Chapter I: The Camp of the Conqueror

Sir Gabriel Sylvius arrived at Doesburg to find that King Louis was already on the road to Utrecht; immediately came news of his entry into that town and his choice of headquarters at Zeyst, the castle of M. Van Odyk.

The alarmed States, deprived of the leadership of John de Witt, who was confined to his bed with a raging fever from his wounds, had given M. de Groot full powers to treat with King Louis, and he, despite the violent remonstrances of M. Fagel, repaired with M. Van Ghent to the camp of the conqueror on a desperate attempt to obtain honourable terms for his distracted country.

Sir Gabriel Sylvius retraced his steps over the conquered and despairing provinces of Overyssel and Guelders, where M. de Luxembourg was making the people taste the full severities of military rule, and took lodgings in Utrecht.

The day before his arrival M. de Groot had returned from the Hague, hastily, for fear the Orange party should prevent his departure, and Sir Gabriel found the old castle of Zeyst the head of the negotiations that were to decide the fate of the United Provinces.

Louis, having taken Utrecht, and forced the Dutch to the humiliation of returning M. de Groot with full powers to treat for peace, deigned to allow a truce.

The Prince of Orange, with the remnant of his forces, lay at Newerbrugge, between Leyden and Haarlem; and M. de Turenne, sweeping the Protestants down with the fervour of a convert, made preparations to annihilate him should the negotiations fall through. He declared His Majesty should dine at the Hague within the next month, as friend or foe, and swore it before the Saints he had recently recognised.

He was the more eager as M. de Condé, wounded at the passage of the Rhine, had retired to Chantilly, and his now was the sole glory of the war.

Sir Gabriel sent his name and credentials to M. de Louvois, and to the surprise of his secretary, Florent Van Mander, the acknowledgment was an instant command to attend His Majesty.

To Florent’s further surprise they were received with great courtesy by the gorgeous officials who shed splendour on the French Court. Van Mander knew that the Dutch envoys had been met with a supreme haughtiness; he held M. de Groot a much greater man than Sir Gabriel Sylvius, who was, after all, only the secret messenger of a citizen.

But Louis made a fine distinction between the representative of a confederation of traders whom he had always disliked, despised, and now regarded as conquered, and William of Orange, his cousin, a Prince of the blood royal of England, a Grandee of the German Empire, the possessor of one of the finest private fortunes in Europe, and the owner of talents and qualities that might well fit him to join the galaxy of great names that shed lustre on the crown of Louis de Bourbon.

So the Prince’s envoy was received graciously at the castle of Zeyst. He arrived there towards the close of a warm day, soon after His Majesty had returned from an inspection of Utrecht’s fortifications; he was conducted, with his secretary, into one of the chambers that opened into the great dining-hall, where once M. Van Odyk had entertained his master.

Florent Van Mander had just crossed a conquered province and was lodged in a conquered city; he had seen the Host carried through the streets of Utrecht, and listened to the chants of the priests that had not been heard in the United Provinces since they drove out Farnese; he had seen his countrymen killed, spurned, insulted; he had seen their dwellings fired, their goods plundered; he had seen the burgomasters submit humbly to the omnipotent King; and now he was looking on the inner side of this terrible army that had taken two provinces in so many weeks.

He made no comment; he had said very little since he left the Prince’s camp. Sir Gabriel had an open manner that disguised complete reserve.

Florent fed his silence with rumours; of the wounding of M. de Witt, of the frantic state of feeling in Holland, of M. de Groot’s desperate mission, of the arrival of the English envoys at the Hague; of the rapacity of M. de Louvois and the high-handed arrogance of his master: which things he considered and reflected upon day and night.

The castle was filled with French officers, splendid men of graceful manners. Van Mander found them as dazzling as the reports of their exploits; looking at them he felt that his country was non-existent, already a province of France, and he thought of William of Orange, and wondered why Sir Gabriel sought an audience with the conqueror.

Yet he believed that he knew.

The room they waited in was very handsomely hung with Flemish tapestry representing the story of the Unicorn, and furnished with inlaid Spanish pieces, for M. Van Odyk had wealth and good taste; the door into the next chamber was curtained with dark velvet, looped back, and from behind it came the sound of a man singing in a voice of a pleasant, medium quality.

He sang in English to the accompaniment of a lute.

