Chapter X: The Victor Vanquished

The Duke of Monmouth and the King’s brother were playing tennis in the green courtyard of Zeyst.

Near them, close to a wall bright with coloured roses, walked Madame Lavalette and the Marquis de Pomponne.

She wore a habit like a gentleman’s military coat, blue, braided with silver, and a beaver with a plume of feathers azure as her eyes; her long skirt brushed the grass backwards into a resemblance to ruffled velvet as she stepped.

In her hands was a riding-whip that she bent across the stiff skirts of her coat.

“Marquis,” she said, “Monsieur Cornelius de Witt has been arrested.”

“I heard--last night.”

“Well?”

She looked at him searchingly.

“Well?” he echoed, and smiled.

“You know the facts?”

“Scarcely, Madame.”

“It is on Michael Tichelaer’s accusation Monsieur de Witt has been arrested,” answered the Duchess sharply.

“On the charge of a conspiracy to murder the Prince of Orange, is it not?”

“Yes.”

“The attempt that failed at Bodegraven,” said de Pomponne. “Well, it does not touch us.”

The Duchess’ whip made havoc with M. Van Odyk’s roses.

“That is what I wondered,” she said. “M. de Louvois does not like those he trusts to be clumsy.”

“In brief, you fear a _lettre de cachet_, Madame, eh?”

The curling petals swept on to the grass from the August roses.

“We failed,” said Madame Lavalette.

“Mon Dieu, yes! but St. Croix is not alive to tell tales--he was safely shot by the Dutch soldiers as he strove to escape. Sir Edward Seymour told me--he had hardly cleared the camp himself.”

“There is Tichelaer.”

“He has chosen his part----”

The Duchess interrupted impatiently--

“What part does he play?”

“He wishes to please the mob and ruin the de Witts--why not?--an obscure ruffian!”

“But he knows something.”

De Pomponne shrugged.

“Are you afraid?”

She frowned.

“M. le Marquis, that man knows that we hired St. Croix to put the Prince of Orange out of the way.” She spoke very low. “That it was M. de Louvois’ scheme; and that he, Tichelaer, was to give out M. de Witt was in the plot, so as to crush the Grand Pensionary as well as the Stadtholder. Van Mander, the fool who spoilt it all, thought M. Cornelius, at least, deep in; and now--the Prince escapes, St Croix is shot--the design fails--but Michael Tichelaer persists in his part, accuses Monsieur Cornelius, and rouses Holland against the de Witts with his false oaths.”

“He hath a personal spite against Monsieur Cornelius--that is why we selected him----”

Again she broke in--

“What if he says a little more?--if he declares M. de Louvois hatched this scheme, and that you and I were his agents?”

“He will not.”

“You think so?”

“Mon Dieu, yes! We paid him well; and what object would he serve? He poses as a patriot, remember, and finds himself very popular; he would not care to admit he tampered with us. Besides, it would damage his fabrications against M. de Witt.”

“Then--we are safe?”

“From Michael Tichelaer.”

“M. de Louvois would never forgive us if it got blown abroad he was at the bottom of this.”

They walked for a way in silence; then the Duchess spoke again--

“And Monsieur Cornelius?”

De Pomponne raised his eyebrows.

“It seems to me that there is not much hope for M. Cornelius. Some such excuse as this was only needed to give a vent to the popular fury against him and his brother--can you imagine a better one? He has tried to murder the young hero of the moment! No, there is no escape for M. de Witt.”

“They will discover this man Tichelaer’s falsehoods.”

“The Dutch are not in the humour to be just.”

She fingered her whip.

“And no one knows the truth save ourselves?”

“No one.”

She laughed, rather desperately.

“We shall not speak!”

“I think--no!”

“Mon Dieu!” sighed the Duchess, “I recall the younger de Witt; if ever a man was a saint he is one.”

“He will meet with a saint’s fate, I do not doubt, Madame.”

“Unless His Majesty reaches the Hague in time to save him from the mob,” returned the Duchess; “the King would be generous. When shall we be at the Hague, Monsieur le Marquis?”

