Chapter X: The Vicomte De Montbas

Two hours later William Bentinck returned to the Prince’s tent.

The sun had set in a splendour of tawny vapour, and a warm yet damp wind blew over the low and melancholy looking land, and a misty heaviness was abroad.

The outer portion of the tent was empty; behind the green curtain Bentinck found the Prince alone writing at a small camp-table.

One of the oil-lamps William had complained of gave a bright but flickering light.

In the corner stood a bed with a red coverlet, and near it an iron and leather dispatch-box, the key in the lock; at the foot of the bed was a large trunk that seemed to have been ransacked for something in a hurry, for it stood open, and linen shirts and cravats were tossed up, and trailed on to the grassy floor that was a shade of unhealthy yellow in the artificial light.

The Prince’s armour, that he evaded when he could (finding the weight unsupportable), lay heaped up by the trunk, and on a chair rested a violet leather case showing a number of articles in carved gold.

William nodded at Bentinck, and hastily added his name to the letter he was writing.

“It is M. Gabriel Sylvius,” said M. Bentinck, “who is arrived--having pressed on, without stopping, from the Hague.”

“Ah!” said the Prince quickly; then, “I expected him sooner.”

“He was delayed.”

“Delayed?”

The Prince frowned a little.

“On the sea, he says.”

William still looked stern.

“They were fifteen hours in Calais Roads.”

“Why,” the Prince admitted, “that was a misfortune beyond the help of Gabriel Sylvius.”

M. Bentinck seated himself.

“He was monstrous sick, is now something haggard.”

“One may not wonder after fifteen hours in Calais Roads,” answered the Prince, with grim sympathy; he had nearly died of his own crossing last year.

“Well,” he added, “where is M. Sylvius?”

“In the camp, but----”

M. Bentinck hesitated.

“I will see him.”

“Highness, on my soul you take too much fatigue upon yourself--wait until the morning.”

“Nay, I will see him now,” answered William; had it been any other than Bentinck he would have spoken angrily.

“It is not long before the council, if you would rest----”

“If you would fetch Sir Gabriel Sylvius, my child,” said the Prince, folding up his letter.

M. Bentinck gave in, but protesting. When he returned with William’s confidential agent, he found the Prince in the same place, writing again.

He stopped immediately on their entrance.

“It gives me great pleasure to see you, M. Sylvius--William, bring another chair.” He looked round the tent, “We are not very luxurious here nor very neat----”

He seemed for the first time to realise the disorder about him.

“I told Bromley to see to this, but he spends too much time playing cards.”

M. Sylvius went on one knee and kissed his master’s hand.

“So you had a bad crossing?” William pushed back his chair and smiled.

“Hideous, Your Highness; I thought that never should we gain the land.”

The secret agent, M. Gabriel Sylvius, was a tall, lean man, with a shrewd and lined countenance, hair of a harsh reddish colour, and a freckled skin.

He looked keenly at the Prince. He had been in his father’s service and greatly loved the House of Orange.

“I am sorry to see Your Highness look so ill,” he said bluntly.

“No matter for that,” answered William impatiently. “What of England?”

The envoy answered with a touch of satisfaction--

“I think that I can claim some amount of success.”

“In what way?”

The Prince’s tranquil mien could hardly disguise his eagerness.

Sir Gabriel began as concise an account of his sojourn in London as he could manage.

“Sit down,” said William when he came to a pause.

M. Bentinck was also listening with rapt attention, his comely face absorbed and keen.

“I saw King Charles,” continued M. Sylvius; “he was more than friendly----”

“To me or to the States?” asked the Prince quietly.

“To Your Highness. He declared that he had largely undertaken this war on Your Highness’ account, to put you in possession of your ancient rights, and that your advantages were bargained for in the treaty between himself and His Christian Majesty.”

William repeated softly--

“My advantages!”

“So he termed it, Highness.”

The Prince looked quickly at Bentinck, as if to discover what his friend thought of this.

“Well, go on, Mynheer.”

“King Charles railed against the States and M. de Witt--he declared he had always your advancement at heart and would never forget your father’s goodness to him when he was in exile at the Hague.… Much more, very pleasant, but without definite point.”

“Did you see any beside the King?”

