Chapter III: The Answer

William Bentinck, carrying a candle, went up the narrow, polished stairs to the Prince’s apartment.

It was between four and five of the morning, within the house still quite dark and silent at last.

The conference with the English commissioners had been opened again after supper and continued till long past midnight.

M. Van Beuningen had talked on the folly of the Anglo-French Alliance, adorning his speech with scriptural quotations, illustrations drawn from his vast learning, and a copiousness of logic, until Arlington had grown restive and Buckingham blasphemous.

But his arguments were not without effect. The Duke, who had drunk heavily, swore at last he was in the right, and had almost offered to sign a treaty with the States when my lord Arlington, who was a moderate man at table, restrained him.

M. Beverningh, who had taken at least enough wine for volubility, declaimed loudly against the injustice of the demands made by Charles and Louis. Buckingham became noisy, offending the Prince with his swearing and profanity, and refused to abate his terms, repeating that France should not have everything and England nothing.

Arlington, grave, good-natured, but weak and unscrupulous, was more reasonable. He promised, though not very confidently, to endeavour to moderate Louis’ preposterous demands; he insisted, however, on the cautionary towns, as he termed them, for Charles.

On this point the Dutch deputies were firm: they would not place an inch of their territory in the hands of France or England, beyond the border towns, such as Maestricht, with which William had already asked the Allies to content themselves.

Buckingham, speaking violently, argued that it was absurd to offer a king a few towns in exchange for three provinces he had already conquered, and three more that he was prepared to conquer; and hinted that the Dutch were in no condition to argue about terms at all, but must take thankfully what was given them--and this in face of it that a while before he had been offering to sign an alliance with them.

So, veering and unstable, he embarrassed the discussion with constant changes of opinion and capricious arguments based upon neither justice nor reason.

For his part, the Prince appealed to England’s ancient friendship, to the principles of the Triple Alliance, to his uncle’s protestations, to the unwisdom of allowing the French to upset the balance of power in Europe, and to the one religion common to England and the United Provinces, threatened by the encroachments of Louis.

But this policy was too far-seeing, too slow, and too lofty to appeal to men eager for immediate gain and applause, indifferent to their country’s ultimate good, only vaguely concerned even for her present glory, and absorbed purely in their own selfish interests, that lay entirely with France.

Arranging for another private interview with the Prince in the morning, the commissioners and the deputies separated. After hours of talk, nothing had been conceded one side or the other, the English refusing to abate their terms and the Dutch resolved not to accept them.

William Bentinck, who had listened eagerly, but said very little, had decided privately that the Prince could and must do no other than come separately to terms with the envoys, on the basis of a secret arrangement such as they had themselves offered and urged.

Excited, and unable to sleep on the hard settle that was his only bed (since an English gentleman had his room), Bentinck determined to consult with the Prince. William had desired to be roused early, to allow himself time before his final interview with the English commissioners.

But Bentinck discovered that he had not been to bed at all, but was sitting fully dressed by the open window.

“Ah, you,” he said affectionately. “I am glad to see you.”

M. Bentinck placed the candle beside the one already on the mantelshelf.

“And I am sorry you have not been asleep, Sir.”

“Have you?” smiled the Prince.

“No--but it was not my fault.”

“Whose then?”

“The hardness and narrowness of the settle, Highness, which was as unyielding as the English demands.”

The Prince rose.

“You had been welcome to mine. Bentinck, I could not sleep to-night.”

“The arguments of M. Buckingham and M. Beuningen buzz too much in your ears?”

“M. Beuningen is an immoderate talker,” answered William. “I think he spoke too long to-night.”

“M. Buckingham thought so too.”

“Oh, he!” said the Prince impatiently; “half the time he was not sober.”

“None the easier to deal with for that.”

“M. Beverningh, also,” added William, with an air of disgust, “hath the vice of drinking too much.”

M. Bentinck smiled.

“It makes him eloquent.”

The Prince stood at the window in a weary attitude.

“What hour is it?”

“Not yet five, Highness.”

William spoke abruptly.

“Bentinck--they are going to repeat their offer to me.”

His friend looked at him.

“I think so, Highness.”

“They advised me to consult some one that I had trust in.”

“You have spoken to M. Beuningen? My faith!” exclaimed M. Bentinck, “there is little to consult about.”

