Chapter V: The Challenge

A bar of sunshine fell across the quiet room in the Binnenhof, but it did not touch John de Witt, from head to foot he was in shadow.

The French Ambassador had just left him--a duel of words, an exchange of courtesies; through the formalities one sentence of de Pomponne had leapt.

“If the Prince of Orange gave the signal for a restoration … what would rise to answer it?”

“He will never give that signal,” de Witt had answered, and he believed it.

Yet strange it was for him, First Minister of a Republic almost his creation, to reflect upon this fact--the people of that Republic clamoured for the heir of the House that had threatened to set its heel on them.

He moved half restlessly in his chair. If William were indeed working secretly to undermine him he might find his labour of twenty years gone for nothing, and live yet to see his country under foreign dominion.

He rose and went to the window. The Hall of the Knights showed its painted and pointed shutters against a faint blue sky; the trees in the courtyard of the Binnenhof were shedding their leaves, caught by the wind and whirled in eddies that rose a little way then sank again to the ground.

The sunlight fell now directly on the face of John de Witt. It revealed how grey he was growing round the temples, how weary and lined were his eyes.

He was still standing by the window when a tall soldier entered.

“Ah, M. de Montbas!” the Grand Pensionary turned. “I desired to see you about these riots in Zeeland and Groningen.”

“You wished me to go there, Mynheer, I think your letter said.”

The speaker was a sallow, sickly looking man, with lank hair and dark, unhappy eyes.

“To Groningen--yes.”

M. de Witt returned to his seat in the shadow.

“I fear that we have been too lenient,” he continued; “the Government must make some show of strength.”

“That is only wise,” answered the Count de Montbas; “and should, Mynheer, have been done before.”

“It has never been my policy to use force where persuasion might prevail,” said M. de Witt. “When one is adamant in great things one may be careless in little,--these rioters are mostly ignorant people----”

“They are encouraged by the Prince of Orange,” put in de Montbas quickly.

“There I think you are wrong,” returned the Grand Pensionary quietly. He knew that ill feeling existed between the House of Orange and M. de Montbas, whose father, an exiled Frenchman, had offered his services to the late Stadtholder only to have them refused.

M. de Montbas gave a half-nervous laugh.

“You are too confident, Mynheer.”

The Grand Pensionary ignored the remark and touched a bell upon his table.

“I will read you the report of the disturbances in Zeeland and Goeree,” he said.

It was Florent Van Mander who entered with the papers. M. de Witt bade him stay, and he went quietly to the back of the room and waited, observing, with cruel precision, the two men before him.

He had heard a good deal of M. de Montbas, one of the staunchest republicans in the army of the United Provinces, and the man whom the Grand Pensionary always put forward in opposition to the Prince of Orange as candidate for the post of Captain General, a position that he now, at least nominally, held.

Florent saw a dark, gloomy-featured man, stooping in the shoulders and awkward in bearing, yet with a certain elegance of manner; a man who talked in a nervous and disjointed fashion, and fidgeted with the tassels on his military gloves.

His black-and-silver uniform, with the embroidered baldric and heavy sword, sat badly on him. Florent found him neither attractive nor calculated to inspire confidence, and wondered at the Grand Pensionary’s choice of a general. Glancing away, he studied M. de Witt himself.

Behind the desk where the Grand Pensionary sat hung a dark yet bright picture of fruit and flowers, and against this the brown hair and pale face of John de Witt were thrown into relief.

Pale certainly, even above his white, falling collar and black dress, but of a strength not to be mistaken and a power not to be ignored.

Florent listened to the conversation between these two with an expressionless face but inward interest, for they had begun to discuss the Prince of Orange.

“He is not at the Hague to-day,” M. de Witt was saying. “M. Van Ghent is in Guelders, and His Highness wrote to me requesting permission to try some hawks and hounds sent him by the King of England--for that purpose he hath gone to Breda.”

“What quarry does he hunt at Breda?” asked M. de Montbas, and it seemed to Florent that he spoke like a man afraid.

The Grand Pensionary smiled.

“What should he hunt but herons, Mynheer?--you are too suspicious.”

“By Heaven! I would not have let him go.”

M. de Witt turned over the reports brought him by Florent.

“He hath gone, Count, nor will he return till to-night. To-morrow I will, as you urge me, again see him on the subject of these disturbances.”

“And also concerning his party in the Assembly,” added Montbas, “who hamper us at every step----”

“He has no power with them.”