“Some few I managed to sound, Highness. But since the Ambassador of the States had been asked to leave, and the French were very jealous, I had to be private--all but the Court party are against the war.”

“And the Parliament?”

“They would bring great pressure on the King to make peace.”

“Have they not that power, with the grants?”

“The King is subsidised by France--and by many of the courtiers.”

William narrowed his eyes.

“And the people?”

“Are fiercely in favour of peace--they hate the French and look on the war as a scandal.”

“There seems some hope in England,” said William slowly.

“Certainly,” answered M. Sylvius, “it is in a state of unrest. The King hath shut up the Exchequer, thereby ruining many of the merchants, and yet vast sums are spent at Court and on that foreign woman, Louise de la Querouaille, who came over with the late Duchess d’Orleans and is no better than a spy of France. The Duke of York is unpopular, like his mother before him; and rumours are abroad that the King, to please the King of France, is a concealed Papist--which is the truth--and that the great lords are all in the pay of France.”

“Which is also the truth, it seems,” remarked the Prince.

“Yet the King has an easy way of agreeableness that keeps him where he is, and he is very prodigal of promises, and hath managed to smooth many an ill-seeming situation by his fair manners. I doubt his sincerity, certainly, in what he said to me--yet I hope the English may force him----”

“Into breaking with France?”

“I may hope so, Highness.”

The Prince looked at him keenly.

“But at the moment--what will my uncle do now?”

“Sir, in this I have been a trifle successful. His Majesty was so far moved by your appeals that he has appointed certain envoys who will come over and look after your interests during the war. They are accredited to you, to the States, and to King Louis, and their errand is to conclude a peace satisfactory to all.”

Again William glanced at Bentinck.

“And when will they arrive?” he asked.

“Highness, three crossed with me, and my lord Arlington was so ill he cursed God that he should have been born in an island.”

“My lord Arlington,” repeated William, moving the lamp a little farther away from him; “so he is one--who are the others?”

“My lord the Viscount Halifax, my lord Buckingham, and the young Prince James of Monmouth----”

“Why,” said William, “I think all these are in the pay of France.”

“My lord Halifax is now in Flanders--Bruges I think; he bears compliments to King Louis on the birth of the Duc D’Anjou; of the others two are now at the Hague--whence they will follow here, or go at once to the French camp at Doesburg.”

The Prince spoke to Bentinck--

“William, what hope have we from these men?”

“Highness, I mislike their reputations.”

“I think I met them all in England,” said the Prince slowly. “Give me their names severally, M. Sylvius, that I may judge of their qualities.”

“Firstly, the Duke of Monmouth--he is already with the King of France--commanding the English companies.”

“Pass him, he can serve no serious purpose,” interrupted William. “The Earl of Arlington--I do mistrust him now; it is believed he drew up the treaty of Dover and was well paid for it, is it not?”

“I am sure of it, Highness … he leans avowedly to the French; then there is my lord the Viscount----”

“I do remember him,” answered William thoughtfully. “I should think he is honest--for an Englishman, though slow and lazy and unstable.”

“Finally his Grace of Buckingham, Highness, who stands high in favour with the King.”

The Prince was silent at the name, and his eyes hardened.

He had ugly memories of Buckingham.

The Court of Charles, that had flashed its brightest for his bewilderment, had filled him only with disgust and aversion. The King, at first inclined to confide the treaty of Dover to William, had found him impervious to flattery, and informed Louis that his nephew was “too Dutch and too Protestant for anything to be hoped for from him.”

But Buckingham, repelled in the advances he deemed irresistible, fell back on his wit, and with the readiness of a shallow nature ridiculed what he could not understand.

The Prince led a strict life and showed reserved manners--here were the subjects of numerous pasquinades on his Grace’s part; William’s regular church-goings and firm adherence to the theology of Geneva furnished matter for many profane jests that were not long in coming to the young man’s ears. And once his Grace, edged on by the King, and backed by many of the ribald lords, had tried to humiliate the austere youth of nineteen by intoxicating him with strong waters disguised as a cordial for his cough.

The Prince had discovered the trick soon enough to baulk them of their amusement, but not before the mixture had made him miserably ill.

Coldness had blunted the point of the jest, and for once made Buckingham feel foolish; but the Prince, under his passive exterior, was bitterly outraged on his most sensitive points--his religion and his ill-health.

