have it in your head--perfectly--Prince, not, I think, in the least in your heart.”

“That is probably true,” he replied gravely.

“It is a pity, Prince--for the ladies.” She suddenly laid her hand on his sleeve. “Whom will Your Highness dance with now?”

“I shall dance no more, Madame.”

“You are very severe, Monseigneur--or are you proud?”

“I am tired,” said William simply.

They returned slowly to the antechamber and reseated themselves on the carved seat where he had first found her.

Behind them a crescent of candles in a silver sconce lit her fair hair, her white shoulders, and the voluminous folds of her green velvet gown.

She unfurled her fan and gazed at herself in the little heart-shaped mirror in the centre of curling feathers.

“I think you are somewhat heartless,” she remarked. “Every lady in the ballroom wishes to dance with Your Highness--and I dare swear half of them are your admirers already.”

Glancing at him furtively she perceived that, in utter absence of vanity, he did not even colour.

“There are other cavaliers here, Madame.”

Madame Lavalette beat her little silver shoe on the gleaming floor.

“And so M. de Witt is your best friend?”

The sudden change of attack did not confuse him.

“I said so, Madame.”

“I know a better.”

She fixed her eyes boldly on his face and leant forward a little, holding the open fan.

William did not answer. He was looking away from her, through the doorway into the ballroom, where, under the picture of “War,” the Grand Pensionary conversed with M. de Pomponne.

“Your Highness can guess whom I mean,” breathed Madame Lavalette.

“Why, no, Madame.”

The fan fluttered and the mirror in the centre gave out golden rays as it caught the candlelight.

“Your cousin Louis, Highness,” she said under her breath.

Now he turned his head and fixed on her his compelling gaze.

“The King of France,” she repeated.

“I have always hoped to deserve His Majesty’s friendship,” said William formally.

Madame Lavalette fixed his eyes with her glance.

“Will you not be more frank with me, Prince?” she said in a low voice.

“In what manner, Madame?”

“Ah, you know,” she leant towards him, “I speak of the King of France--you know what he can do for you.…”

William moved his head so that the heavy auburn hair concealed his face. She thought that he still looked at M. de Witt.

For a moment she hesitated. But, after all, she might be fairly sure of him; it was boldness that was needed in dealing with such reserve, and boldness that M. de Pomponne lacked.

“His Majesty hath much influence in the United Provinces, Prince;” she raised her fan to her lips.

They were alone in the antechamber; from the ballroom they could be observed but not heard.

The Prince did not answer.

“More influence than you imagine, Highness, believe me.”

He moved, but did not look at her. Her eager scrutiny could gain nothing from his pale young face.

“I can credit it, Madame,” he said.

She ventured further.

“His Majesty is the most powerful king in the world, Highness, and if he wished a thing done no one could successfully oppose him.”

“It may very well be, Madame.”

“His Majesty is your very good friend, Highness.”

The Prince kept his eyes lowered, his head slightly turned from her scrutiny.

The Duchess continued--

“If the King willed your restoration, Prince, he could accomplish it.”

William answered calmly--

“Sometimes M. de Witt talks to me of politics, Madame--and from him I learn that the King of France is not friendly towards the United Provinces.”

“Not towards them or M. de Witt,” she answered swiftly, “but towards you--does not Your Highness understand?”

William looked up now.

“Scarcely, Madame.”

She was spurred to go further than ever de Pomponne had ventured.

“The King finds the United Provinces in his way, as you do, Highness; he finds, as you do, that M. de Witt must go. Your cause is one with His Majesty’s--say so, and the thing is done.”

She thought, but could not be sure, that he slightly drew himself away from her into the corner of the settee.

“His Majesty,” she continued, “has the power to put you where your father was----”

“And afterwards, Madame?” asked the Prince. “How should I repay His Majesty?”

Madame Lavalette began to be more sure of her ground.

“Your Highness,” she said softly, “would have the help of France in subduing an impudent and ungrateful country--Your Highness would be master of Holland----”

“Under King Louis,” added the Prince.