For a moment William was silent; then he said, looking out of the window--

“M. Fagel writes to me that I alone keep the people from despair.… My name, Bentinck.”

“They begin to repent their ingratitude, Highness.”

“The country is without a head since the illness of M. de Witt … if they should turn to me----”

“I think they may----”

“--and offer me the Stadtholdership----”

“Now that it is worthless.”

“Not worthless,” said William.

“At least not what the French and English can offer you.”

The Prince gave him a strange, almost a wistful, glance.

“Oh, this is a little age,” he said wearily. “Of such little men … I … but, no.…”

He turned his gaze over his camp, spread beneath the gold and silver dawn.

“Perhaps some men could have done better,” he said. “I would I could have served one campaign _under_ Condé before I had to serve against him … yet against all odds something may be accomplished.”

M. Bentinck stared at him.

“You do not seriously think of resistance, Highness?”

“Would you consider it madness?” asked William.

“The most utter madness!”

M. Bentinck was vehement.

“The country is lost--half conquered, wholly despaired of. Nothing will soften King Louis’ demands--you must see it.”

William turned towards the room and seated himself in the chintz-cushioned chair by the yellow-glazed hearth.

“And if I pitted myself against Louis?” he queried.

“It would be----”

“As if a child should set itself to stem a river with its unaided hands?” finished William grimly.

M. Bentinck shrugged his shoulders--

“It would be an impossibility--there is no one in Europe to stand against Louis----”

“One might arise.”

“England is his ally--the Empire afraid--the rest of Europe overawed----”

“One might rouse them.”

“It would be a task--well, I call it impossible.”

William coughed, and fixed his bright eyes on the empty hearth.

“You are weary,” said Bentinck tenderly, coming nearer.

“I am very weary and sick to-night,” answered the Prince faintly; “in body and soul, William, I can get no rest. At times--despair cannot be always held at bay--my head hath a horrible inclination to ache, and I think I have the fever still. Yet, it will pass; I pray you do not notice me.”

“Console yourself, Sir, that your prospects are more hopeful than for some time.”

The Prince made no answer, and M. Bentinck regarded him anxiously.

“I would have you consider well what you say to these envoys,” he added earnestly. “Your terms will never be listened to … Louis is a conqueror.… By making yourself King of Holland, you save it, and revenge yourself on the republicans.”

“I have considered that,” answered the Prince.

“Well,” returned M. Bentinck, “you have always been reserved, even with me, Highness, and you take advice of no man … but I make bold to tell you that only a foolish mind would refuse these offers the French and English make you.”

Again William was silent. His attitude was one of utter exhaustion; he continually coughed and shivered.

“You cannot stand the occupation of war,” said William Bentinck. “If you would not kill yourself you must make peace, Highness.”

The Prince roused himself and sat up.

“Will you wait on the English, Bentinck, presently, and tell them I will receive them here as soon as they wish?”

M. Bentinck understood his dismissal in this and felt offended.

Once more he proved the uselessness of any attempt on his part to offer advice to his master.

He put out the needless candles, for the small room was filled with the glitter of the sun, and left without further speech.

William sat quite still, gazing at the homely tiles with their little rural scenes in blue on a yellow ground--a cow, a milkmaid, a windmill, a barge, a dog, a man and a woman skating.

The languor of fatigue and pain made him sit heavily and droopingly, his head supported in his right hand.

The childhood he had scarcely left behind rose in his memory, one incident after another, back to the early years when his mother had taught him he was of the proudest blood in the world.…

He looked back on the loneliness, the dreariness; the rankling and constant sense of humiliation; the illnesses; the hunts in Guelders; the bitterness of having to part with M. de Zuylestein; the espionage of the republicans; the lofty governorship of M. de Witt; the perpetual feeling of injustice and restraint, the agony of having to take quietly treatment his imperious nature longed to spurn; the overtures from M. de Pomponne, first insinuating to him that he could revenge himself by leaguing with Louis; the visits of Sir William Temple, so different from the others, treating him with homage as a grandchild of England; the long hours of arduous study, followed by blinding headaches; the quiet Sundays with the lengthy sermons in the Groote Kerk,--all his training teaching him to be reserved, self-reliant, cautious, and to conceal his quick passions under an unreadable exterior.