“In two--three days.”

Monmouth came running across the grass towards them.

He was flushed and panting.

He flung down his racquet and got into his crimson coat.

“Did you see my lord Arlington?--passed by but now--such a face! La! something amiss.--You Frenchmen are too deep for us, Marquess.--The Duke of Orleans plays a good game--I’d like to race him, he is very light.”

He paused, and suddenly laughed in a wholly pleasant, conciliating way he had.

“You play yourself out of breath,” said Madame Lavalette, speaking in the soft tone all women used to Lord Monmouth.

“Save me!” he cried, “but it is a question of politics--I swear it, Madame, I was not meant for a statesman.--Here comes my lord Bucks.--He is very clever, Marquess, but though he made a war nearly as easily as he writes verses--he does not find making a peace as easy as playing the fiddle.”

At this his idle eye was caught by the roses and the drifting petals beneath them.

“Ah, Madame, you have slain the flowers--cruel! I would like to stick them together again--roses are rare in Holland, Madame, and the summer is nearly over.”

He gave her his sweet smile, and she answered it by one slightly mocking.

“Your Grace is very deceptive--you talk like Sir Calydor and look like the Red Cross Knight--but I fear you are but a worthless rogue after all.”

“I vow,” he replied, “I have been absolved from all my sins.--I carry with me,” he touched his breast, “the document by which His Majesty pardons me all murders committed before this May--absolved and pardoned!--See, a fine butterfly!--Could I scale this wall with my hands tied, think you?--Madame, do you love wrestling?--Ah, sure, George is purely annoyed.”

And he pointed to Buckingham, coming across the smooth, level turf towards them.

De Pomponne went to meet him.

Buckingham laughed.

“The terms rejected!” he said.

“Rejected?”

“M. de Louvois has the news.”

De Pomponne was surprised.

“In what manner is the refusal sent?”

“The most contemptuous possible--the Prince deigns no answer at all, but merely sends a copy of the resolution of the States by which the proposals of peace are rejected.”

“Insolence!” exclaimed the Marquis.

Buckingham smiled sourly.

“Louvois is furious, of course--this defiance is unlooked for.”

He laughed again.

He was fast tiring of his last hobby of politics. The Dutch war had lost its novelty, and the attempt to seduce the Prince of Orange disgusted by reason of its failure. He was tired of the sights of war; and Whitehall, which had lately sated him, appeared again delightful to the Duke’s changeful mind.

The matter was more serious for M. de Pomponne.

“M. de Louvois was furious?”

“Absolutely.”

“And the King?”

“Surprised too, I think--they are in conclave now.”

“I will go in.--I suppose we shall march on the Hague at once?”

“The Hague?” repeated Buckingham. “It is the most beautiful village in the world--I hope His Majesty will not burn it, Marquis.”

Monmouth approached, his racquet in his hand, all eagerness for the news.

“Peace rejected--war to be continued!”

The thoughtless soldier is pleased: his quick fancy sees the green tennis-court, the roses, the placid sky exchanged again for the charge of the cavalry, the attack on the bastions, the English flags against the smoke of the noisy cannon.

He sees himself commended, flattered, praised by the great King, complimented by the great Condé again, as he was before the trenches of Nymwegen.

He catches up his hat, and slips his arm through my lord Buckingham’s blue velvet sleeve; laughing together they go into the castle.

The Marquis and Madame Lavalette follow; the tennis-court stands empty; the rose-petals drift over the smooth grass and cling in the nets.

A wind rises, and it is chilly for an August twilight.

The sun sets behind the flat, misty horizon in a dun and blood-coloured vapour; the camp-fires of the French, which may be seen from the towers of Amsterdam, spring up in the low meadows.

Other lights, softer, more delicate, appear in the windows of the castle.

A ball is to be given in the great rooms looking on to the ramparts.

The sentries keeping watch hear the music of the _contre danse_ falling through the silent air.

M. de Rochfort is expected with his cavalry regiments--has been expected all day. He does not come; the King is a little vexed.