Sir Gabriel walked up and down the room, glancing out of the deep windows he passed at the French soldiers in their gay uniforms filling the grey courtyard below.

He held his hat behind his back, and his shrewd, freckled face was set in lines of reflection.

Van Mander stared at the contorted figures on the arras, and listened to the clatter of horses and arms from without.

Above it all rose the near sound of the English song--

“Fairest Jane, all Janes excelling,
As my wish exceeds my skill,
Tears within your eyes are swelling,
I perceive you love me still!”

Sir Gabriel stopped by the window and frowned; he was impatient at being kept waiting, even by His Majesty.

The singer paused, and seemed to fidget with the strings of his instrument that he played but moderately well.

“Sweetness best becomes your beauty,
Would you chide when we must part?
To the King belongs my duty
But to you belongs my heart.”

Florent became curious to see who sang.

Sir Gabriel seemed self-absorbed, so he rose and moved so that he could see beyond the curtain into the inner room.

Just beyond the door he saw a young man, with one foot on a chair, holding across his knee a long-necked lute of shining ivory and satinwood.

His face was turned away. His person was a matter of great marvel and admiration to Florent, who had never seen anything more splendid than this cavalier.

He was a well-made man, very young, it seemed, and dressed in a dark rose brocade stiff with threads of silver and fastened with little knots of pearls; round his waist was a white silk sash branched and fringed with silver; his sleeves were unbuttoned and turned back over his rich needlework shirt, he wore a deep falling collar of Venetian lace and had fine ruffles of it at his wrists and knees.

A baldric of white velvet worked with jewels supported his slender sword with its curious gold hilt; his close, high boots were of white leather, and his spurs gilt and fantastically shaped.

On the chair lay his gloves, trimmed with pearls, and his grey hat with an upright plume of white feathers and twisted with a silver cord fastened with a diamond brooch.

As Van Mander stared at him he seemed to become conscious of the scrutiny and turned his head, revealing the most beautiful face Florent had ever seen on man or woman.

Yet the sheer perfection of curving line and warm brown colour made not the chief attraction--this lay in the expression, a charming combination of dare-devilry and sweetness, amiability and an innocent pride; a face by no means effeminate, not very intelligent, but wholly lovely and lovable.

He had deep, soft brown eyes, straight, thick brows, a blunt English nose, a fair complexion, a beautiful and expressive mouth; his thick, waving, chestnut hair fell in curls on to his shoulders and on the left side was tied with a knot of pink ribbon, a fashion Florent had not seen before.

His glance dwelt for a moment on the man observing him, then he turned away again, bending over the gleaming lute, but now without singing.

Sir Gabriel came from the window and Florent went over to him.

“Who is that cavalier in there--decked out like a woman?” he whispered.

“Is there one in there?”

“Yes, Mynheer, he who sang.”

“Ah, yes----”

Sir Gabriel crossed the room and looked into the outer chamber.

The lutanist had set his instrument down and was gathering up his gloves and hat.

“It is the Englishman,” said Sir Gabriel indifferently.

“The Englishman?”

“The Prince James of Monmouth.”

The Duke heard his name and held back the curtain.

Sir Gabriel bowed.

“I await an audience with His Majesty, your Grace.”

The Englishman gave them both the sweet smile he had for every one.

“Ah, Sir Gabriel--I did not think to see you again, so soon----”

“Nor I, your Grace.”

“You come from the Prince of Orange?” asked Monmouth. He spoke in English, for he had no other language but a little imperfect French, and Florent, who could not understand what he said, dwelt on his glittering presence with a slow admiration.

“Yes,” answered Sir Gabriel, with a little smile.

The Duke smiled again too, for no reason but good-nature.

“It has been a most marvellous campaign,” he remarked, with his usual utter absence of tact. “A glorious beginning to the war----”

“For the King of France, your Grace,” replied Sir Gabriel. “I am in the service of the Prince of Orange.”

“Ah, yes--forgive me,” said Monmouth sweetly; “but I hope it will be to His Highness’ advantage also.”

With which vague remark he changed the subject.

“Did you see my lord Arlington lately?”

“I crossed from Harwich with him.”

His Grace half frowned.

“I should have heard from him. It is astonishing, Sir Gabriel, how difficult it is to get letters here.”

