Chapter VI: The Restoration

M. Gaspard Fagel, excited, rather better dressed than usual, with an orange ribbon in his button-hole, arrived early in the afternoon at the Grand Pensionary’s house in the Kneuterdyk Avenue.

He found M. de Witt seated languidly at the open window of his library, wearing a loose Japanese robe and gazing out at the sunny garden and the doves in the trees.

On the chair beside him lay an open portfolio of sketches.

“You are recovered, Mynheer?” asked M. Fagel, with some embarrassment.

The Grand Pensionary smiled sadly.

“I hope to be able to resume my duties very soon.”

He roused himself and sat up.

“Be seated,” he said. “Will you move those drawings--they are M. Van der Welde’s sketches of Solebay battle, made from his galiot--His Highness is fond of pictures, he had best commission the paintings.”

It was said gently, without a trace of bitterness.

M. Fagel coughed.

“I am come,” he said, “to tell you of a restoration.”

“I knew,” answered John de Witt, “that it must be so.”

Gaspard Fagel drew himself up with some importance.

“The Deputies of Holland have proclaimed His Highness Stadtholder and Captain General of the Republic for life, with all the dignities formerly belonging to his ancestors.”

In these pompous words sounded the death-knell of the lifelong labour, hopes, policy, and ideals of John de Witt.

He looked out again upon the doves in the trembling elm boughs.

“They have kept me short of news, for I have been very ill,” he answered quietly, “but I have known how it must end.”

Gaspard Fagel was full of his subject.

“The Deputies left two days ago for Bodegraven, that they may acquaint His Highness and bring him to the Hague to take the oaths.”

“Something I heard of that.”

M. Fagel was exultant.

“It is not a fortnight since Dordt gave the signal--Rotterdam was the next. We had the whole country in a flame--the peasants took possession of Delft--it was irresistible--irresistible! The States were swept off their feet--the inexorable conditions imposed by France helped--the Perpetual Edict was repealed--even Amsterdam clamoured for the Prince. I tell you, Mynheer, he is King, though without the name.”

“The people have overawed the magistrates,” remarked M. de Witt. “What need for the details?--the Prince is Stadtholder.”

He was still looking out of the window, and the reflection of the green trees gave a ghastly hue to his worn, colourless face.

“What of the war?” he asked.

Gaspard Fagel lifted his shoulders.

“The Bishop of Munster overruns Groningen--but the Elector and the Spanish troops are expected soon. The people are wonderfully heartened, they can think of nothing but the Prince.”

“How did he take this change of fortune?” asked the Grand Pensionary.

“He met the Deputies of Rotterdam with cold reserve, and said he would not have the people force the magistrates--he would have his rights by law, not violence. He met the States at Bodegraven in his carriage, and asked them first if he was relieved of his oath; they said Yes, and then he merely told them he took the office for the good of the country. M. Beuningen was there all the time.”

John de Witt answered quietly--

“The Prince never lacked for prudence, he will not perish by his father’s fault.”

“He is the idol of the people--M. Beuningen says the soldiers worship him.”

“He has great qualities,” said M. de Witt, “and I have educated him to be a patriot,--I hope he may fulfil the expectancy of the people.”

M. Fagel looked uneasy.

“Well,” he said, “I do not know why I talk of this so much. I came about your business, Mynheer.”

The Grand Pensionary flushed.

“My memorial to Their High Mightinesses?” he asked.

“Even that, Mynheer.”

The Grand Pensionary roused himself.

“I trust,” he said proudly, “they have been pleased to consider how very bitter it was to me to have to stoop to justify myself against the attacks of a pamphleteer.”

Gaspard Fagel answered hastily--

“It was, of course, malicious folly.”

“There were many who believed in it, therefore I was forced to reply.”

“Their Noble Mightinesses declare there is no truth in the charges.”

“I am glad they do me that justice,” said John de Witt simply.

Gaspard Fagel frowned.

“But I am obliged to add, Mynheer, that what Their Noble Mightinesses say carries no weight now whatever--and I fear these charges against you are as eagerly believed as ever.”

“They must be refuted,” replied the Grand Pensionary with energy. “I will not have these hideous stains upon my name.”

M. Fagel shook his head.

“There is only one man whose voice can be heard now, Mynheer.”

“The Prince?”

“Yes, His Highness the Stadtholder.”

“Then,” declared John de Witt, proudly and calmly, “I will write to him. He will have the nobility to see justice done. He knows that I have not taken the Secret Service money--or----” He made an impatient gesture, “I cannot repeat them--but the Prince knows what manner of man I am.”

“The people will listen to him--but to none other; what he says I think they will credit.”

John de Witt gave a little sigh. The Secretary of the States was slightly uncomfortable in his presence; disconcerted before his utter serenity.