Therefore he was silent at the name of Buckingham, and a faint colour tinged his pallor.

“The envoys bring with them Henry St. Jermyn and Sir Edward Seymour,” continued Sir Gabriel Sylvius.

“I did not know M. St. Jermyn was a politician,” said William sarcastically.

“Sir, he, like my lord Buckingham, has found a new amusement--that is all.”

The Prince made a little movement as if he roused himself.

“I think my uncle has sent me a pretty parcel of knaves,” he remarked calmly. “But it would be difficult to discover an honest man at Whitehall.”

“Their instructions may be better than their characters,” suggested M. Bentinck.

“We will hope so.”

William reflected a moment, then addressed his secret agent--

“I think, M. Sylvius, it would be well if you join these English again, and accompany them to the King of France.”

He would not mention the name of the enemy’s camp, for Doesburg, where the King lay, was one of his own lordships, and it was exceedingly bitter to him that the French had taken it.

He coughed, impatiently turned down the lamp, that with the slightest movement smoked, and added--

“You can at least report directly and truthfully to me on what takes place; these commissioners will colour matters to suit themselves. And for your further convenience you had better take some Dutch secretary----”

He paused, then continued slowly--

“There is one Van Mander in Bromley’s quarters, newly come from the Hague, who will do very well.”

Sir Gabriel Sylvius rose.

“I am greatly obliged to you,” said William, “for I think you have acquitted yourself creditably.”

Sir Gabriel kissed his hand.

“Mr. Bromley has some monies of mine, and he will give you what you need,” added the Prince evenly. “And I will now tell you, myself, what you will hear presently bruited abroad, that M. de Witt hath despatched an embassy for peace to the King of France--which is something I cannot talk of.”

“Surely, Highness,” answered Sir Gabriel, “that will fall in with this deputation from England.”

“I would have the alliance of England, not peace with France,” said the Prince sternly.

Sylvius glanced at William Bentinck, and was about to withdraw.

“The officer without will take you to Bromley’s tent--Florent Van Mander is the name of the young man I mentioned--you shall shortly hear from me.”

Sir Gabriel bowed himself in silence out of the now dimly-lit tent.

The Prince sat with his elbow on the table and his cheek in his hand.

“This is hopeful news, surely,” said M. Bentinck cheerfully.

William smiled at him affectionately and tolerantly--

“Possibly--just possibly I might detach England from France.…”

M. Bentinck laughed.

“You are become a statesman as well as a soldier, Sir, and meditate great designs.”

“Do you imagine that these English come with serious purpose to listen to reasonable terms?” asked the Prince quickly.

“I imagine King Charles will contrive your advantage----”

“Mine!--what of the States?”

“The States!” M. Bentinck shrugged his shoulders. “The States are your enemies, Sir!”

“M. de Witt is my enemy,” answered William; “which is, perhaps, another matter.”

He took the twisted, silver taper-holder, melted the wax at the lamp and sealed his letter.

“I must get this to M. Fagel--at once--or he will fall again under M. de Witt’s thumb.”

M. Bentinck rose.

“Meanwhile you had best have some dinner, Sir; it will have been ready some time and the others waiting----”

The Prince took up the lamp and followed his friend without demur into the other half of the tent.

He went to the entrance and called to the officer on duty.

“You will find some messenger to convey this at once to the Hague.”

“Yes, Highness.”

William gave him the letter for M. Fagel, and was turning away when the soldier spoke--

“Highness, M. de Montbas has returned.”

“M. de Montbas!” The Prince was alert again instantly.

“With his company cut to pieces, Highness.”

“I will see him,” said William.

M. Bentinck protested.

“After dinner, Sir----”

“This cannot wait.”

“What can M. de Montbas have to say that is of importance?”

“It is not he, it is I who have something to say,” returned the Prince. “Send to him,” he added to the officer. “I wish to see him at once.”

M. Bentinck seated himself with an air of resignation.

“Get to your dinner,” smiled the Prince, “I will come immediately.”

“Nay, Sir, not without you.”

Now William spoke with authority--

“Bentinck, I will see this man alone … in a while I will join you.”

Grimacing a little, and with a clatter of his armour, M. Bentinck left the tent.