“I can believe it, sir.”

“My lord promised me supplies of money,” said the Englishman frankly, “which I am already in need of----”

He paused a moment, and then added--

“But I can take you to His Majesty now, Sir Gabriel; I do not know why they make delays.”

He pulled out a little crystal watch.

“It is near dinner-time--I will take you with me and you may see His Majesty before he dines.”

“I shall be infinitely obliged, your Grace.”

Monmouth included the secretary in a sweetly courteous glance, and begged them to follow him.

“Have you seen our soldiers, Sir Gabriel?” he asked as they proceeded through M. Van Odyk’s handsome chambers. “By the Lord, ’tis a mighty fine army.”

“I hear your Grace has distinguished yourself----”

“Oh, la! I don’t know; it is vastly amusing being a general, Sir Gabriel.”

They traversed a large antechamber filled with bowing pages and several officers of the King’s Guard, who swept off their hats to the commander of the English forces.

“We are private and informal here,” said Monmouth, who was used to splendour ever since he could remember, and he opened the door into what had once been M. Van Odyk’s private dining-room.

Sir Gabriel spoke to Florent in their own language over his shoulder.

“Now you will see a notable company.”

This with a half-smile, as if the greatness there was such a stir about in Europe was not so dazzling on a near view.

It was a fine room; the ceiling beamed and painted, the walls panelled half-way up and above that hung with arras, save over the mantelshelf where the woodwork rose to the ceiling and formed a background for some dark family portraits.

There were velvet cushions in the deep window-seats and on the various carved chairs, and on a handsome buffet a rich collection of glass and gold and silver plate.

The usual quietly splendid and plainly costly chamber of a Dutch nobleman.

Seated at the head of the long table were two men, looking at a map: one young, scarcely at his prime, short, stoutly made, with a broad, vigorous face, and crimped brown hair falling on to his collar, dressed in black silk ruffled with red ribbons; the other a man of about thirty-five, also below the medium height, but slender, with a brown, handsome countenance, long effective eyes, an imperious mouth, and a hard expression of pride and obstinacy.

He wore green velvet, cut short in the French fashion to show his shirt, a gold baldric, and no ornament save a little brooch of pearls at his collar; his hair, chestnut colour and very fine, was frizzed to stand out in a multitude of little curls that fell to the middle of his shoulders.

Behind him, leaning on the back of his chair, stood another gentleman, eating chocolates, who was far more richly dressed, being nearly as extravagant as my lord Monmouth, but not near so handsome, though of a delicate face and a graceful carriage.

Standing by the hearth was a tall man very plainly habited in brown velvet, well past middle life, but erect and powerful, with haggard features, fiery eyes, and an air of melancholy, dishevelled grandeur; of these four he had the most appearance of greatness, and seemed to know it and to despise his surroundings.

Monmouth advanced, his hat in his hand.

The man in the green velvet turned in his chair.

“Sire, this is Sir Gabriel, the messenger from His Highness of Orange,” said his Grace.

Florent stared, wondering which was the King, and attracted by the man on the hearth who took no notice of any.

“We are glad to see you, Monsieur,” said the gentleman in green graciously, and then Florent knew that he was the King, for Sir Gabriel knelt and kissed his hand.

When he rose he motioned towards Florent.

“My secretary, Sire, who is in His Highness’ favour.”

Florent bowed very low.

“You are both very welcome to Zeyst,” said Louis. “M. de Louvois,” and he looked at the other seated at the table, “advertised us of your coming, and, pressed as we are with great affairs, we were very pleased to grant you an audience.”

He had an air of great and distant dignity, but he made it plain that he wished to be gracious.

Sir Gabriel, in no way discomposed, bowed again.

“Sire, I am no accredited ambassador but the private agent of the Prince, as Your Majesty knows, and the first object of my mission was to the commissioners of His Majesty King Charles, but I received instructions from His Highness to wait on you, to tender you his duty, and to ask Your Majesty if you would be pleased to enlighten him, not as a subject of the United Provinces, but as a member of Your Majesty’s House, what terms Your Majesty desires from the United Provinces?”

The King seemed pleased with this speech. M. de Louvois looked up sharply from his map.

Monmouth and the gentleman from behind Louis’ chair had withdrawn together to a window embrasure, as if business was small matter to either of them.