He had never been happy, often utterly dreary, dispirited, and sad.… He remembered his recent entry into Middelburg as the fairest episode; for the rest he shuddered at the recollection of the slights, rebuffs, reprimands, loneliness, disputes, illnesses and neglects that made up the sum of his life.

With a little, broken sigh he moved at last and slowly rose.

His cuirass and his sword lay on the ground beside his bed. He picked up the weapon, buckled it on and went languidly downstairs.

The small farm was full of young Dutch noblemen, and the English forming the train of the envoys.

Avoiding these, he entered the little front room where the previous day he had received the commissioners.

Half an hour later M. Beuningen found him there, breakfasting alone on brown bread, radishes, and cock ale, and making notes on a slip of paper.

“Highness----” began Coenraad Beuningen.

William looked up gravely--

“Ah, have you had breakfast, Mynheer?”

“Not yet.”

“Well, will you share mine?” the Prince drew forward a chair.

M. Beuningen seated himself, murmuring thanks.

He looked agitated and overwrought; his handsome eyes were red, his dress dishevelled.

The Prince folded up his paper and placed it in his pocket. He had changed his suit, and wore a prune-coloured velvet, very plain, and a black sash.

“I have made some notes on the converse of last night,” he remarked.

M. Beuningen poured out the ale from the silver jug.

“Your Highness has to see the envoys again?” he inquired in a humble way.

“This morning, yes,” answered William; “before they leave for Zeyst.”

He leant back and looked full at his companion, with a penetrating and almost smiling glance.

M. Beuningen set his tankard down.

“We have gained little good by this conference,” he said distractedly.

William was silent.

M. Beuningen crumbled his bread on the table.

“Your Highness,” he said desperately, “I have been thinking … all night … this wretched country.… O God! my country.…”

A light flashed into William’s eyes, but still he said nothing.

M. Beuningen pushed back his chair. He could hardly control his features and his voice.

“I must appeal to Your Highness--in the name of the States,” he said thickly, “for we have no hope but in you.…”

“What do you mean, my lord?” asked William softly.

Coenraad Beuningen rose.

“I think these men have made private overtures to Your Highness,” he answered, “and you are free to take them … but … have pity on the country.” He clasped his hand passionately over his heart. “To such wretched straits are we reduced.… Ah, they tempted your ambition I doubt not, but if Your Highness would be truly great, save the United Provinces.”

“Do you believe I could?” asked the Prince breathlessly.

“Before God I believe Your Highness could.”

An extraordinary change came over the Prince’s face; he replied with vivacity--

“M. Van Beuningen, you have been a good republican--I will forgive it you for that.”

“I have been opposed to Your Highness,” said M. Beuningen, “but the time of party is over--I can see only that the country is conquered, ruined … and that our one hope is in the courage and firmness of Your Highness.”

He went restlessly to the window and put his hand before his eyes.

William gazed at him, still with that expression of animation and pleasure.

“You must not despair, Mynheer,” he said gently; “too many despair.”

“I shall not--if Your Highness does not forsake us.”

The Prince rose.

“What of your former rulers?” he asked.

“They can do nothing with the people. M. de Witt is ill--loathed.”

“Mynheer,” answered William, “the States dealt hardly with me--I have been virtually a prisoner all my life--it is strange they should come to me now.”

“It may be, but Your Highness’ voice is the only one that can make itself heard,” said M. Beuningen in a tone of despair. “The people will turn to you.… If in vain … God have mercy upon us.”

“You credit me with great powers.… Do I not hear it said that the man who pits himself against France must be mad?”

Coenraad Beuningen looked round sharply--

“Or a hero,” he said.

“They are rarer than madmen,” answered the Prince.

“Your Highness’ House has been rich in great men.”

William drew back from the suspicion of flattery.

“Leave them, Mynheer,” he said coldly, and picked up a copy of _The Gazette_ that lay on the table.

M. Beuningen turned away, his hands clasped behind his back.

William regarded him covertly and keenly.

“Mynheer,” he said in another tone.

M. Beuningen raised his head, there were tears in his eyes.

Before he could speak M. Heenvliet announced the English envoys, who were accompanied by M. Bentinck.

Coenraad Beuningen gave the Prince a quick look, bowed to the company and left the chamber.