The Prince turned up the lamp, set it carefully on the table, and walked up and down, keeping his gaze upon the ground.

When the flap was lifted and a man entered, hesitating, William stopped where he was by the table and raised his eyes.

M. de Montbas was magnificently dressed. Over his blue and silver coat he wore, falling off one shoulder and fastened across his breast with a gilt chain, a green velvet cloak.

There were jewels in his cravat and holding the blue feather in his beaver. He wore a very handsome sword, and kept his light-gloved hand on it.

He was a fine man, if somewhat haggard; but now a white look on his face, and his black eyes startled, joined to his air of hesitation, took from him his dignity.

He uncovered and bowed.

William made no answering salute, but stood rigid, looking slight and sombre in his dark attire.

“Have you anything to say?” he asked.

M. de Montbas straightened himself--

“I have my report to make, Your Highness,” he said in a strained voice; “but Your Highness wished to see me----”

“How many men have you with you?”

M. de Montbas bit his lower lip--

“I have lost fifteen hundred, Sir.”

“That is half your force.”

“We were pursued by a detachment of cavalry under M. de Rochfort.”

“And----?”

“The rearguard--and the baggage were cut off----”

The unfortunate general spoke awkwardly; it seemed, by his demeanour, more as if he stood before a tribunal of judges than speaking alone to a youth over twenty years his junior, and whom he had patronised as a child.

“You did not offer fight?” demanded the Prince.

“Your Highness, we were hopelessly outnumbered by the enemy … some of the guns sank in a polder----”

The Prince cut short these excuses.

“M. de Montbas,” he said in a tone of exquisite anger, “I perceive you are a very bad soldier.”

The Vicomte took a step to one side in a baited way.

“What does Your Highness mean?” he asked in an agitated fashion.

William did not take his eyes off him.

“Your sister’s husband, M. de Groot, hath gone on an embassy to make terms with the King of France, and I think you have a mind to follow his example--you also wish to stand well with Louis, do you not?”

A dark colour tinged the Frenchman’s pallid face.

“Your Highness cannot mean what it would seem you intend.”

For the first time William moved; he came a step nearer the other.

“I mean that you very basely abandoned the post I gave you on the Rhine,” he spoke evenly, but with a bitter dislike, “thereby allowing easy passage to the French, which was an irreparable disaster and a thing that could have been prevented.”

M. de Montbas took his hand from his sword and pressed it to the breast of his shining cuirass.

“Your Highness is unjust … what could I do with three thousand men?”

“If ye had had but three hundred, M. de Montbas,” answered William fiercely, “ye could have done your duty; and if ye had had but three ye could have done it … and died.”

The Vicomte fumbled at the chain on his chest.

“I had no orders----”

“You had my orders to defend your position.”

M. de Montbas broke out desperately--

“Before God I was misled! I asked for orders and none came. I wrote to the Deputies, they said this and that----”

“_I_ never said but the one thing.”

M. de Montbas answered wretchedly--

“Your Highness must be merciful … I had no one to consult … and after the fall of Wesel----”

“M. le Vicomte,” interrupted the Prince sternly, “the captains who delivered Wesel to the French have been dismissed the Army and their swords broken over their heads.”

“Your Highness--I did what I could.”

M. de Montbas protested vehemently but impotently.

“I did what I could----”

“Oh, we waste the time,” said William. He went towards the entrance.

“What will Your Highness do?” cried the Vicomte desperately, swinging round to face him.

The Prince turned also, so that they stood but a foot or so apart.

“What I did with the garrison of Wesel.”

“Your Highness!”

“Do you think I am a child to accept your excuses?” asked William scornfully.

“This is because I am the friend of M. de Witt.”

“No, Monsieur, it is because you are a traitor----”

“Prince!” exclaimed M. de Montbas in anguish.

“--or a coward,” added William, unmoved. “One is as dangerous as the other, but I would rather think you in the pay of France, for it is unthinkable that you are the other.”

The Frenchman fell into a shivering agitation.

“Before Heaven I am innocent! I have served the States faithfully----”

“In times of peace--Monsieur.”

“You insult me----”

“I will court-martial you--give me your sword.”

M. de Montbas clapped his hand to his weapon.

“You have not the right, Sir--the States are my masters.”

