Chapter V: Cornelius De Witt

The agitated secretary, the triumphant captain, and a vast crowd of excited citizens whom the civic guard could scarce restrain, proceeded to the house of M. Cornelius de Witt.

All day the Ruard’s family had been in a state of acute alarm.

The late attack on the Pensionary, the popular feeling in Dordt, the burning of the pictures in the Stadhuis, the menacing aspect of the streets, all combined to render them grievously uneasy.

Only a few days previously three suspicious-looking strangers had demanded to see the Ruard, and on being refused, on account of the lateness of the hour, had attempted to force a way in, and had only been repulsed by the promptitude of the servant in calling help. Madam de Witt firmly believed that this was a murderous plot--a counterpart to that to which her brother-in-law had fallen a victim, and her fine courage could not subdue the terror inspired by the surroundings of hate, malice, and fury against which her helpless husband had no weapon.

To-day she had listened to the shouts that proclaimed a restoration, and showed that the magistrates, their sole protection, had been overawed by the people, and that no one in Dordt had dared to stand firm to the Government of John de Witt.

She could only hope that her husband might be forgotten in the general excitement, and with this quieted her cruel anxiety.

But when the servant came to tell her that a vast, armed crowd was advancing down the street she knew her hopes had been illusions. Her proud spirit, that had always supported her husband’s dangers with high courage, sank before what she was called upon to face.

With yells, cries, and shouts for the new Stadtholder, on came the crowd, and surged about the door of the house. Let the town secretary get the signature of M. de Witt or they would enter and try for themselves.

Leaving some of the civic guard at the door as a concession to law and order, Orent Muys the secretary, the captain, and three of his soldiers entered the house.

Maria de Witt, pale and cold, outwardly calm, received them in the dining-room.

Her black eyes were full of tears, but she kept them fixed resolutely on the secretary.

The two men uncovered and bowed.

“What do you want?” she demanded, gripping the back of a chair.

“Your husband, Madam,” answered M. Muys.

“You cannot see him.”

“Madam, we must.”

“He is ill----”

“The business is important.”

“Mynheer, it is impossible----”

Captain Hoogewerf interposed--

“Madam, do you hear that noise outside?”

“Yes--yes.”

“The people of Dordt--they are waiting to see the signature of M. de Witt to that paper M. Muys carries.”

“What is it?”

“A resolution declaring His Highness William of Orange, Stadtholder of Dordt.”

“My husband will never sign it.”

“Do you think so, Madam?”

“I do”--this with instinctive pride.

The captain pointed with his gloved hand to the window.

“I should not care to answer for what that crowd may do, if disappointed, Madam.”

“My husband,” answered Madam de Witt, with a look of agony, “has sworn to the Perpetual Edict.”

“So had the other councillors.”

“Have they signed?”

“The signature of M. de Witt is the one lacking, Madam.”

She tried to rally herself.

“This is a revolution----”

He corrected--

“A restoration.”

“It has nothing to do with my husband----”

“He is a councillor of Dordt.”

“Mynheer,” she appealed to the secretary in great agitation, “I swear to you M. de Witt is ill----”

“We only want his signature, Madam.”

“He cannot hold a pen----”

“We must see that for ourselves,” replied the captain.

She drew herself up--

“I will not admit you to his chamber--he is too ill.”

She was desperate to forestall her husband’s inevitable refusal to sign.

But Captain Hoogewerf was not to be moved from his purpose.

“Madam,” he asked, “are not your children in the house?”

She shrank.

“What of it?”

“For their sakes, advise your husband to sign.”

“What do you mean?”

“Madam--the people----”

She interrupted--

“Is the town delivered over to the mob?”

“It is in the hands of the friends of His Highness.”

“I think that means the same thing,” she flashed.

The captain became impatient.

“The paper--Madam--we must see M. de Witt.”

“What if he refuse?” she asked in a desperate voice.

“He will not refuse.”

“Before God, he will!” she cried, knowing him.

“You must persuade him----”

“To his own dishonour?”

