Chapter IV: The Defeat of M. De Witt

Matthew Bromley was summoned to the great, formal audience chamber of the Palace. It was twilight, and the Prince not yet returned.

In the Palace and in the Hague a great excitement loomed and gathered. The Assembly had sat all day; fearful rumours were current as to the safety of the India fleet and the reason of de Ruyter’s silence.

Mr. Bromley carried a copy of _The Gazette_, as he entered the room where the two gentlemen waited for His Highness.

By the feeble candlelight that but faintly dispelled the lowering shadows he saw them; one Florent Van Mander, the other a fair and handsome gentleman, young, and very elegantly attired in a grey velvet and silver riding suit.

“Ah, Mr. Bromley, have you quite forgotten me?” The newcomer rose and held out his hand.

The Englishman was genuinely pleased.

“M. Bentinck!”

“At last!--returned from exile as you see. Where is His Highness? Abroad they tell me.”

“Abroad certainly--where, I do not know.”

M. Bentinck raised his brows.

“Does no one know?”

Mr. Bromley nodded at Van Mander.

“Sir, M. Fagel came to see His Highness this morning--and afterwards the Prince left the house in a passion.”

“Alone?” M. Bentinck looked considerably surprised.

“Alone.”

“He is no longer under any supervision?”

“None at all now, sir. M. de Witt has had to cede his authority little by little, till he has none left----”

“In all the United Provinces, I think,” smiled M. Bentinck. “Oh, Mynheer, I am tired, I have lain sick a week at Hertogenbosch.”

He seated himself in one of the heavy leather chairs, and his gay face and rich clothes made a brightness in the large and sombre chamber.

“Shall I not order dinner for you?” asked Mr. Bromley.

“No--I thank you, we dined on the road.”

Florent retained his seat by the window, composed and grave, pulling at his hat and feather that he held across his knee; his taciturnity seemed to absolve the others from the unusual in leaving him out of their conversation.

“How goes His Highness’ affair in the Assembly?” asked M. Bentinck.

“It was concerning that M. Fagel came this morning----”

“M. Fagel has turned courtier?”

“As have some others--yes!”

M. Bentinck leant back in his chair. His attractive face was thoughtful; he fingered the ribbon on his velvet cuff.

“We received garbled reports in Brandenburg--what do you think, Mr. Bromley, of the chances of war?”

The Englishman shrugged his shoulders.

“De Pomponne hath been withdrawn and no other sent--in spite of M. de Witt’s representations. No concession will pacify King Louis----”

“He cannot forgive the Triple Alliance.”

“No--and some other things--the medal and Van Beuningen’s embassy.”

M. Bentinck lifted his blue eyes--

“And the English?”

Matthew Bromley laughed.

“Well, they say the English are as insolent as the French. Temple was recalled and Sir George Downing sent--to provoke a war, I truly think. You heard of the Treaty of Dover?--well, King Charles protests love to His Highness always, but hates the States.… I am not a soldier nor a diplomat … if war is declared I shall go home.”

“Leave the Prince’s service?”

“I am English,” said Matthew Bromley lightly. He went to the mantelshelf and snuffed the candles.

M. Bentinck frowned.

“The English people--the English Parliament are not friendly to the French.”

Mr. Bromley agreed heartily.

“It is solely Charles Stewart.” Then he laughed again.

“Did you hear of the _Merlin_?”

“Sir William’s yacht, was it not?”

“Yes; taking Lady Temple home the yacht passed through your fleet and demanded the salute--fired on your flag--captain told to, of course; is in the Tower now for not doing more--what does that look like but war?”

“The pretexts are utterly wanton and frivolous,” remarked M. Bentinck.

“M. de Witt hath ceded the salute of the flag.”

The young Dutch noble flushed swiftly.

“Doth he still hope to obtain peace?”

Mr. Bromley shrugged his shoulders.

“Downing made some impossible demands--he is a ruffler sent to cause friction, of course. I should say his secret orders were to provoke a war by any means.”

He paused, then added with meaning--

“But both the Kings protest friendship to His Highness--his uncle saith one of his grievances against the Republic is that the Prince hath been kept so long out of his offices.”

M. Bentinck rose.

“You think His Highness and his friends are safe enough,” he said quietly.

“Yes--but I would not give much for the safety of M. de Witt.”

As he spoke the door was flung wide and the Prince entered with an unusual impetuosity.

Van Mander, unnoticed by all, rose to his feet in the shadows of the window.

