Chapter VII: “i Will Maintain”

The new Stadtholder took his seat in the Assembly, accepted the position offered him, swore the oaths to the Republic, tactfully abstained from any speech, and merely expressed his intention of returning to Bodegraven at once.

The Hague was in a frenzy. The hero of the moment was offered a triumph, a banquet, a ball.…

He declined all, something coldly, and reminded the Deputies the Republic was in no condition for rejoicing.

He intended obviously to avoid as much as possible the demonstrations of the crowd. He refused a public entry; but he could not prevent the people from drinking his health at every street corner and sending up fireworks as soon as it was dark.

As he left the Assembly M. Fagel advanced to speak to him.

“Is Your Highness satisfied now?” he asked eagerly.

“I am pleased with the title,” answered the Prince; “see to it I have the substance--I will be no Duke of Venice, Fagel.”

The Secretary could not but remember M. de Witt’s words of that morning.… Certainly they would find no puppet ruler in William of Orange.

Already his manner had changed. As cold, as composed as before, it now showed openly that imperious haughtiness he had often had to conceal under mere reserve or enforced graciousness.

He bore himself as if a king. His excessive pride might not deign to express itself in any outward show, but he revealed clearly enough that if he was to be the deliverer of his country he would also be her master.

Secure in the support of the people, he could do as he pleased with the magistrates. The whole country was at his mercy.

Those who had been in opposition to him trembled; his enemies were in despair.

Now, as he paused on the stairs to speak to Fagel, M. de Groot came out of the room of the Assembly.

“Mynheer,” William called him.

Gaspard Fagel shivered.

Pale, tired, but erect, Peter de Groot came forward.

“Your Highness?”

The Stadtholder was drawing on his gloves.

“I advised you, Mynheer, not to undertake that journey to Zeyst, you remember?”

“Perfectly, Your Highness.”

“Well”--the Prince, having finished with his gloves, removed his cane from under his arm and tapped the baluster--“I now advise you to leave the Hague.”

M. de Groot was undaunted.

“I am aware that Your Highness blames _me_ for the terms of peace I brought from the King of France--I would rather die than accept them--but as an ambassador it was my bare duty to carry them to Their Noble Mightinesses--who had sent me.”

“M. de Groot,” replied the Prince unpleasantly, “we will have no discussion, if you please. Again--I should recommend the Spanish Netherlands.”

M. Fagel moved instinctively a step aside, but Peter de Groot stood his ground. He saw himself a fallen man, a ruined man, and a slow paleness overspread his countenance, but there was no alteration in his proud demeanour.

Followed by Mynheer Fagel, William III. turned away without a salute, and, with the curtest acknowledgment of the councillors and nobles gathered about him, passed out into the courtyard of the Binnenhof.

It was too late to return to the camp, against his will he found himself obliged to stay overnight at the Hague.

His own Palace being closed, William was lodged in the splendid house, almost adjoining the Binnenhof, where Prince John Maurice had gathered all the treasures collected in his travels.

No attendants following, the Stadtholder crossed the courtyard and gained the mansion without being observed by any.

Dinner was already served in the gorgeous dining-room, where the old Prince’s parrot from Brazil (who could distinguish a black man from a white, could swear nicely in Spanish, and knew his master for a great man) swung in his glittering ebony ring.

M. Heenvliet was in attendance, and a few of Prince Maurice’s servants.

“Has Mynheer Bentinck arrived?” asked the Prince.

“Not yet, Your Highness.”

Bentinck had been sent to the Princess Amalia with the news of her grandson’s triumph.

“Nor the messenger from Sir Gabriel Sylvius?”

“No, Highness--but there have been many to wait upon you----”

“I will see no one save those two.”

On the dark bureau a heap of congratulatory letters had already accumulated. The Prince picked some up, glanced at the writings, and laid them down unopened; a few were from his friends, many from his enemies, some from people he did not know at all.

He put aside his violet velvet cloak, his cane, hat, and gloves, and opened the window regardless of the breeze that set the candles guttering.

It was a beautiful evening, clear, not warm for July, the sky cloudless and a fresh wind blowing.

William stood holding back the heavy curtain and looking out at the dark shapes of the houses above which now and then a shower of light from bonfire or rocket rose into the sky.

The excited murmurs from the crowds filling the Plein came distinctly to his ears; he could almost hear them shouting his name.

M. Heenvliet had withdrawn, for the moment he was alone, but there came no change into the perfect calm of his face and bearing.

An observer might have well thought that he felt no emotion, and concluded that to feel no emotion at such a moment was indeed to show himself incapable of being roused by any feeling ever.