“I am the head of the Army, with at least enough power to punish soldiers who disgrace my flag.”

“I shall appeal to M. de Witt!”

“Very well.… M. de Witt hath himself to look after--his credit will not be improved by your action, Monsieur.”

This hint that the Grand Pensionary had not the power to protect him completely unnerved M. de Montbas. He had feared the Prince as much as he had always disliked him, and the sense of William’s hatred had of late weighed heavily with him.

It had not occurred to him that William, as the Captain General, would dare go as far as this, or he would never have returned to the Dutch headquarters. Like the culmination of all that he had ever dreaded was this sudden disgrace. He found himself in the power of an implacable enemy, and the loss of his honour, his property, and his life seemed already accomplished, for his hope in M. de Witt suddenly fell away.

He stood quite still, with a tortured expression and his hand clutched on his breast.

William gave him an utterly contemptuous glance and was about to lift the tent flap.

M. de Montbas flung out his hand--

“I entreat--Your Highness--this is ruin--disgrace--death!”

His voice was hoarse, and the blood had flushed up into his eyes.

In the ill light of the lamp and its confusing shadows the Prince’s face was not clearly to be seen.

But M. de Montbas had little hope that he was moved.

“Sir,” he urged desperately, “consider what you are about before you ruin me.”

Receiving no answer to this but a cold look of scorn, he broke out again--

“You always hated me--from the first you meant to undo me.”

“M. de Montbas,” replied William, “I opposed your appointment--I opposed the giving to you of that post upon the Rhine, had you been wise you would have taken neither the one nor the other----”

“You mean to drive me to despair,” interjected the Vicomte.

“I mean to maintain discipline in my army,” said the Prince, and put his hand on the tent flap.

M. de Montbas’ body heaved, and his gay appointments, gold cords and jewels, glimmered in the dusky light.

“Before God I am innocent!” he declared passionately. “I am of the Reformed Faith--what have I to do with France?”

The Prince regarded him keenly.

“I am no traitor,” he repeated vehemently. “I swear it!”

“If that be not perjury I am sorry for you,” answered William; “for Louis is your King, and it were better for you to serve him through treachery than fail us through cowardice.”

The Vicomte made an effort to control himself.

“I am unfortunate,” he said in a half sobbing bitterness “to have ever displeased Your Highness, for I see you are unmerciful.”

William lifted the flap, blew a little whistle he drew from his pocket, and said something rapidly to the soldier the summons brought.

“I shall appeal to the Grand Pensionary!” cried M. de Montbas.

“If you be innocent you may prove it without his help,” answered William, turning back into the tent; “and if you be guilty John de Witt will not dare to save you.”

He stopped at the table and looked narrowly at the other man.

“It is true I never liked you,” he said, “but if you had been one whom I loved, and had let the French across the Rhine and lost fifteen hundred men, I should now act the same.”

M. de Montbas winced, and put his gloved hand to his lips with a gesture of terror.

“Your Highness,” he said huskily, “spare me this and I will resign.”

“I will spare you nothing--give me your sword.”

The wretched officer made a convulsive movement and dragged his pistol from his belt, as if to turn it on the Prince or on himself.

“Put that down,” said William scornfully, and as he spoke a detachment of men entered the tent.

M. de Montbas flung down his pistol and stepped back.

The Prince spoke to the captain who had entered; he was a young Frieslander of the musketeers.

“Arrest M. de Montbas and keep him under strict guard. Monsieur,” he addressed the Vicomte, “will you give your sword to me or to this gentleman?”

The Frenchman drew his weapon and presented it to the Prince.

“The States will see justice done,” he said in a shaking voice.

“Monsieur, _I_ will see justice done,” answered William.

He put the sword across the chair beside him and turned his back.

“By your leave, Mynheer,” said the young Frieslander.

M. de Montbas submitted in silence. The soldiers saluted the Prince and withdrew, their prisoner in their midst. William looked over his shoulder at them, and, when they had gone, leant against the table in an exhausted fashion gazing at the ground.

He had not stood so above a minute when William Bentinck entered hotly, with a colour in his face.

The Prince gave him a rather languid glance.

“Highness, it is the French; a boor has come running up to say they are advancing to surprise us----”

“I thought so,” replied William. “It is M. de Rochfort on the heels of M. de Montbas.”