“For his own safety.”

“I cannot----”

“Think of your children, Madam.”

She was silent.

“Madam,” urged the secretary, “I entreat you do not make delays that must further inflame the people.”

Madam de Witt dared resist no longer; she heard the furious din without, she saw the immovable face of Captain Hoogewerf, and, through her open door, the scarlet coats of the soldiers in the corridor.

She did not think her husband would sign; she made the anguished resolve that she must persuade him to it--even against her conscience.

“I will take the paper to him,” she said, with the instinct to soften the humiliation of her husband’s consent.

But Captain Hoogewerf saw her motive.

“No, Madam, it must be in our presence.”

She passed in silence to the door, the sunlight on her dark velvet gown, the deep lace collar on her shoulders not more white than her face.

The secretary followed her reluctantly; he hated his task; he had been overawed. Hoogewerf, however, an ardent Orangist, had no compunction.

He bade his soldiers follow him.

“Is this necessary?” asked Maria de Witt proudly.

“Such are my orders, Madam.”

“My husband is no criminal, Mynheer, that soldiers should enter his bedchamber.”

“You lose time--you will regret it,” he answered.

A delicate colour rose into her beautiful, still face.

“This tone is new among us,” she said, “we--who have always boasted of our liberty----”

“Take care what you say, Madam,” Captain Hoogewerf warned her, “the Prince of Orange is master now.”

The republican lady paused, her fingers on the handle of her husband’s chamber door.

“One may know it,” she replied coldly, “by your change of front, Mynheer--even yesterday _you_ would not have dared to insult a de Witt.”

“Madam!” pleaded the terrified secretary.

She opened the door and passed before them into the darkened and lofty bedchamber.

The valet had been before them, and had warned his master of what was happening.

They found him standing by the great bed with its gold and crimson hangings supporting the Ruard, who, weak and faint with suffering, was endeavouring to sit up against the pillows.

At the first glance round his simple privacy, the instant impression of a sick and helpless man, the secretary fell back, but Captain Hoogewerf strode forward.

The eyes of Cornelius de Witt shone in his worn face with as proud a light as they had shown when he kept his place on the deck of _The Seven Provinces_ amid the hurry of battle.

“Captain Hoogewerf,” he said in a feeble but resolute voice, “what means this unruly entrance?”

“It means,” he was answered, “that this town is now under the government of His Highness the Stadtholder.”

Cornelius de Witt frowned haughtily. His wife stepped to his bedside, and stood with her hand on the curtain looking from him to the captain, from him to the secretary.

Just inside the door the three soldiers waited.

Orent Muys, speaking with more consideration, informed the Ruard of the revolution in Dordt, and produced his paper with the hanging seals.

“This is against the law,” said M. de Witt

“Mynheer--it _is_ the law--all the magistrates have signed.”

The secretary held out the document as he spoke.

“Then they are perjured,” replied the Ruard proudly.

“Do you use that word of His Highness’ friends?” demanded Captain Hoogewerf in a loud voice.

Cornelius de Witt drew himself up higher in his bed--

“I use that word of any one who has sworn to the Perpetual Edict and then declares His Highness Stadtholder.”

His wife turned to him quickly.

“Cornelius--His Highness is master in Dordt--M. Muys hath come to read you the act so proclaiming him.”

He glanced at her rather curiously, and she, reading some reproach in his eyes, sank down on the chair at his bedside and hid her face in her hand.

M. de Witt pushed back the long dark hair from his ravaged face, and fixed the secretary with a cold and undaunted look.

“Why are you come here to read me that?” he demanded.

The soldier replied--

“We desire your signature.”

“I think,” said the Ruard scornfully, “ye do not find it necessary.”

“As collector of taxes, superintendent of the dykes, magistrate of Dordt, and Ruard of Putten--your signature is indeed necessary.”

Maria de Witt raised her face.

“Do you not hear them in the street?” she whispered.

Her husband neither answered her nor looked in her direction.

“Read this document,” he ordered curtly.

