Chapter VIII: The Stadtholder

A heavy mist of sun-filled vapour lay over the camp at Bodegraven.

The vivid green meadows lay flat to the dun-coloured sky. A white cottage with painted shutters, a vine-covered porch, and a garden full of sweet-peas and roses, poppies and herbs, stood by a clump of alders amid the tents and pickets.

Above it floated the Orange flag. In one of its small rooms the young Stadtholder sat, his elbow on the table, his brow in his hand.

M. de Zuylestein and William Bentinck stood by the open window; and Florent Van Mander was speaking with a force and an energy to which he had never before been roused.

“If Your Highness would consider.”

His Highness would consider nothing. Cornelius Triglandt had died in his arms at dawn that day, and already time was closing over the event--but not over the pain.

Van Mander addressed himself to the two gentlemen in the window embrasure.

“I swear to you these overtures were made to me in Zeyst. Will you take no heed of them?”

M. de Zuylestein frowned.

“What you say amounts to this--that some agents of King Louis have broached to you a scheme for the assassination of His Highness.”

Van Mander answered firmly--

“I journeyed straight to the Hague to inform the Prince--I have had till now no opportunity of speaking.”

Inwardly he was referring to the past night. He could have cried out the great pride and joy he felt in serving a Prince who had revealed himself at the death-bed of Cornelius Triglandt, a master whom he knew at last.

He longed to prove his devotion, to die for the Prince and the country. He burned with shame when he recalled that he had once tampered with France.

“Madame Lavalette is at the bottom of it.…”

He continued his narration.

“And one Hyacinthe St. Croix.… She hath a spite against His Highness.… M. de Louvois thinks there could be no greater disaster to the country than the loss of the Prince.… They approached me--” he paused, “because I had formerly dealings with St. Croix,” he added with an effort.

The Stadtholder raised swollen eyes.

“Let it be,” he said wearily.

M. Bentinck interrupted--

“Sir, you must take some notice of this plot.”

“It is beneath me to consider my own safety,” said William in the same tone.

Van Mander approached the table earnestly.

“This is deep--there is one Michael Tichelaer in it--a Dutch barber; a higher name than his----”

“I will not hear it,” replied the Prince with impatience.

“This is mere bravado,” exclaimed M. de Zuylestein.

“We have other things to occupy us,” replied the Prince.

“Sir,” declared Van Mander ardently, “I must insist that you listen to me.… Once more the French will send you terms … should you again refuse them--they have resolved to compass your death.”

The Stadtholder was still indifferent.

“These plots are hatched against every man of position.”

“There is danger at home as well as in the French camp,” insisted Florent. “A great name was mentioned.”

“Whose?” asked M. Bentinck eagerly.

“That of M. Cornelius de Witt.”

The Prince looked up sharply, roused at length by this.

“Impossible!” he exclaimed.

“I spoke with the fellow he had confided in,” Van Mander answered; “this Michael Tichelaer, who saw him soon after Your Highness was proclaimed in Dordt.… He was very precise: M. de Witt railed against Your Highness, said you would marry a foreign Princess and make yourself absolute in the United Provinces--and to prevent this and to bring the republicans back to power he desired this Tichelaer to go to the camp and kill Your Highness----”

The Stadtholder interrupted.

“I believe none of it.”

M. Bentinck, however, was not so sure.

“At least investigate the story.”

But all further speech was arrested by the announcement of the expected envoys from the Allies.

M. de Zuylestein drew Van Mander aside.

“I will see you afterwards; your tale requires looking into--particularly as regards M. de Witt. The Prince is too rash.”

It was Sir Gabriel Sylvius who brought the final answer from King Louis; the terms that William III. hoped, through the intervening influence of the English, might prove more reasonable.

Sir Gabriel was accompanied by Mr. Jermyn and an Englishman very different from either Buckingham or Arlington, Sir Edward Seymour, of the proudest name in the three kingdoms.

The young Stadtholder received them with perfect composure; all trace of weariness left his manner.

“Your Highness,” began Sir Gabriel, “I bring to you the final conditions of peace of the Kings of France and England.”

He handed the Prince a letter.

“I would advise Your Highness not to look at it till you have dined--I fear it will not please you.”

William swept a glance over the assembled faces, then tore open the envelope.

It contained a letter from the two English Ministers, and a copy of a treaty recently drawn up at Heeswyck between Charles and Louis, in which the two monarchs agreed to press their demands in concert and not to enter into any separate treaty with the Republic, whom they thus hoped to reduce to extremity.

Turning from this document, which destroyed all his hopes of detaching Charles from the French alliance, William cast his eyes over the Articles of Peace.

They stood the same as before, save that to the haughty demands of France were added the immoderate claims of England.

A passionate colour rushed into the young Stadtholder’s thin cheek.

He gave a stifled exclamation, and for a second it seemed as if he would tear the papers across and fling them in the face of the envoys who had brought them.

But he controlled himself, and made a movement as if he would have thrust them into the breast of his coat, forgetting he wore a cuirass.

Recollecting himself he flung the documents down on the table.