William remained where he was, standing by the breakfast-table, his hand resting on the rail of M. Beuningen’s chair.

The Duke, over-dressed and flamboyant, trailing a purple velvet mantle over one shoulder and carrying his hat with long rose-coloured feathers, seated himself without ado; but Arlington, more respectful, remained on his feet.

“I trust the night has brought wisdom to Your Highness,” said Buckingham, swinging his embroidered gloves by the tassels.

“I can only repeat the proposals I made yesterday,” replied the Prince. “My influence with the States permits me to promise their execution. As to what you propose, my lords, the States will never accede to such terms, nor could I advise them to.”

Arlington answered with great earnestness. The success of his mission lay with this attempt to gain the Prince--

“Sir, forget the States awhile,” he said. “We speak to you--as a Prince of our Royal House--to show the consideration and friendship of His Majesty.… Sir, you must believe that we are sincere.… Cromwell made your exclusion from power a condition of peace with the United Provinces.… King Charles will make your restoration a condition--yea, restoration to a greater position than ever your ancestors possessed.”

William seated himself and looked on the ground.

The Earl continued, in his smooth, pleasant voice--

“These burghers have behaved insolently to you, Your Highness. It hath always been His Majesty’s intention to make them repent their ingratitude to your House. He now proves his entire friendship by this offer--which is, we repeat, the sovereignty of Holland and other lands, in return for your alliance with His Majesty, the cautionary towns, and the delivery of the remaining forts into the hands of His Majesty of France.”

The Prince glanced up.

“My lord, you had my answer last night.”

“I trust Your Highness has considered since then.”

“Reflect,” added Buckingham, “that resistance is useless--by God! you must see it.”

“I see,” returned the Prince, “that you propose to me an infamous thing.”

Arlington slightly coloured, but the Duke laughed.

“Your Highness is very young,” said the Earl. “M. de Witt has filled your head with fantastic notions.”

“M. de Witt is an honest man,” replied William, “and a wise one--I learnt no folly from him.”

“I do not understand Your Highness’ attitude,” urged Arlington. “Our agents and those of M. de Pomponne assured you some time since----”

William interrupted.

“My lord, the French have made advances to me very often--they have always been rejected. I would not owe my elevation in the State to foreign intervention, but to the will of God and the wish of the people.”

Arlington was nonplussed.

“Your Highness has not learnt the language of diplomacy,” he said.

“Your lordship must lay that to the charge of my inexperience--I am new to affairs,” answered the Prince proudly. “Maybe I speak too bluntly--but the meaning is the main thing, is it not, my lord?”

Buckingham spoke now.

“Consider well your meaning before you utter it, Highness--think of the alternative. The terms that you propose we should not dare put before M. de Louvois, I tell you plainly; and there is nothing before you but a continuation of the war--that is, a continuation of the conquest of the Republic--if you refuse us. You and the States go to ruin together, for there is no help for you.”

M. Bentinck came anxiously forward.

William looked straight at the Duke.

“Nevertheless I refuse your offer, my lord.”

Buckingham rose impatiently.

“You do not know what you say. Have you no ambition?--We offer you dominion--power.”

William rose; for the first time some agitation showed through the composure of his manner.

“You offer me what I would not stoop to pick up, my lord,” he answered.

“I thought you a Prince desirous of reigning,” said Arlington.

“Not at the price of my honour, sir.”

Buckingham struck his gloves across his open palm.

“Whatever you do the country is lost,” he sneered.

“If it be I will not connive at it,” replied the Prince. “Nor make my profit out of that misfortune.”

The Duke was contemptuous.

“Your Highness dreams of resistance--a second Hannibal!”

William coloured and breathed deeply.

“I do think I might do even as he did.”

“Press not the parallel too close, Highness. This is our second Punic war, and in a week or so M. de Louvois may say--‘Delenda est Carthago.’”

“Rome fell also,” returned William, “and in a less noble fashion by her own corruption. Go carefully, my lord, that the like fate comes not on England.”

Buckingham affected to laugh.

“We get no nearer the matter.”

“I must ask for Your Highness’ final decision,” added Arlington.

William stood with his back against the table, looking from one to the other with slightly narrowed eyes.

“My lords, for what concerns me privately you have had my answer; for what concerns Their High Mightinesses--you must go to the States.”