Gaspard Fagel had an uneasy feeling that de Witt’s was the calm of a heart-broken man. He sat looking at the Minister whom he had followed, envied, rivalled, and now supplanted, and his triumph was by no means unalloyed.

The Grand Pensionary turned his full brown eyes on him.

“What will the Prince do with his power?”

“One cannot tell. Frankly, he makes no confidant of me or any; it is thought he will break off the negotiations with King Louis. He still hopes to detach the English.”

“Yet could not come to terms with them at Newerbrugge----”

“It is not known what passed there. M. Beuningen thinks they made him secret offers and that he refused them--at least, he is hot against M. de Groot. Some say he will be arrested on the ground of having exceeded his commission. M. de Montbas’ action has not helped his case.”

“What hath M. de Montbas done?” demanded John de Witt.

“Joined the French,” returned Gaspard Fagel laconically.

“M. de Montbas--has deserted to the French?” exclaimed John de Witt.

“He was, you know, a prisoner, arrested for gross failure in duty, and when he saw the Prince was resolved on his life, he became desperate and, contriving to escape, fled to the enemy. King Louis will forgive him, doubtless, for the information he is able to supply now.”

The Grand Pensionary was silent.

“You must see,” added M. Fagel, “that this does not improve your credit with the people.”

John de Witt raised his tired eyes.

“I do not know, Mynheer,” he said quietly, “why you have come to tell me all this.”

Gaspard Fagel rose restlessly.

On a table near by was a white china pot full of tulips; he stopped beside this and stared into the flame-coloured cups, where the dusty, black pistils showed.

“I should advise you to leave the Hague,” he said.

“I cannot leave my post,” answered the Grand Pensionary.

“Your illness is a fair excuse.”

John de Witt shook his head.

“The country still needs me,” he said. “In a few days I hope to be again in the Assembly.”

Gaspard Fagel pulled at the tulip petals.

“I am your friend,” he declared.

The Grand Pensionary gave him a quiet look.

“Yes, your friend,” Fagel repeated defiantly. “Do not think because I follow the Prince that I am no friend to you. I have much, very much to be grateful to you for. I--” he hesitated a second--“I should like to do you a service now.”

By now John de Witt had turned his eyes from him to the pattern of blue sky to be seen through the intertwisting leaves and branches of the elms and limes.

Gaspard Fagel stuck his fingers into his sash.

“In this state we are in,” he said, “we cannot afford internal dissension.”

The phrase sounded trite to M. de Witt; he raised his long hand on the arm of the chair and let it fall again.

“I am ambitious,” continued M. Fagel, “to be a mediator----”

“Well?”

“Between you and His Highness.”

The Grand Pensionary answered without turning his head.

“In what manner?”

M. Fagel was rather at a loss to express himself.

“His Highness is Stadtholder,” he remarked.

“Nevertheless, I am still Grand Pensionary, Mynheer.”

“The office remains--yes,” replied M. Fagel. “But it must be filled by a man who will work with His Highness.”

John de Witt showed some signs of agitation.

“M. Fagel,” he said, sitting erect, “if you are here to suggest that I work under His Highness, the mere secretary of his ambition, the servant of his designs--I beg you, say no more.”

“This is not reasonable.”

“It is very reasonable.” John de Witt’s voice was stern. “For twenty years I have stood at the helm of this Republic. I have guided her through storms and perils; through God’s help I have always maintained her dignity and prosperity. An uncorrupt, free Republic was my ideal. Well, I served it, I have fallen, I have failed--I have been repaid with hate where I worked for love--but I will never be the tool of the Prince who has destroyed my work, nor help the people set a yoke again upon their necks.”

“Mynheer, you talk rashly--we are as free as ever we were.”

John de Witt’s eyes flashed.

“You deceive yourself. You have put at the head of the State a young man with a temper as imperious as any of his House--a Stewart for pride, a Nassau for firmness. Were we free in the days of Prince Maurice? We shall not be free under this youth. For twenty years we have tasted real liberty, and now he will make us pay.…”

Gaspard Fagel replied vehemently--

“Indeed you wrong His Highness … he is the sole hope of the country.… I believe that he will save us.”

“Others could have saved you, had you permitted them.… If he be a patriot, he is not the only one in the United Provinces.”

“This attitude is dangerous,” said Gaspard Fagel.

John de Witt looked at him with an air almost of pity.

“Do you think that I will alter the whole aim of my life to buy a little favour now? Do you imagine that I will trim my course to please this youth who was my pupil?”

“And now is your master.”

“I do not admit it, nor ever will--there is no master in this Republic.”

M. Fagel answered with some impatience--

“So--you are not tractable--you will not work under the Prince?”

“I will work with him, when I agree with him.”

“Very well--you cannot expect, Mynheer, to find the Stadtholder friendly.”

“I expect,” said John de Witt proudly, “to find him just.”