The Groote Kerk struck seven.

William left the window and went to the table glittering with glass and silver, the sheen of china, and the sparkle of the candles in the gold and crimson wines.

The parrot gave a low scream and eyed him in friendly fashion.

William looked at it thoughtfully. It had a drooping air, as if it knew that its master was shut up with the garrison in Maestricht, far away from the luxury of this comfortable room with its Persian carpet, rich hangings, valuable pictures and statuary.

It had also an air of self-containment that moved the Prince’s admiration; he crossed to its ring and gently stroked its head. The bird swung itself in violent agitation of some kind, dropped headlong from its perch, and with a sweep of its gay wing cast several of the letters on the bureau at William’s feet.

He stooped to pick them up; the writing on one caught his eye.

He stared at it a moment and flushed; then quickly broke it open.

It was matter of only a few lines; when he had read it he took up his hat and mantle instantly and left the room.

M. Heenvliet saw him passing hastily down the wide stairs, and could hardly credit his eyes.…

He ran after him.

But the Prince crossed the courtyard without looking back, and as M. Heenvliet gained the gate he saw the slight figure disappearing in the shadows in the direction of the Plein.

His Highness’ gentleman was utterly bewildered. As he stood irresolute, hatless, at the gate, a horseman galloped up and dismounted.

M. Heenvliet knew him for Florent Van Mander, the expected messenger from Sir Gabriel Sylvius.

“The Prince----” began the newcomer.

“Sir,” cried M. Heenvliet, “he has this moment left the house alone--leaving no message----”

“And the Hague in this commotion!”

“He was about to sit down to dinner--he but waited M. Bentinck----”

“He was armed?”

“With only a sword.”

“I will go after him.”

“Dare you?”

“If I can be of any service to him I dare anything, Mynheer.”

“It is the strangest thing.”

Florent was already resolved.

“What was he wearing?”

“A violet coat and mantle--a black hat and feather----”

“See to the horse, I will go after him.… He is rash … the streets are not safe to-night.”

While M. Heenvliet was still half urging, half protesting, Florent started at a run across the Plein.

But his progress was soon stopped by the crowd, the coaches, horsemen and soldiers who thronged the square.

Many of the people were dancing by torchlight before their houses, and handing out wine to every passer-by to drink the health of the new Stadtholder.

The crackling of fireworks mingled with the murmurs and the shouts; hawkers were selling copies of pamphlets against John de Witt, and the dying speech of Jacob Van der Graef who was held up as a martyr to the Orange cause.

It was a riot of enthusiastic joy. Every one wore an orange ribbon, and from every house, steeple, booth, and coach waved the Orange flag.

Florent, forced to pause, remembered that he had absolutely no clue to the Prince’s destination, but as he made his way on through the press, as best he could, he reminded himself that William would also find crossing the Plein a difficult matter.

He looked eagerly round through the confusion of twilight, torchlight, and the steadier gleam of lantern, and presently noticed a gentleman in a violet mantle making a slow way through a group of burghers gathering round the open door of a tavern.

Van Mander forced himself as near as he could get--not near enough to be sure.…

Finally the violet cavalier turned down the Houtestraat, with Florent not far behind.

It was less crowded here, and by the time they had reached the Kalvermarkt Van Mander had his man clear. But suddenly the gentleman in violet stopped to ask his way of a man seated outside a grocery shop, and upon receiving the answer turned so quickly down an ill-lit side street that Florent lost sight of him.

Breaking into a run, he plunged down the dark turning, his spurs clattering on the cobbles.

The street was almost empty, the houses dark; for the inhabitants were gathered in the principal thoroughfares.

Florent was brought to a stop in a lonely little square planted with chestnut trees. He looked up and saw an orange flag projected from a gabled window, from which issued the ruddy light of a lamp that stained the folds to a deep brilliance against the purple colour of the evening sky.

At the door of this house stood an old man in a white ruff, smoking.

Florent addressed him.

“Has a gentleman wearing violet been past here, Mynheer?”

“A moment ago--yes.”

“Which way did he take?” Florent asked eagerly. For the square was divided by a canal.

The old man was laconic.

“He asked the way.”

“To----?”

“The Heeren Gracht.”

“Which is round the corner is it not?”

“Yes.”

“Did you see this gentleman’s face?”

The other began to grow suspicious.

“What did you want with him?”

Florent did not hesitate.

“I am a servant of his--at least, if it be he whom I think--and am come after him with a message.”

“Well,” said the old man, “he was not tall nor stout--he was young and thin, with a hooked nose like his Highness the Stadtholder has----”

“Then he is my master,” said Florent, and hurried on.