William Bentinck murmured impatiently--

“I would as lief that a dozen of the States were hanged, so that the war was taken out of the country and Your Highness king of it.”

“Is that your final decision?” asked Arlington, deeply mortified.

“Yes,” replied the Prince firmly; “and nothing will move me, my lord.”

So curt, unfaltering, and stern were his words that the envoys saw no hope of persuading him. They prepared to leave; but Buckingham was too angry to go in silence.

“If you do not put yourself wholly in the King’s hands you are lost,” he declared. “If you have any wisdom you will consider----”

The Prince cut him short--

“My countrymen,” he said, “have trusted me, and I will never deceive nor betray them for any base ends of my own.”

Buckingham, his hand on the door, answered hotly--

“Think no more of your country, for it no longer exists--do you not see that it is lost? If it survive this campaign it will be a miracle--do you not see that it is lost? There is nothing before you but despair; you must see your country conquered.” And again he repeated, “Do you not see that it is lost?”

William’s calm changed into a passionate emotion.

He answered with an air of exaltation; he was so lifted up, he cared little for any of them--

“My lord, I indeed see that the country is in great danger; but there is one way never to see it lost--and that is to die in the last ditch.”

There was a little pause. Arlington glanced at Buckingham, and after a second the Duke answered--

“Very well, Sir, in a short while you will regret this.… I am sorry you are so intractable.”

“We shall have a different reception at Zeyst,” added the Earl. “I must warn Your Highness that we shall there conclude a closer union between England and France.”

“The rearrangement of the terms is between you and the States,” replied the Prince. “As to what touches me--I have answered.”

He moved away towards the hearth, averting his face from them.

The envoys bowed coldly and withdrew, both angry, and Buckingham, at least, his enemy.

William Bentinck stared at the door that had closed after them.

“They have gone, Highness!” he exclaimed, “and in wrath--you have destroyed your last hope.”

“They are shallow men,” returned William calmly.

He came back to the table, coughing a little.

Bentinck appeared alarmed and troubled.

“You were ill advised!--What have you done?” he cried. “What is to become of us all?”

“This is not the language of a friend,” returned the Prince, who seemed little to heed the other’s exclamations.

“The States may accept the terms,” said M. Bentinck, catching at straws.

“Not if I can prevent them.”

William Bentinck answered angrily--

“Sir, you throw away your own advantage wilfully! M. de Buckingham was right--there is nothing but despair before all of us.”

The Prince sat immovable, composed, with an absent look in his eyes, gazing out of the window at the camp.

M. Bentinck, exasperated, went violently from the room.

William glanced round as the door banged, then sat still, taking his aching head in his hand.

There was a thoughtful, absorbed expression on his pale face, a relaxing of the usual disdainful curve of his lips that gave him an air of gentleness.

He was not long alone.

Count Struym and M. Heenvliet entered with more eagerness than ceremony.

“Sir,” said the first gentleman, “here are two burgomasters, two burgher captains, and others, come from Dordt----”

“Dordt?” repeated the Prince; this town, the residence of the de Witts, had always been considered particularly republican.

“Dordt, Highness--they desire to see you immediately.”

“Why? For what reason?”

“Sir, they are confused with haste and agitation, but I gather the town is in such a tumult none save Your Highness can quell it--and to save their own lives the magistrates have sent for Your Highness.”

William answered rather impatiently--

“It is impossible for me to journey to Dordt.”

“They will not return without you.”

“I must remain at my post.”

“Sir, they are afraid of being torn to bits if they disappoint the people----”

“Ah,” said William sharply, “is it as serious as that?”

“I think it is the signal for a restoration, Highness.”

The Prince rose.

“Is it more than a riot?”

“I think so, Sir.”

“They want me--the people want me?”

“The burgomasters say so. It seems they were fired by the example of Ter Veere--which has proclaimed Your Highness Stadtholder with much enthusiasm.”

William flushed.

“But Ter Veere is my own lordship.”

“You will at least see this deputation from Dordt, sir?”

“Yes--I will see them.”

He had reassumed now his usual composure and reserve; he gave no sign that he was moved, yet it was a triumph. Dordt, the home of the de Witts, had risen in his favour----

“Bring the burghers here, Count,” he said.