“Your Highness,”--Sir Edward addressed him, coming forward--“we are directed to ask for your answer, and the answer of the States, within ten days.”

William looked at him, and saw a high-bred gentleman, handsome and proud, with languid brown eyes; and dressed richly in a murrey-coloured travelling costume.

“You are Sir Edward Seymour?” queried the Stadtholder.

The Englishman bowed.

“Why are you sent here, Sir Edward?” demanded William. “Sir Gabriel could have brought the dispatch alone.”

The bluntness of this slightly discomposed Sir Edward’s stateliness.

He made a little motion with his riding-whip towards the Dutch nobles--

“These are in Your Highness’ confidence?”

“Oh, say what you have to say, Sir Edward,” cried the Prince impatiently.

Seymour was considering him curiously.

“My lord Buckingham made an offer to Your Highness----”

“Which I refused.”

“--in the hope of detaching the English from the French alliance,” added Sir Edward. “You now see, Sir, that such a hope is useless.”

“Well?”

“It is my embassage to repeat that offer to Your Highness. To show the consideration in which their Majesties hold you--they again offer you the sovereignty of Holland--in exchange for the towns not yet in King Louis’ possession.”

William III. looked at him straightly.

“I thank you and your master for these proposals,” he said coldly, “but they are renewed twenty-four hours too late.… Yesterday I took an oath of fidelity to the States as Stadtholder.… You have my answer.”

Sir Edward bowed.

“I may remind Your Highness that you stand in a desperate--almost a hopeless--position.”

The Prince answered proudly--

“I am not by nature timorous, Sir Edward, and do not fear to have to fight for liberty.”

“Have you well considered----”

William interrupted--

“Sir, I would rather spend the rest of my life hunting on one of my German estates than sell my country for any price that could be offered.”

Sir Edward was not as Buckingham, nor even as Arlington; he bowed again, this time with an air of respect.

Every one was silent, holding himself with reserve.

The slanting ray of sun that fell through the open lattice window, laden with the scent of the roses and sweet-peas, seemed incongruous with this contained and grave assembly.

The Prince turned about as if considering something. They felt that he was going to speak, and waited for it. Seymour regarded him keenly, with the air of a man who knows and values what he sees.

The Stadtholder paused by the table, and rested his beautiful hand upon the papers his messenger had brought.

“You shall have an answer in less than ten days,” he said. “I will take these terms myself to the Assembly----”

He paused, and drew himself erect with something of an effort; his reddened eyes flashed with an intense expression of dauntless defiance.

He spoke again, and with irresistible force--

“The King of France considers it a fine amusement to ruin an unoffending country--he thinks it will be easy to crush a petty Prince. You, my lords, doubtless pity me my vain resistance--but you know not what you smile at. The French insult us with outrageous terms. Not Cæsar to the Gauls, nor Alexander to the Persians was more haughty; but we are not as Darius--France will repent this insolence. We will, from this little spark, blow up a war shall see Europe in arms and shake the Continent! No peace, they say; but they shall come to sue for it, be it thirty years or fifty years hence! There is a force can hold back Condé’s blood-flushed cavalry and keep in check the battalions Turenne leads; there is a strength can pit itself against these servitors of the Pope and match itself against the pride of France; and from this conquered land it springs. Long and bloody the struggle may be that forces the aggressor back across his frontier; but it will break his pride, and he shall come to wish that he had taken our honourable terms--for, by my soul! as I am Captain of my country’s hopes, and of their faith the Protector, I shall not sheathe the sword until this presuming arrogance is tamed and Europe breathes in liberty!

“We are not vanquished yet! Though they reckon we are beneath their heel, yet we will show them otherwise. We are no nation of weaklings, nor am I a puppet ruler.

“I am the guardian of this Republic, and I will be worthy of the charge--so help me God!

“My lords, there is no more to say.”

A long minute’s stillness followed. Then Sir Edward Seymour spoke.

“I do not trespass on my duty if I say that I admire the temper that Your Highness shows; I should be pleased to be as fortunate as King Louis, but better pleased to be as courageous as Your Highness.”

“Thank you, my lord,” answered William. “I hope that we may meet again under fairer conditions.”

He held out his hand and Sir Edward kissed it, bowed, very courtly, and withdrew, followed by M. St. Jermyn, his suite, and the Dutch nobles who formed his escort.

The Stadtholder, coughing, turned to the mantelpiece and put his hand over his aching eyes.

“Bentinck, I must return to the Hague--at once.”

“With these dispatches?”

“Yes--the States must assemble----”

M. Zuylestein stepped forward--

“This assassination plot----”

“Can I think of that--now?”

“M. Cornelius de Witt is involved----”

“I do not believe it.” This impatiently, with a frown.

Florent Van Mander came from the window embrasure and went on one knee on the red-tiled floor.

William looked at him and hesitated to speak harshly.

This young man seemed to him a link with the past night; he had been witness of his tears.…

William bit his under-lip and listened.

Florent told his story hurriedly but clearly. Madame Lavalette, under the guise of a traveller from Brussels, accompanied by St. Croix and Michael Tichelaer as her servants, was to take up her quarters in some village near the Prince’s camp.…

Florent broke off.