As he turned the length of the dark canal he saw by the light of the lamps with which it was set the violet mantle not far away from him.

Its owner appeared to be hesitating, and endeavouring to distinguish the signs displayed on the tall house-fronts.

Van Mander, rather breathless, ran up to him; there was no one else in sight.

“Your Highness----”

The Prince turned sharply.

Before he could speak, Florent went on--

“Sir, you must forgive me, it is I, Van Mander.… I rode up as you left the Marithuis.… I followed you.”

Somewhat to his surprise the Prince seemed neither astonished nor angry.

“Why?” he asked in an absorbed fashion.

“Sir, it is dangerous.… If you knew what I know--what I heard at Zeyst.…”

“I am safe enough,” said William, still gazing up at the houses.

“There are plots abroad to assassinate Your Highness.”

“Without doubt,” the Prince replied absently. “I wish to find a house that hath for sign a pair of scales--it is somewhere near here, I think.”

“On what adventure is Your Highness engaged?” demanded Florent anxiously.

It seemed to him that William neither knew nor cared who spoke to him. He showed no sign of remembering that he awaited news from Sir Gabriel; he appeared to be entirely engaged in the matter on hand.

“Now, how may we find it?” was his sole comment, as he turned impatiently along the canal.

“It is too dark to see the sign--a few houses have lamps above the door,” said Florent.

“Help me to look. I would rather charge a thousand men with a hundred than lose an hour now.”

The Prince took Florent’s presence as a matter of course, neither desiring nor resenting it.

They proceeded in silence along the stone causeway.

Florent was the first to catch the gleam of a pair of gilt scales dangling over the low portico of one of the doors.

“Shall I wait here for Your Highness?” he asked.

“You may enter if you will.”

Still the Prince gave the impression of being so absorbed in some particular affair that he did not know to whom he spoke.

But as they waited on the winged steps, after having hastily knocked, he suddenly explained himself.

“My old tutor, Mynheer Cornelius Triglandt, wrote to me that he was lying ill here. I did not even know that he was at the Hague.”

Florent looked sharply at the Prince. After all, despite his gravity, reserve, and caution, William had then an honest simplicity; … and, with all his pride, the frankness of single-mindedness, and the winning modesty of youth and quick affection.

The door was opened by a girl wearing a garnet necklace, a white cap, and long gold earrings glimmering in the lamp-light.

“Mynheer Cornelius Triglandt is here?” asked the Prince quickly.

“Yes, Mynheer.”

She opened the door wider and they passed into the cedarwood hall.

“Is he very ill?” questioned William.

The maiden looked at them with a faint surprise.

“I do not think that he expects any one to visit him, Mynheer.”

“No?” the Prince’s voice was gentler than Florent had thought it could be, “but he will be glad to see me.”

The girl hesitated with her hand on the newel post.

“Who shall I say is here--to M. Triglandt?” she asked.

The Prince stood in a slightly awkward fashion, holding his hat across his chest; he fixed the speaker with his luminous eyes in a bewildered manner.

The girl glanced over him; took in his velvet mantle, his fringed gloves, his square-toed shoes with the stiff satin bows.

“M. Triglandt is a friend of the Stadtholder,” she said half defiantly; “and you look to me like one of M. de Witt’s men.”

“Is he alone?” asked William abruptly.

“Yes. The doctor has been and gone; he says he cannot live the night. I have been sitting with him.”

“You are a good girl,” said the Prince. “Now I will relieve you.”

Her face brightened.

“Ah, I can go to the fair on the Plein!… I had promised to go--but could not, when a poor old man lay dying.… There are great rejoicings, are there not? … because of His Highness.”

The Prince gave her an absent look.

“Yes, you can go--though this is no time for rejoicing, with the French on the border. Tell M. Triglandt it is his pupil come to see him.”

“His pupil?” she echoed, and went lightly up the stairs.

William turned to Florent.

“I am glad the people are good to him,” he said impulsively. “He escaped from Arnheim just before the French--entered.”

The girl called softly over the banisters--

“Will you come up, Mynheeren?”

They ascended the smooth, well-worn steps, and on a landing where a brass lamp burnt she pointed them to a door.

“I will go out now--not for long,” she said, excusing herself. “My mother is below and our servant, and there are other lodgers.”

She smiled, and with a little courtesy pattered down the stairs.

William pushed open the door.

It led into a chamber lined with cedar, and empty save for a few chairs.

Directly opposite, a second door stood open upon a bedroom full of candlelight.

The Prince went forward, but Florent hung back and remained in the unlit shadows.

William stepped breathlessly into the light. He found a lofty apartment, illumined by a row of candles set on a black bureau.