“My cousin sends to us as a private person?” asked the King.

“As affairs stand, Sire, His Highness is no more.”

Louis lifted his fine eyes.

“I have no quarrel with the Prince of Orange, Sir Gabriel. He hath been unjustly treated by these insolent States whose outrages on myself I have chastised, and His Britannic Majesty hath a great affection for him--I speak openly.” He glanced at M. de Louvois.

“We war,” he added arrogantly, “with a Republic that hath annoyed us, not with our cousin.”

“I thank you, Sire.”

M. de Louvois was listening intently.

“M. de Groot,” continued Louis, “has our terms; if the States refuse them we shall advance on the Hague.”

M. de Louvois spoke--

“Your countrymen think those terms severe, do they not, Sir Gabriel?”

“They are hardly blown abroad yet, M. le Marquis.”

“I believe the States have the folly to complain of what we choose to dictate to them. But I think they will accept,” remarked the King.

“I would remind Your Majesty this is no affair of His Highness.”

“I know,” assented Louis; “and I will tell you this for His Highness’ private satisfaction, that his advantage is clearly looked to in these same Articles of Peace.”

“I was assured so in London, Sire.”

Louis faintly smiled.

“What is said in London I generally say first, Sir Gabriel.”

The Prince’s messenger bowed--

“I am well enough informed to know who rules Europe, Sire.”

His Majesty accepted the compliment with serene graciousness.

“Let His Highness put his affairs in my hands and he will not repent it, Sir Gabriel.”

M. de Louvois spoke again--

“I hear there is some talk of a revolution at the Hague--M. de Witt has lost all prestige.”

The Dutchman avoided a direct answer.

“His Highness is very popular.”

Louis made a disdainful gesture with his hand.

“I can do better for my cousin than a confederacy of traders. Cadets of my House, Monsieur, need never lack glorious employment--the arms of France will always receive noble recruits.”

He smiled again.

“The Prince’s behaviour has pleased me; M. de Condé commended his generalship, it is thought that he might fashion into a fine soldier. He has made mistakes, notably in abandoning the Yssel, but I believe there were difficulties in his way----”

“Great difficulties, Sire.”

“He wastes his talents in these uninhabitable marshes, we shall look to see him at Versailles.”

His Majesty was invitingly pleasant.

“Tell this to my cousin: I hear he has ill-health--he must take care of it. I am anxious to see him, I hope he will attend me at the Hague after the conclusion of peace.”

“Sire, after proving yourself as irresistible as Alexander you show yourself as generous as Scipio.”

Louis said nothing to this. He covered his absolute ignorance, of which he was heartily ashamed, with a perfect manner and an unmoved front.

M. de Louvois smiled dryly; he wore the air of a ruler even of the King.

He administered the commissariat department, the brilliant management of which had largely helped to secure the successes of the campaign, and considered himself equally great with, and far more valuable than, any general.

“I am to assure His Highness of Your Majesty’s friendship?” Sylvius bowed on a note of interrogation.

“You may give him,” said Louis, with a large air of generosity, “a proof of it--I have ordered that my troops are to spare his lordship of Grave that we have recently taken----”

M. de Louvois broke in through Sir Gabriel’s thanks--

“Your Majesty, M. de Groot refuses the protection offered him for his country-house.”

“Why, M. le Marquis?” demanded the King haughtily.

The Minister shrugged his shoulders.

“Roman virtue, Sire--he refused to be spared any of the ills falling on his fellow-countrymen.”

“M. de Groot,” said Louis, “becomes insufferable.” He turned again to Sir Gabriel--

“My cousin is at Bodegraven?”

“At Newerbrugge, Your Majesty.”

“The English envoys intend to visit him there?”

“I believe so, Sire.”

“Well,” smiled the King, “we will hope they will be able to arrange matters with His Highness, whom I am impatient to embrace.”

“There is not much doubt of it,” added M. de Louvois.

The Duke of Monmouth and his companion came forward, talking together.

“Philippe,” said Louis rather sharply, “when do you hold the review of your brigade?”

“This evening, Sire,” answered M. D’Orleans.

“Sir Gabriel must see it.”

The fourth man, who had remained all this time apart, now approached the little group.

“If Your Majesty will give me leave--I am due in Utrecht.”