The secretary obeyed.

When he had finished the Ruard stole a glance at his wife, who sat with averted face; he seemed to be listening to the impatient and angry cries without, that, mingled with snatches of St. Aldegonde’s hymn, and curses on the Grand Pensionary’s name, came clearly through the curtained window.

“Cannot that be worded less positively?” he asked slowly.

“Mynheer, it is impossible,” answered the secretary.

“We came for your signature, not for your amendments,” remarked the soldier.

“I would rather be killed in my bed than sign,” answered the Ruard, with a flush of colour into his face.

Hoogewerf stepped forward threateningly.

“I have sworn an oath to the Perpetual Edict,” said M. de Witt, “and I will keep it--even if you strike off my head with the sword you have there at your side.”

“I have not come as an assassin,” replied the captain.

“Well,” answered the Ruard, “there are plenty of vagabonds and ruffians below who would not hesitate--call up some of them.”

“Oh, Mynheer!” cried the distressed secretary, “those you hear are friends of His Highness--respectable people--they only clamour for your signature.”

M. de Witt turned away his head as if in weariness.

“Whatever happens,” he said shortly, “I cannot sign.”

His wife put out her hand and clasped his that lay on the coverlet.

“Cornelius,” she urged in an unsteady voice, “it is not safe to refuse.”

“As a citizen of Dordt I cannot do otherwise,” he answered briefly.

“There are the children,” said Maria de Witt.

The Ruard flashed a stern look at the secretary.

“Are you incapable of protecting my house and family?” he demanded.

Orent Muys answered in great agitation--

“Mynheer, His Highness has been proclaimed Stadtholder--he is now at the Peacock Inn receiving the homage of the crowd--and I have to take your signature back to him--otherwise--really, Mynheer, I could not answer for it--they are all worthy people, such as your own baker or butcher might be--but they are … excited----”

He paused as the fierce sounds of a tussle between the mob and the burgher guards rose from the street.

Maria de Witt sprang up and went to the window.

She was seen from below and greeted with a yell of fury and a shower of pebbles.

“Cornelius--” she came back breathlessly--“they will break in----”

“And if they do?”--the Ruard questioned Captain Hoogewerf.

“Then, I think,” was the answer, “that they will serve you as they served your portrait in the Stadhuis.”

Madam de Witt gave a little cry, and her husband’s eyes flashed.

“Then make an end now,” he exclaimed passionately. “I would rather be stabbed in my bed than be torn to pieces by the mob.”

“Oh, my dear Mynheer, if you would only sign!” cried the secretary.

“I cannot.”

Maria de Witt went on her knees, clasping her hands against the coverlet.

“Oh, Cornelius--I must entreat.”

He turned his sad brown eyes on her with an expression of gentle reproach.

“Ah, _you_!” he said. “You have always been so brave--so careful of my honour.”

“I cannot face this,” she answered desperately. “I cannot--they will murder you--and the children are in the house.”

“You must send them away.”

“It is impossible--there is a crowd back and front.”

“Maria,” he said in an anguished tone, “I cannot sign.”

He turned his face from her, and she sprang to her feet with her hand to her brow.

The lace on her bosom rose painfully with her agitated breathing, the pearls pressed tight round her swelling throat; her countenance, framed in the long black ringlets, was suffused and trembling.

“Have you no regard for your wife?” asked Captain Hoogewerf.

“I have some regard for my honour,” replied the Ruard, wiping his forehead, damp with anguish of mind and body.

The sound of blows and splintering wood told that the door was being forced.

Bloodthirsty cries of rage and triumph pierced the din of the attack.

“Down with the friends of France!”

“Show us the signature!”

“Down with the enemies of His Highness!”

“Death to the friends of King Louis!”

“I did not show myself friendly to France in Southwold bay,” said Cornelius de Witt grimly.

“Sign, Mynheer,” begged the secretary, “or we shall all be murdered!”

A stone hurtled through the window and struck one of the posts of the bed.