The windows were flung wide on to the summer night, the canal and the lime trees, the stars, and a great moon that hung low above the silent houses.

Close to the candles stood a blue bowl of sweet-peas and roses.

Sideways to the window was a bed curtained in patterned chintz, and on it lay an elderly man whose firm face was turned expectantly towards the door.

“Mynheer Triglandt!” exclaimed the Prince, casting down his hat and gloves.

“Your Highness!”

The words came with a deep note of joy and passion; the sick man’s face utterly changed into an expression of rapture.

“Ah, why did I not know before?” William exclaimed. He came to the bedside and pulled back the curtains.

M. Triglandt held out his thin hands and grasped the Prince’s.

“I have not been here long.… Arnheim was sacked … they killed most.…”

He tried to kiss the Stadtholder’s hands. William prevented him and dropped on his knees beside the low bed.

“You are ill--how do I find you!”

“That your Highness should think of me!… It is nothing.… I tried to do what I could for the people, out there … you would not believe, the cruelties!”

William ground his teeth.

“I took the fever … there was not enough food.… They mutilated the people … as in Farnese’s day.”

The Calvinist pastor drew himself painfully up.

“I have seen our churches burnt and heard Mass sung.…”

He gasped, and stared down into the agonised face of the young man kneeling at his bedside.

“It seemed God had turned His face from us … but I knew that He would raise Your Highness up to be our deliverer.”

William coloured and trembled.

“That you should come here to see me,” whispered M. Triglandt in a tone of infinite tenderness. “Now I shall die very glad.”

“You must not die,” replied the Prince. “I have so much to say.… How many years since we saw each other and you taught me of the ancient saints,”--he caught his breath eagerly, “and how they endured--and the true happiness they had?”

“Not so long,” said the tutor. “But now Your Highness has moustaches and a sword--and is a great man.” He smiled faintly. “Yet you are still like your mother.… I did not hope to see you again--to-night of all nights. I have heard the people shouting for the true House restored.”

The Prince answered passionately--

“What is their rejoicing to me? This is rather a time for prayer … the country is almost lost.… Oh, God who hears me, almost lost!”

He pushed back the hair from his forehead and looked up into the white face of the pastor. His coldness had left him completely; he was all fire and eagerness, passion and agony.

Florent, motionless in the outer shadows, stared at him in an enthralled amazement.

“Mynheer, you used to tell me that my ancestors had been heroes--that God had appointed them to guard His faith.… I want to do as they did.… I want to save the country and the Reformed religion.… The odds are fearful … no one understands, not even Bentinck.”

The suppressed emotion of years strove to express itself; but long silence had put it well-nigh beyond expression. William, speaking to the man to whom he had given his rare love, had to force the very soul of him into words.

“You know, you told me--it seemed possible I might do this thing. No one understands, if they did they would laugh; but _you_ know. M. de Witt never trusted me, he thought I meant to play the traitor with France; it was the last insult--they _all_ believed. You saw how utterly unhappy I was. I would have died, gladly. But now, three Provinces gone! You have heard the terms?--but never!--Not slavery again, no Romish rule for us!”

M. Triglandt looked at him with sparkling eyes.

“You have refused?”

“Yes,” breathed William; “the negotiations still hang, but now I have the power--I shall refuse. Ah! _you_ will not laugh at me.”

He caught the sick man’s hand in his cold fingers.

“I am not quick nor clever,” he said, with his soul in his voice, “nor a soldier like M. de Condé nor a statesman like M. de Louvois; but I can endure, and wait, and take any hardship so that I attain my end--and do you not believe that God will help me, Mynheer Triglandt?”

“With all my soul I do believe--that He has set Your Highness in this place to be His soldier.”

The pastor raised himself still higher; his haggard features glowed with an earnest rapture.

“You have before you a long and difficult task--but a holy one; you will need to be strong, and resolute, and calm--you have half Europe to hearten, half Europe to defy.”

“Speak to me!” cried William. “Speak to me like that!”

The old man stared at the row of candles on the black bureau; his pale blue eyes were clear and shining.

“This is a dark hour, a time of misery, of bitterness, of despair. The tyrant triumphs; vanity, lust, and blood walk hand in hand across our land! But God, who planted in your breast this fervour, will not patiently endure the blasphemer. You can save His faith, you can raise His land from bondage, you can be the captain of His armies; you can humble the arrogant, break the power of France, and establish a freedom the world has never yet known.”

He turned his luminous gaze on to the upturned face of the young Prince, who seemed to have hushed his very breath to listen.