“This attitude of yours will not please him.”

“I cannot care for that.”

“He is all powerful----”

John de Witt interrupted--

“I do not think that he will use his power to gratify his political dislikes. He knows my principles, he knows that I am likely to abide by them; he cannot be either surprised or angered that he does not see me swell the crowd gathered to do him homage.”

Gaspard Fagel frowned.

“That is your decision--your final decision?”

John de Witt bent his head.

“Yes.” Then he added keenly, “Did the Prince send you?”

“I have not seen him since the opening of the war, nor has he mentioned this question in his letters, but M. Beuningen says he remarked to him that you must bend or break.”

John de Witt faintly smiled.

“I also can be inflexible,” he said. “I can serve my ideal as steadily as His Highness serves his ambition.”

Gaspard Fagel seemed troubled.

“If you continue to oppose the Prince,” he said bluntly, “you will scarcely be safe at the Hague.”

“Are you trying to frighten me?”

“I am warning you. Join with the Prince, or resign and leave the Hague.”

The Grand Pensionary replied firmly--

“Neither one nor the other, Mynheer. I will not forsake the policy I have adhered to all my life, nor will I leave my post until I am relieved of it.”

M. Fagel bit his forefinger. He had a sincere regard for M. de Witt, and his conscience troubled him because the Grand Pensionary had given him this secretaryship he now held, and did not utter a word of reproach.

“It is like a great storm,” he said, “sweeping everything before it; they who fling themselves down may escape, but they who remain erect are certainly carried away--and perish.”

John de Witt gazed at him steadily.

“You are an able man, Mynheer Fagel. I think you will be of great service to the Prince and the country, but for me you can do nothing … there is no more to be said.”

The Secretary smoothed the bands at his wrists, slightly coloured, and bit his lip.

Hesitating, he glanced sideways at the Grand Pensionary once or twice.

John de Witt had turned his eyes away, and by his demeanour seemed not to know there was another with him in the room.

At last Gaspard Fagel gathered up his hat and cane and left the quiet library without another word.

John de Witt kept his gaze still on the sky.

The leaves, and the chinks of it seen between them, took on a thousand different, changing shapes--gold, green, and blue.

The sun reached the glossy box hedges in tendrils of spangled light and gilded the tulips (over-blown now and ragged) with a keen yellow.

The Grand Pensionary’s vision was bounded by a deep red beech tree, through whose heavy branches the sky appeared bright and pale, and in the shadow it threw, two ash-coloured doves were walking on the smooth sweep of close grass.

John de Witt felt so weary that there was a pain even in resting, a disquietude in gazing at the pictured peace of the high-walled garden.

It seemed that only oblivion could give ease to his languid body and aching soul.

In a breath had gone the labour of a lifetime.

He had worked incredibly, with sincerity, with passion, with unsparing patience and energy; and for reward he was thrust aside with hatred and curses for the sake of the heir of the old House from whose tyranny he had saved his country.

No one believed in him, no one trusted in his honour.

He had always been of an integrity above suspicion, but it did not save him from being accused of the vilest crimes. He had given his life to his country, and was reproached with having sold her to her enemies.

He had always lived as simply as an ordinary citizen, nevertheless it was laid to his charge that he had appropriated large sums from the public funds.

Calumny was triumphant; there was no stain she did not try to cast on the name of a man who had never committed a single unworthy action.

His former good fame availed him nothing; the prosperity of the country under his rule was not remembered to his credit now.

Malice would not listen to reason nor justice.

And there was no one who dared speak for him save those helpless in a like case. There were a few faithful, his brother-in-law, Vivien, Pensionary of Dordt, Peter de Groot, Colonel Bampfield, but their voices could not be heard above the shrieks of the factions. They had their own several lives and honours to look to; if they could no longer support him he could no longer protect them.

He laid his hand on the bandage round his right arm, that covered a still aching wound.

The little senseless chatter of the birds in the branches, the faint murmurs of the wind, were not so strong as a tumult of imaginary sounds that beat loud and threatening on the inner senses of John de Witt.

The cries of an angry crowd, the beating of alarm bells, the hurrying of eager feet, swelling in volume, coming nearer.…

Through the green and gold and blue glimpsed a vision of these people: furious faces, threatening gestures, brandished weapons; dangerous, powerful, irresistible; a hymn of triumph, of hatred, on their lips, and their hearts hot for blood.

John de Witt rose and held out his hand before him as if sound and sight were real, and so stood for a moment, in the attitude of an orator, pleading before his enemies.

Then he turned quickly from the window and walked up and down the long, sunny room.

After a few moments he stopped and took down a gilt-clasped Bible from the shelf.

He opened it; but before his eyes were still the furious faces of his countrymen, and in his ears the ominous sound of their greedy, oncoming hate.