He has become of late impatient if every hour does not bring a fresh triumph.…

My lord Monmouth steps the minuet as well as he wrestles or runs; he dances till the moon sets.

There is much talk of the coming conquest, of the balls to be held in the Orange Saloon, and in the winter on the ice--a novelty!

His Majesty will return to Saint Germains after his entry into the Hague; but he will come back in the winter for these new festivities.

Tales are told of the wealth of Amsterdam. Her meanest streets make the proudest walks of London and of Paris appear paltry; her houses are like palaces.

Buckingham was amazed at the Hague; the width of the roads, the height of the houses, the avenues of trees, the wealthy shops.…

This is a conquest worth the making.

So they dance to the dawn.

As it grows light, Monmouth leaves the castle.

He has his quarters at another château not far distant, and as he steps out on to the ramparts he lingers a little to watch the dawn.

My lord is twenty-five, and full of joyous life. He can take as much pleasure in watching the sun rise as in a brawl in Whitefriars. He can stick a man through and never think of it again, but he listens to a little bird singing in a lonely fashion and would not harm it for another dukedom.

He lingers, dallying with the cool loveliness of the moment. He sets his elbows on the battlements, and leans on the stone, where blush-roses trail as beautiful as himself, and he looks over the expanse of half-revealed country lying beneath him.

As the sun brightens it glimmers in a curious streak of silver, there on the horizon.

My lord is a little puzzled. Were it not that his reason tells him it is impossible he would think he saw water--saw the distant line of the sea.

He wraps his grey mantle round his brocaded ball-dress and leaves the castle, saluted by the silent sentinels.

He has missed his friends.

A sudden silence succeeds the gaiety of the night.

He crosses the moat and enters the meadows; the air is unaccountably cool. He follows the raised causeway between the thick grass, crosses a bridge over a canal, and stops, amazed.

The meadow before him is flooded; spikes of grass and branches of trees rise from placid grey water.

“The river has overflowed,” thinks Monmouth--yet there has been no rain.

He follows the causeway hastily. The next field is under water, and the next under water. It seems to him it rises; as he watches a clump of alders, high enough, are nearly submerged.

The duke stops and stares about him.

The brightening sun discloses a cottage buried to the roof beneath the water.

The camp!

Monmouth turns about quickly. The tents are on higher ground--but this--it is a flood.…

He hesitates, daunted and dismayed.

The water is certainly rising; now it is lapping against the causeway--soon it will cover it.

Monmouth retraces his steps, turns towards the camp. He has to cross a corner of one of the meadows; here the water is over his ankles, his light shoes are soaked, his finery wetted.

Bewilderment and terror clutch at his heart; he quickens his steps along the cobbled pathway.

The canal is one with the fields now; a swirling current hurries against the trees. Monmouth stops again; the sun sparkles on the gleam of harness; a drowned horse--a soldier’s horse is swept against a clump of willow.

Beyond--another glitter and something blue.… A man.

Monmouth bends over, pulling aside the tangled grasses and leaves.

He stares down into the dead face of a French soldier.

A soldier in the brilliant uniform of M. de Rochfort’s regiment.

With a little exclamation the Duke drops to his knees.

He reaches his hand into the water and carries it to his lips.

Salt!

His wild surmise is confirmed. He gives a quick cry--

“The sea! the sea!”

Suddenly the French trumpets break into the stillness; they proclaim alarm, confusion, terror, a retreat.…

The water is rising; covering the causeway.

The gleaming cuirass and blue uniform are tangled in the alders; the soldier’s head jerks as if he heard the trumpet-call.

My lord gets to his feet. His mantle slips back from his splendid dress; he claps his hand to his sword, though no sword shall avail against this.…

The grass, the weeds, the trunks of the trees disappear.

Drifting wreckage floats by: a beam, a hat, a French colour.…

As my lord hurries, the water on the causeway is over his feet.

“My God!” he cries. “They have opened the sluices and let in the sea!--They have cut the dykes, and let in the sea!”