He wore brown velvet touched with gold, and had a noble, careless presence.

Louis answered him with deference--

“I do not presume to give you orders, as you know, M. de Turenne.”

The Vicomte bowed.

“M. Vauban requested my attendance.”

“Then I must not keep you,” answered Louis gracefully; “but first, this is a messenger from my cousin, the little Prince of Orange.”

M. de Turenne fixed his searching eyes on Sir Gabriel, and a faint colour tinged his worn cheeks.

Turenne’s mother had come of the House of Nassau; nearly all his life he had belonged to the Reformed religion; but he had sacrificed his conscience to his glory, his faith to his fame.

“Am I to have the Prince of Orange on my staff, Sire?” he asked, with a touch of scorn.

“We hope so, M. le Vicomte,” answered Louis suavely.

The great soldier gave his master a curious look.

“So you have tempted him, too,” he said. “Your Majesty is irresistible.”

“It is you who have made me so,” replied the King.

M. de Louvois smiled at this sourly.

“There are some of Your Majesty’s triumphs that I have had no hand in,” said M. de Turenne.

“Those I must thank M. le Marquis de Louvois for,” responded Louis, with his air of fine-mannered greatness.

“Whom will you thank when the Prince of Orange goes to Mass, Sire?”

“It will be the Prince who will thank me, Monsieur le Vicomte,” answered His Majesty.

M. de Turenne spoke, his tone slightly sarcastic--

“You are very fortunate, Sire, to be able to buy everything, even men’s faith.”

Louis’ straight brows rose a little.

“What price,” continued M. de Turenne, “will Your Majesty give for this--the conscience of a Calvinist?”

Louis looked at him straightly--

“That which bought one before,” he answered, “my favour.”

M. de Louvois stole a malicious glance at M. D’Orleans.

The Vicomte de Turenne bowed, hitched up his baldric, and left the chamber heavily.

The King’s face was clouded.

“What is amiss with M. de Turenne?” he asked haughtily.

“He has his moods, Sire,” smiled the Minister.

“He says the strangest things,” remarked Louis. “Why does he remind me he was once a heretic?”

“It gave Your Majesty the chance to remind him what procured his conversion,” answered M. D’Orleans.

Louis pulled out his handkerchief and pressed it to his lips.

“I will take M. de Turenne’s moods,” he said, “but no one’s comments on them.”

He rose and turned to Sir Gabriel, who awaited his dismissal.

“I hope to see you at the review this evening, Monsieur. Convey my very good friendship to His Highness.”

He held out his fine hand and Sir Gabriel kissed it; then bowed severally to the other gentlemen.

M. de Louvois gave him a curt nod, M. D’Orleans was vacant, and the Englishman came to the door with him.

“You have reason to be satisfied, His Majesty is very well disposed towards you. Commend me to His Highness--I hope we shall both be fighting under the same flag.”

“I thank your Grace.”

The fair face smiled in an eager, fascinating manner, as if his Grace’s one desire was to please Sir Gabriel, but in reality he hardly understood the matter and was wholly indifferent to it, his mind being occupied with a game of tennis he proposed with M. D’Orleans, and his assumed interest being merely his good nature.

Florent gazed at him, then for an instant back at the man wearing green velvet and frizzed hair who was the King of France; he looked at the man beside him, alert, composed, and commonplace, M. de Louvois, feared throughout Europe.

A page in gorgeous livery conducted them through the castle.

Florent, bewildered and disturbed, was further troubled, as they passed along the handsome rooms, by a glimpse through an open door of three people.

Madame Lavalette was one, M. de Pomponne and Hyacinthe St. Croix the others; St. Croix, looking up, recognised Florent, and nodded in a meaning way.

Van Mander frowned and coloured. When they were clear of the castle, and its dazzle of pomp and soldiery, he turned abruptly to Sir Gabriel--

“What does it mean, Mynheer?”

Gabriel Sylvius answered composedly--

“It means I can tell His Highness not to concern himself about the terms offered to M. de Groot, for His Majesty is entirely friendly and will do more for the Prince than the States could ever do.”

“Which is to say, His Highness will change his religion?” said Florent gloomily.

Sir Gabriel smiled.

“We must not commit ourselves as to that, but it is possible that in a little while the theology of Geneva will be extremely unfashionable.”