He looked at M. Zuylestein.

William was not attending.

“The matter is serious!” cried Van Mander desperately.

The Stadtholder did not seem to know that the narrative had ceased.

“Highness,” said M. Bentinck.

William was looking at the dispatches on the table.

“I will hear it presently,” he said.

“Presently may be too late----”

Florent was again interrupted.

A messenger from the Hague with a letter from M. de Witt.

The Prince flushed at sight of the writing, and was breaking the seal when an officer entered to say that a private messenger from King Charles desired a secret audience of the Prince.

William cast down the letter and listened eagerly.

It had always been his passionate hope to detach his uncle from the King of France.

“Who was it?”

“A Frenchman, who had his passport and credentials and had shown them to Count Struym.”

The Stadtholder would see him--at once. He turned all save Bentinck from the room, he knew that Charles liked to act under a mask of secrecy.

“Though you may,” smiled William, “listen at the window.”

He was all animation, hope, and eagerness. If Charles should come to secret terms the Republic was saved.

Florent, very pale, still urged his interrupted tale--

“This may be the very man!”

“Afterwards,” said William,--“afterwards!”

The messenger was introduced; a Frenchman of commonplace exterior, his demeanour very humble. The Stadtholder, alone with him save for M. Bentinck, spoke with impetuous frankness.

“What does my uncle want of me? I will do anything consistent with my vows to the Republic.”

Arlington had sent an extraordinary proposal. Lord Halifax was in the King’s confidence, he said, and was now in Holland.… Would the Prince meet him, unknown to the French--secretly?

William gave an immediate consent, but Bentinck interrupted.

“You are dangerously rash, Highness; this man’s tale is strange, and his errand still stranger for a Frenchman to have come upon. Sir Edward Seymour gave you no hint of this.”

But the Prince was dazzled by the bait.

“I can refuse no chance of coming to an agreement with King Charles.”

He turned to the messenger, but before his first word the door was opened and Florent Van Mander entered, his hand on his sword and his face resolute.

“Sir, that man is Hyacinthe St. Croix--a tool of M. de Pomponne--a spy of M. de Louvois--an assassin!”

St. Croix saw himself betrayed by a man whom he had been very sure of; his face lowered with the rage of it, but he had his answer.

“Does Your Highness allow your private business to be thus interrupted?”

The Stadtholder looked from one to another. M. Bentinck came nearer to him.

“This is the plot of which I warned Your Highness--the attempt to get you into the power of your enemies--to compass your death!” cried Florent hotly.

St. Croix affected to sneer.

“I do not know the man--will Your Highness listen to these children’s tales----?”

“Do not know me?--I have some letters of yours.”

William marked St. Croix’ expression.

“By your leave, Monsieur,” he said, “I will look into this.”

The Frenchman saw the game was up; he seized his last, flying chance.…

Quick his little, keen dagger was out, and he made a swift movement to thrust it above the armlet of the Prince’s cuirass; there, where, by a little unguarded space, the heart might be reached.

Florent threw himself upon him.…

With a passionate sound of rage against the stolid Hollander who had roused at last, St. Croix turned. There was a second’s struggle; the sunlight winked along the steel.…

Florent pitched over backwards with closed eyes and an open mouth; St. Croix tore the door wide and fled.

The thing had not taken two minutes--it was less than ten since St. Croix had entered the room.

The Prince and William Bentinck caught Van Mander.

“He was right!” cried William fiercely; “the man was one of Louvois’ spies.”

“Murderers,” said M. Bentinck; “he has stabbed the fellow.”

The handle of the dagger, silver and ivory, stuck out horribly from the breast of Florent Van Mander, who gasped thickly and beat his heels on the tiles.

“Ah, poor fool,” muttered William, supporting him, “he was saving me. After the Frenchman, Bentinck!”

Florent clutched at the dagger-hilt with convulsive fingers.

“Take care--M. de Witt--Tichelaer----” He struggled; but the Prince, for all his frail look, supported him easily enough.

“I am sorry for this,” he said. “I am sorry.”

Florent Van Mander, selfish place-seeker, careless of his country, and in the pay of France once, has died for a sentiment of honour in the Stadtholder’s arms, even as last night he had seen Cornelius Triglandt die.…

Can William of Orange so inspire one man?--then he may so inspire a whole nation with the last desperate courage. If Florent Van Mander will die for him there will be others also reckless of their lives if they may serve Nassau by laying them down.…

It is calling to horse now, riding to and fro, excitement rising up, reined in.… The last defiance has been flung to France!… The States must refuse these terms.…

The Stadtholder thrusts the dispatches and the letter from M. de Witt, unopened, into the pocket of his mantle, mounts his grey horse and spurs off for the Hague.

The last rays of the sun that peep over the tiger-lilies and sweet-peas at the dead face of Florent Van Mander shine also in the harness of the Stadtholder and his suite, as they ride along the smooth road, between the canals, the locks where the water-lilies rest, the deep, thick-grown meadows where the cattle graze, the little homes with the coloured shutters, the thatched windmills, the poplars and alders, the low fields where the storks sit, through the silent twilight towards the Hague.