“Bentinck!” exclaimed William; he dashed his hat down on a chair inside the door. “Bentinck!”

“Your Highness!”

The young man sank to one knee and kissed the Prince’s hands.

William raised him.

“You are well?--you have recovered?” he asked eagerly.

“Completely--to see the Hague and you again, Highness, would have cured me had I been far sicker.”

William gazed intently into the fair, ardent face.

“You must come upstairs with me--how dark and cold it is here----”

He looked round and saw Matthew Bromley standing by the mantelshelf.

At once he crossed over to him.

“Bromley, I spoke violently to you this morning,” he said, “and I am sorry--will you forgive me?”

It was William’s habit to make instant reparation for his rare outbursts of passion, but Mr. Bromley had not expected he would ask pardon of his own gentleman.

“M. Fagel vexed me,” continued the Prince. “I had no fault to find with you.”

Mr. Bromley coloured and stood in a foolish confusion.

William offered his hand with the graceful courtesy he knew so well how to use.

Mr. Bromley flushed more deeply with gratification and pleasure.

“It was nothing--Your Highness,” he protested, and the Prince had secured a lifelong devotion.

It did not occur to Mr. Bromley to call his master’s graciousness policy, the obvious sincerity of William’s rare advances was what gave them their value.

He was above any arts, making no efforts to gain supporters. There were already men who would have died for his praise and performed heroic feats to avoid his blame.

He smiled at Mr. Bromley and caught M. Bentinck by the arm.

“Highness, I return in the midst of great events.”

William turned the smile on him and drew him from the room.

M. Bentinck adored the Prince, not more so than many, not more so perhaps than Florent Van Mander, standing unnoticed, unthought of, but William had chosen to bestow on him his friendship.

William Bentinck was intelligent; he had always been blindly loyal to the House of Nassau. He was of a rare good looks and attractiveness, and had been the Prince’s page when they were children. William admitted him to his closest confidence, and was more open with him than with any; none knowing better, however, than William Bentinck, that in any serious matter he had not the slightest influence with his master.

The Prince would do anything to please him in trivial affairs; but he was his own counsellor, those associated with him were no more than the lieutenants of his will.

Without words this was understood between them. Bentinck offered neither advice nor criticism.

His first words when they were alone were characteristic--

“What are you going to do, Highness? In what way can I help you?” he asked eagerly.

William looked at him as if the sight of his glowing handsomeness was a pleasure.

The smile was still on his lips; it seemed as if he would not be drawn into serious questions. His attitude was rather like that of a man to a woman whom he loves but must always with a half laugh condescend to when it concerns the discussion of large issues.

“Tell me of your journey--and sickness,” he said. “You have changed very little,” he added, with a deepening of his smile.

“And you have changed a great deal,” replied Bentinck, gazing at him eagerly.

“Do you think so?”

They had reached the quiet library; the Prince sat beside his friend on an oak settle that stood against the wall.

The room was golden from end to end with the light of candles and a silver lamp placed on the desk, where it cast a strong glow over a bowl of orange and purple tulips. The curtains were not drawn, and each of the long windows framed a picture of blue twilight, trees, and sky.

“What of M. de Witt?” asked Bentinck. “It seems to me he cannot long keep the power--every village I rode through seethed with discontent.”

“Tell me of yourself, my lord,” urged William affectionately. “I have been without friends so long.”

“Of myself! You jest, Highness--I, an exile, newly returned to the theatre of great events!”

William sighed.

“There is very little to tell you … there will be war, of course.”

“And the Captain Generalship?”

“M. Fagel was here this morning to offer it to me--for one campaign.”

“And you?”

William smiled anew into the young man’s comely, ardent face; now with a half mournful air.

“I refused.”

“Unconditionally?”

“Yes.”

“My faith!” cried M. Bentinck, “that was a bold move, Highness.”

“I think it will prove a successful one.”

William spoke as if he explained himself from a pure effort of friendship, and would have preferred to talk of other things.

“M. de Witt was at the back of that.”

“Of course.”

“Who are his men?”

“Prince John Maurice, Prince Charles, Major-General Wurtz--and M. de Montbas.”

“None of them his friends--save the last.”

“No. I have their promise not to accept the post, if it be offered them--the promise of the first three, I mean.”

“And Prince Charles’ daughter?”

William looked at him keenly.

“Who told you that?”

“The Elector spoke to me of it--said Prince Charles would be pleased to make an alliance on those terms.”

“They are too high,” answered the Prince. “Think no more of it--I have refused.”