“Under the protection of France, Highness; His Majesty is already the dictator of Europe.”

It was a prospect calculated to dazzle one powerless and ambitious.

Madame Lavalette was pleased to see her words take effect. The Prince slowly coloured, and put his hand in an agitated manner to the lace on his breast.

“I understand you now, Madame.”

He gave her an extraordinary look, the meaning of which was beyond her.

“I never doubted your intelligence, Prince--and you did right to be cautious; but now I think we may speak more plainly.”

“M. de Pomponne hath hinted at this, Madame.”

“I do more than hint.”

The dance music floated in from the Truce Saloon, and the Duchess’ waving fan kept time to the slow melody.

“You have but to let His Majesty know your sentiments,” she urged.

William sat still, leaning against the arm of the settee, his right hand resting lightly on his breast.

His grey-green eyes were dark with feeling, and the flush still lingered in his cheeks. She was satisfied that she had touched him, and touched him deeply.

With some curiosity she waited for him to speak; he interested her. A smile touched her lips as she thought of the gravity of their converse and the twenty years between them.

He accepted her with amazing good faith; in some things he must be very simple. It was not displeasing to her to reflect that she was the same to him as the irreproachable dames of his own country, whose velvets swept the floor in the ballroom.

“Shall not M. de Pomponne convey some message of duty from Your Highness to His Majesty?” she asked to probe his silence.

The colour deepened in his face. Madame Lavalette wondered why.

“His Majesty would not value the duty of one as unimportant as myself, Madame.”

“You are His Majesty’s cousin, Prince, and he would restore you to those offices M. de Witt has usurped. Do I now speak open enough?”

“His Majesty would do this--on conditions.”

She shrugged her shoulders.

“On easy ones.”

“Perhaps, Madame--I should find them outside my power to fulfil.”

Madame Lavalette laughed.

“Ah no! His Majesty thinks of a French match for you,”--she sought to still further dazzle him,--“he will restore the town of Orange----”

“In exchange for the liberty of the United Provinces,” interrupted William calmly. “Is not that, Madame, the price?”

“If you will put it so bluntly, Your Highness, then yes.”

The Prince was breathing rather quickly.

“There is one difficulty.”

“It can be overcome,” she answered, smiling.

“I do not think so.”

“What is it?”

He raised his beautiful eyes, they were almost unnaturally dark and bright--

“I am a Calvinist, Madame,” he said gravely.

Madame Lavalette dropped her fan on to her lap.

“Well?” she questioned.

“His Majesty is of the Romish faith.”

She bent her head.

“It is not a religion, Madame, beloved in the United Provinces.”

She made an effort to meet him in this new position.

“We do not talk of religions, Prince.”

His eyes narrowed; again he gave her that inscrutable glance.

“I talk of mine, Madame.”

“What has it to do with the matter in hand, Your Highness?”

To her further bewilderment he smiled, with composure, and, she thought, a touch of scorn.

“I believe, Madame, in predestination.”

“Your Highness is confusing me with Leyden Logic,” she answered; “it is not this we are speaking of----”

“It affects what we speak of, Madame.”

She bit her lip.

“How, Highness?”

“Because I do not believe, Madame, that I am predestined to be the tool of the King of France. The Princes of my House have left behind them records that teach me different aims and higher ambitions.”

With that he rose.

The pride and daring of this speech confounded her as if he had used sudden violence. The colour gathered in her cheeks and her blue eyes became bright and hard.

“You think, Madame, that I am impolitic,” said the Prince, who had now easily the mastery of the situation, “but while I am the subject of the Republic it is you who are impolitic to broach to me my cousin’s designs.”

She rallied herself as best she might from his unlooked-for defiance.

“Your Highness surprises me. Are you wise--are you in a position to take this tone to the King of France?”

William put his hand to his side where his sword should have been--

“I am grateful for his Majesty’s private friendship--but he mistakes my importance in the State. You should go, Madame, to M. de Witt.”

He gave her a glance that brought a flame into her blood, bent his head, and turned away.