“Oh, God help us!” exclaimed Maria de Witt. She flung herself on her knees again. “My lord--for the sake of the children----”

A musket was fired below, and one of the servants shrieked.

“Well, Mynheer,” asked Captain Hoogewerf, “how much longer are we to wait?”

“Put your pistol through my head,” answered the Ruard hoarsely, “for I will not be torn to pieces by the mob.” He repeated--“That is a horrible death--to be torn in pieces by the mob.”

Maria de Witt was bitterly weeping.

“If you will not sign,” she said in despair, “then I must leave you--God help me, I must see to some means of safety for my children.”

The secretary had snatched up a pen, and now came to the bedside and forced it into the Ruard’s fingers.

“Oh, you are a father before you are a citizen!” exclaimed Maria de Witt “This is not perjury--you are absolved by the actions of the others.”

Slowly Cornelius de Witt took up the quill in his feeble fingers.

He bit his full under-lip and his eyes narrowed.

“What will be said of a man who was vanquished by his wife’s tears?” he muttered.

He could scarcely hold the pen.

He looked at his wife--

“Maria, Maria, dost thou think this compliance can save me from the inevitable?”

There was a silence as he dipped his quill in the ink and reluctantly traced his name--the last on the list.

Then, as the secretary took the paper, Madam de Witt rose with a breath of agonised relief.

But Orent Muys, looking at the writing, cried out--

“What is this, Mynheer?--what have you put after your name--two letters--V.C.?”

“That means _Vi coactus_,” replied the Ruard shortly; “if you have forgot your Latin the translation runs--‘constrained by force.’”

“This is but playing with us!” exclaimed Captain Hoogewerf.

“I implore you, Mynheer,” urged the secretary. “You will only rouse the fury of the people--scratch out those letters.”

“I shall not retract them,” he answered. “‘Constrained by force,’ otherwise I should not have signed.”

The secretary looked at the captain and the captain at the soldiers.

Orent Muys tried persuasions and Hoogewerf threats.

But Cornelius de Witt was immovable; he turned away his face on the pillow and was silent.

Maria de Witt dropped the red curtain of the bed, and, unseen by her husband, drew the paper from the secretary’s hand.

With her finger on her lips she silenced them, and withdrawing to the back of the chamber hastily effaced the two letters--“V.C.”

“You are very scrupulous, Mynheer,” said Captain Hoogewerf.

“It seems I am the only one in Dordt,” returned the Ruard, “who remembers his duty.”

Captain Hoogewerf clapped on his hat.

“You will be sorry, some day, that you spoke so recklessly,” he said, and strode out of the room, followed by the soldiers and the secretary.

Maria de Witt leant heavily against the bed-post, pressing her handkerchief to her reddened eyes.

A loud, triumphant, and insulting shout told the joy of the crowd when they heard that the Ruard had submitted, and with a mighty turmoil, and sound of singing and cheering, they swept away up the street to the Peacock Inn.

Cornelius de Witt clenched his hand on the coverlet.

“I had better have died,” he murmured.

His wife came and bent over his pillow.

“Do you blame me?” she asked, shuddering. “Ah, you think that I have been weak.”

“No,” he answered, “there were the children … but nothing can save us, Maria.”

“They have gone,” she breathed.

“Yes, now,” he answered mournfully; “but what can protect us, John and me, against the whole country’s hate?”

She cried out passionately--

“They cannot hate you--it is impossible!”

He leant back exhausted.

“You have heard to-day, dearest, how they hate me--the Prince is master now.”

“The Prince,” she said in terror,--“he would not allow any harm to come to you.”

“I should not ask for his protection; he is not _my_ master--nor shall be.”

She went on her knees beside the bed and laid her lips to his hand.

“God Almighty guard us,” she whispered. “He who is greater than princes has us in His charge, Cornelius.”

“Amen, amen,” cried the Ruard. “And may He give me courage to meet the exceeding bitterness of my inevitable end!”

He laid his free hand on her bowed black head, and the tears welled up into his eyes for the ruin of the ideals to which he had given his life.