“Your way will not be easy; there will be dangers, disappointments, sneers, oppositions, failures. You must taste humiliation, you must endure sickness, you must have great patience and great courage. When you long for peace you will be driven into the combat. Very few will understand; there will be railing, calumny--factions to be met and silenced. I see ahead down the years, and I see this: struggles, bitterness, despair--but in your heart you will know that you are the elect of God, and that you fight His battles.”

There was a tense silence. Slowly, in a low voice, at last the Prince answered--

“I will try to be worthy.”

He dropped his face into his hands and hid it against the coverlet. M. Triglandt lightly stroked the long brown locks.

“And I see something of your reward too. I see this land a refuge for God’s people, I see them bless your name. In sickness and defeat it shall comfort you that you have so protected the Reformed religion that she shall never be in danger again; you will have opened the floodgates of liberty, and no one shall close them more.”

He gasped, struggling with his breath; then his clear, inspired voice went on--

“Maybe you will die before this reward comes, maybe you will never see the result of your labours. Men may never give you the honour; but yours will be the glory if now you dare what no other man does dare--or will!”

William looked up; his face was changed, almost distorted.

“I will do it. I am often ill, but I can put a good face on it--I shall live long enough … to do my task.”

“People will misunderstand--you must not care--to this one thing be true. You must forego pleasure, ease, popularity, friends.”

“I will do it,” repeated the Prince in a choking voice. “Speak to me--bless me--there is no other who understands.… Nevermore shall I speak to any as now I speak to you … to--you--who leave me.”

“What more can I say? Your own soul will guide you. Be tolerant, be just, be true to your word, be patient and be brave.”

“I will not falter--I will not despair--even though I go forth alone and never reach the goal.” The Prince’s voice failed him; he covered his face and his shoulders heaved.

M. Triglandt lay back on the white, fragrant pillows.

“I can speak no more,” he said faintly. “You know the way.”

William spoke without raising his head--

“Stay with me a little--for I love you.”

“William.”

“Ah, Heaven pity me, I am so lonely!”

“God--God has set you apart.”

The Prince looked up; the hazel eyes were full of tears.

“I will be resolute--I will be calm--only if you could stay.”

“I am dying; but you will not forget me nor how--I spoke.”

The tears ran down the young man’s cheeks; he trembled violently.

“I love you--no one else--I think. If you could stay--and see--how I obey you.”

The pastor smiled faintly.

“I am very happy.”

William caught his hands.

“Mynheer Triglandt,” he cried in a tone of terror, “I am afraid! Can I do it? They all look to me--to save them. M. de Witt passes on to me his hopeless task--to save them!”

He cowered against the bed.

“I feel as if my soul fainted--but I will not fail them. Ah, heart, heart!”

“God will inspire you,” gasped the pastor. “He--alone.”

“I trust in Him; if He should try me with bitternesses I will try to submit--but sometimes----Yesterday I saw an old man on the Rhine--struggling with a barge--and as it advanced a little it was swept back; and he strove again--and once more gained an inch--and was driven back; and as I watched he made a little desperate headway. My affairs are even as that poor man’s--I must strive and strive, and be content if with much labour I gain a little.”

He staggered to his feet and bent low over the pillow.

“What can I do for you?” he whispered. He was sobbing bitterly.

“Nothing--do not weep.”

The old man caught his coat and arm.

“I am content,” he said. “I dreamt of this--when M. de Witt divided us because I taught you who you were.”

There fell a soft, meaning silence. There could be heard the faint peal of the joy-bells coming through the summer dark.…

William supported the old man in a trembling embrace.

M. Triglandt caught one of the loose curls that hung over the Prince’s shoulder and pressed it to his lips … then his hands clasped tightly on his breast.

He nodded like one falling asleep.

Then suddenly his eyes opened wide.

“Say--‘God bless you,’” sobbed the Prince desperately.

“God bless you--God be with you always.”

He gathered sudden energy; he smiled and raised his right hand.

“Thou art King, O God; send help unto Jacob. Through Thee will we overthrow our enemies, and in Thy name will we tread them under that rise up against us; for we will not trust in our bow.”

The dying man’s voice swelled with exaltation--

“It is not our sword that shall help us; but it is _Thou_ who savest us from our enemies and puttest them to confusion that hate us.…”

He fell into soft, yet triumphant accents--

“We will make our boast of … God … all day long … and will … praise Thy name … for ever.”

His hand sank.

“William … my child.…”

M. Triglandt closed his eyes … his breath was almost stilled.

Outside the joy-bells rang, and the Stadtholder cast himself across the homely bed in a passionate agony of bitter tears.

“God--be merciful--to me--a sinner--and alone!”