Madame Lavalette sat as he had left her, her hands either side of her, on the settee, and the angry red in her face.

In a few moments M. de Pomponne came up. Seeing him she rose angrily.

“Ah, Madame,” said the Marquis softly, “you have been no more successful than I.”

She bit her full under-lip.

“He will not burn his fingers in any intrigue, that boy,” she answered; “and you are a fool, M. le Marquis, to meddle with him. What use is he to us?”

“He is too prudent.”

“Or too honest. A Calvinist--and tells me so--here. Quoted his House, Mon Dieu!… He might have been seventy--the other side of things.… His company hath frozen me--and heated me too.… I hate him. Take me home, Marquis.”

M. de Pomponne saw she was unusually angered; he pursed up his lips and shrugged his shoulders.

“The Prince will be glad of the offers he rejects now--in a while,” he answered.

She swung her fan to and fro.

“I would give something to be the one to master him.”

Then she laughed.

“If you do not get me out of this puritanical country, de Pomponne, I shall die of spleen.”

The Prince had returned to Amalia of Solms, who was conversing with Lady Temple.

“Good-night, Madame,” he said abruptly. “I am leaving.”

“So soon?” Her voice was touched with dismay.

Lady Temple moved away.

“Why should I stay?” asked William wearily.

The Princess changed the subject.

“What of Madame Lavalette?--I saw you dance with her. She is very beautiful and--influential.”

The Prince answered, still in that tired, absent way--

“She is old--a spy of Louis and stale at the game.”

The Princess was startled, both at his clear vision and his calm statement.

“Oh, be careful!” she whispered.

“I know no other word for spy, Madame.”

The Princess rose and touched her grandson’s shoulder.

“You frighten me, William.… Madame Lavalette represents France.”

The Prince put his hand to his forehead and answered in a low but moved tone--

“I listened to what she had to say.… She insulted me … like every one.” His eyes flashed bitterly. “Even Bromley thinks he serves the puppet of France.… And you, Madame----” He checked himself scornfully,--“But let it go.”

“I do not understand,” faltered the Princess.

“No one understands … save M. Triglandt.” He kissed her hand. “Good-night, Madame.”

She made confused protest, but he left her without further ceremony.

In the antechamber the Prince met the Grand Pensionary, his leave-taking was brief; M. de Witt received it coldly.

“The ball was in honour of my cousin, I should have been pleased if Your Highness could have danced with her----”

“Mynheer, I was in no mood for gaiety.”

M. de Witt, too proud to remind him that he had danced with Madame Lavalette, made no answer, and the Prince left the Binnenhof with an aristocratic slowness and an air of sombrely contained haughtiness.

Gaily the music rose over the splendid company. Mingled with it was the sound of laughter, the swish of silks.

The Grand Pensionary of the United Provinces was standing apart from the dancers.

Madame de Lavalette passed him with a deep courtesy.

“Old--the spy of Louis and stale at the game.…”

She was summing herself up in words much like those the Prince had used; her smile was cynical.

“I have been at it twenty years--I had better leave youth alone.…”

She passed down the stairs William had just descended, the candlelight on her white shoulders, her gleaming fair hair, and the long pearls in her ears.

Behind her went M. de Pomponne, smiling.

M. de Witt looked after them with a foreboding expression in his sad eyes. The Count de Montbas in his resplendent uniform, hitching at his great sword, joined him.

“What is the matter, Mynheer?” he asked in a tense voice.

M. de Witt gave a start.

“I?--what do you mean?”

The Count smiled uneasily.

“You are disturbed, Mynheer.”

“Read you so much in my face?”

And John de Witt caught the other by the arm and walked with him across the chamber. For awhile he did not speak for there had fallen on him a bitter sense of chilly fear; it seemed that the music had stopped and the candles gone out.

He shuddered.

“The Prince,” he said. “Did you mark him … and the Frenchwoman?” his fingers tightened on M. de Montbas’ arm. “My Republic.… God help me!… God help me, Count! … for I am afraid.…”