“And the French match?”

William unexpectedly coloured.

“King Louis wished a French Princess to seal his friendship--did he not?” continued M. Bentinck.

The Prince rose, coughing a little, and crossed to the hearth.

“The French Ambassador at Berlin told me so much----”

William answered sternly--

“No doubt my cousin Louis thought it a great honour.… I told M. de Pomponne that my House was used to contract alliances with royalty--I do not wish to quarter the bend sinister with my coat.”

“King Louis will never forgive that.”

“He protests he is my very good friend … he thinks he may have use for me.… This war, if it please you, is largely on my behalf … to punish the ingratitude of the Republic.”

William walked up and down the hearth. He still wore his roquelaure, and clasped his hands behind him under the full skirts.

“Whatever he may say he will never forgive that,” repeated M. Bentinck.

“It is I who will never forgive,” said William, “that he should so have mistaken how I rate myself.”

“Well, and there will be war?” flashed the other, leaning forward.

“This spring, I think.… The pretexts are utterly wanton--you heard of the _Merlin_ incident?”

“Some account, yes.”

“And my uncle Charles has sent one Downing over, an insupportable swashbuckler. Temple was a good fellow, and friendly, therefore he was removed.”

“It will be England too, you think?”

“Yes; but I have hopes of my uncle Charles.”

Then William turned to face his companion.

“Did you hear of their complaints?” he asked in an amused tone. “My uncle protests that the _Royal Charles_, decked with English flags, was shown for a penny a head to gaping boors, thereupon M. de Witt sends the flags back and withdraws the ship----”

“A poor-spirited move!” cried M. Bentinck.

“As if my uncle was a man to care for his country’s prestige! Then it was His Christian Majesty--he complains that Van Beuningen after his return from the Treaty of Aix-la-Chapelle was presented with a medal making mock of His Majesty.”

William, never devoid of humour, laughed outright, showing his white teeth in genuine amusement.

“The noble city of Amsterdam was accused of this--‘Nec pluribus impar’ is His Majesty’s motto, and they had a presentment of King Sun with his rays clipped, and this inscription, ‘In conspectu meo stelit sol.’ There were other offences too; pamphlets printed at the Hague insulting the omnipotent. Poor M. de Witt and Van Beuningen have been rushing to and fro trying to appease the offended deity.”

He added in a graver tone--

“But of course Louvois is behind it--he is jealous of our commerce.”

“M. de Witt, I take it, still hopes for peace?”

“Even M. de Witt,” answered William, “will not be able to indulge that hope much longer, I think.”

He rested his elbow against the mantelshelf and took his face in his hand; the candlelight fell softly on his thick bright hair and sparkled in the green ring on his little finger.

M. Bentinck sat silent, gazing at his master. He could not quite understand the Prince’s attitude.

He had never considered William as one with the United Provinces, but rather as their enemy.

What, therefore, would be his attitude in the forthcoming war?

It was against the Republic the furies of France were directed, not against William of Orange.

In the invasion of his country he might find his own advantage. He was in no way bound to the service of a State that had never placed any confidence in him but had treated him as a prisoner all his life.

His obvious policy lay in a compact with France, but so far he appeared to have rejected such overtures as had been made to him.

“I cannot see clearly how you stand, Highness,” said M. Bentinck at last, puzzled.

“No?” In no man’s company did the Prince smile so much. “My attitude is rather difficult to define, is it not, my child?”

William was three or four years younger than M. Bentinck, and half a head shorter, but the expression did not sound foolish on his lips.

“How will war help you?” asked M. Bentinck thoughtfully.

The Prince did not seem inclined to answer this.

“I have had a whole day of idleness,” he said. “For the first time since--I cannot remember when--I went to Scheveningen--idle but not useless. I encountered an old man there--and a child--his confidence!”

William turned towards the settee.

“They all look to me to save them--does not that seem curious--after all M. de Witt has done?”

M. Bentinck caressed the fine lace at his wrist.

“It is certainly strange M. de Witt should be so disliked,” he answered.

“It is his peace policy. Confess, is it not stranger that I should be beloved?”

M. Bentinck smiled.

“_I_ cannot think so, Highness.”

“They know nothing of me--they give me the credit of my name.”

The Prince turned to the window now and looked out on to the darkening prospect of trees and sky.

“M. de Witt hath opposed me most bitterly in the Assembly,” he said. “I think he called me some hard names--an inexperienced boy. Ah! what I have taken from that man, William. M. Jacob de Witt does not forget Loevenstein--nor do I----”

He coughed and abruptly changed the subject.

“Do you remember what they did to the children when Alva had rule here, William?… I saw a child to-day, on the sands … do you think the French would be more merciful than the Spanish?--their Romish faith!… King Louis hopes to celebrate Mass at the Hague.…”

“If the peace negotiations fail what could one do?” asked M. Bentinck. “We have de Ruyter, but there is no captain to hold the French back on the land.”

“One might arise,” answered the Prince.

“You think----?”

William cut him short.

“We talk too weightily. I have had no dinner, you must dine again to keep me company. How are my uncle the Elector and my cousin Charlotte?”

M. Bentinck rose.

“It could be a match there, if you wished, Highness. You see there are many courting your alliance.”

“I am already adept in the art of saying ‘no,’” answered the Prince.

“It would please the Elector and the Princess Dowager--I do not think the lady herself would be averse----”

William frowned.

“It is not even to be considered--my fortunes are too unsettled for me to think of a wife. Ah, here is Bromley.”

He turned quickly at his gentleman’s entrance.

“A message from the Assembly, Bromley?”

“Yes, Highness.”

The Prince took the letter that was offered him and flashed a look at M. Bentinck.

“M. Fagel come to his senses, I believe,” he said, and tore the seal.

Mr. Bromley explained.

“The Assembly has just risen, Highness; the messenger came here at once he said--from M. Zuylestein.”

A swift colour had come into the Prince’s thin cheeks.

“Yes, it is from M. Zuylestein.”

He glanced over the letter, then handed it to M. Bentinck.

“Read it, William; it is as I thought it must be.”

M. Bentinck cast his eyes over the writing; the ink of it barely dry, the sweeps of the quill blotted in the writer’s haste.

“THE BINNENHOF, _Feb. 20, 1672_

“YOUR HIGHNESS,--We have news from de Ruyter that the India
fleet was attacked by the English, but by God his grace
saved--war is inevitable. Their Noble Mightinesses have
appointed you Captain General of the land and sea forces for
life. Accept my humble congratulations on this success. I write
in haste. Your servant,

“FREDERICK OF NASSAU.”

“Then it is done!” cried M. Bentinck. “Highness, I am beyond measure pleased--this is the more a triumph that it hath not been undisputed----”

“It is the attempt on the India fleet hath decided them,” returned the Prince. “Only this morning they offered a compromise----”

Then he looked straightly and keenly at Mr. Bromley.

“Your King has attacked M. de Ruyter,” he said. “England will declare war on the United Provinces … perhaps you would wish to leave my service?”

Matthew Bromley laughed and coloured in a half confusion.

“’Tis a long while since I was home, sir.”

“But you are English.”

“I am not a Romanist, sir.”

“Still an Anglican,” said the Prince, as if he considered the one creed almost as offensive as the other, but his eyes were kindly.

Mr. Bromley bowed.

“I serve Your Highness, not the United Provinces,” he said, with the air of one who has cut a Gordian knot.

William folded up his uncle’s letter.

“The United Provinces have made me Captain General, Bromley--I am in their service now.”

“I will stay if Your Highness will have me,” was the Englishman’s answer. He smiled a little humorously. “England is probably in the wrong,” he said; his thought was that William was right--right for ever in Mr. Bromley’s eyes after those words to him that evening.

The Prince smiled.

“I am glad to keep you.”

“May I give Your Highness my congratulations and good wishes?”

“Thank you, Bromley.”

The Englishman withdrew.

“This is something to have wrung from M. de Witt,” cried M. Bentinck excitedly. “’Tis a violation of the terms of the Act of Harmony.”

“He would have been wiser to have given it,” said William slowly. “I begged him to--I was certain of it from the first.”

With a little cough he moved to the mantelshelf again. He seemed in no way elated or moved, weary rather. He fell again into the reserved silence M. Bentinck’s home-coming had dispelled, and looked in an absorbed and thoughtful manner on the ground.

His friend could not quite understand. A thousand ardours clutched at his heart that he could not express; he saw in the Captain Generalship a step to the Stadtholdership--but what of the war?

“War is inevitable, M. de Zuylestein says----”

“It has been so ever since M. de Pomponne was recalled--De Courtin’s nomination was a mere farce--M. de Witt would never see it,” answered the Prince.

“You speak of France?”

“Meaning England also--what hath she become but King Louis’ tool?” He put his hand to his brow. “Come to dinner, William, and speak of other things.”