“I do not know--they use his name----”

“And would do that whether he would or no----”

“And the Princess Amalia,” interrupted M. de Montbas. “Look to her--she is ever intriguing.”

“I know; yet it is to little purpose,--at heart she is afraid of us.”

“But she will serve her grandson’s cause--and by any means--if she have but the chance.”

“I might see her also,” mused M. de Witt. “I know she is timid----”

The door was opened, and M. Van Ouvenaller took a few steps into the room.

“A man hath just ridden up to the Binnenhof, Mynheer, who earnestly desires to see you,” said the secretary. “His name is Captain Van Haren, of the garrison at Vlaardingen.”

The Grand Pensionary did not know the name.

“Nay, I cannot see him now,” he answered, “his business must wait; nor should you have broken in upon us with this, Van Ouvenaller.”

“Mynheer,” answered the secretary, colouring, “this man says he bears a letter from the Prince of Orange.”

“From the Prince of Orange!” cried de Montbas, rising.

“I beseech you,” breathed John de Witt, giving him a quick look; then he turned to Van Ouvenaller, “Admit this Captain Van Haren.”

Florent felt his pulses throbbing, his blood stirring. He advanced a little farther into the room, glancing furtively from the agitated countenance of the Count de Montbas to the composed features of John de Witt.

Captain Van Haren entered, a stout and stolid soldier, muddy and wet.

“You are unknown to me, Mynheer,” said the Grand Pensionary quietly.

“I am the commander of the garrison at Vlaardingen on the Maas, Mynheer. His Highness the Prince of Orange rested there this morning--he dispatched me with this letter.”

“The Prince at Vlaardingen!” cried M. de Montbas, and rapidly flushed and rapidly paled again.

For the second time the Grand Pensionary checked him with a look, holding out his hand for the letter. Without lowering his eyes to it he spoke--

“What took the Prince to Vlaardingen?”

“He was on his way to Bergen-op-Zoom they said, Mynheer.”

“He goes to Zeeland?” questioned de Witt, and his eyes narrowed.

“I think so, Mynheer.”

A fierce exclamation broke from de Montbas, but John de Witt in silence tore the seals of the letter.

It was headed--

“VLAARDINGEN ON THE MAAS

“_11th Sept. 1668_

“MYNHEER,” it ran, “as I am now arrived at an age when I
can claim the heritage of my House, I am proceeding, on the
invitation of Zeeland, to Middelburg, there to take my seat
as premier noble of that State. Her Highness the Princess of
Orange, and His Serene Highness the Elector of Brandenburg,
have been pleased to declare me of age. I did not consider it
necessary to request permission of Their High Mightinesses
before I took this journey. Upon my return to the Hague I shall
be desirous of personally conveying to you my affection and
duty,

“WILLIAM, Prince of Orange.”

John de Witt laid the letter down. Florent thought that his face, his whole bearing, had wonderfully changed.

“His Highness was accompanied?” he asked.

“By his household and a company of young nobles.”

“He hath gone to rouse Zeeland!” cried M. de Montbas.

De Witt handed him the Prince’s letter.

“You should not have allowed His Highness to leave Vlaardingen,” he said sternly to Captain Van Haren. “Not he, but Their High Mightinesses are your masters.”

“His Highness told me that he went to join Prince John Maurice,” answered the soldier. “I did not know that it was against the wishes of Their High Mightinesses.”

“Against their wishes and mine,” said John de Witt. “This is an act of rebellion on the Prince’s part--we have been too lenient. Get back to Vlaardingen, Captain Van Haren, and be careful how ye serve the States.”

To Florent, eagerly watching, was revealed a new phase of the Grand Pensionary; he saw him moved if composed, roused and dominant. The gentleness that might have covered weakness was shown to be but the cloak of undaunted strength. He held his head high, and the prominence of his jaw was emphasised by the set of the mouth.

“Get back to Vlaardingen,” he repeated; “and remember that Their High Mightinesses will endure no riots nor disturbances in the name of this most presumptuous young man.”

The Captain saluted and withdrew. As the door closed on him M. de Montbas looked up from the letter fluttering in his hand.

“This is a challenge,” he said.

John de Witt’s brows were contracted.

“Yea, I think so.”

“We have been fooled!” cried M. de Montbas bitterly; “fooled by this docile, sickly boy!” He rose and dashed the letter on to the table. “Where is your policy of concession now? What of this good citizen you were making out of a tyrant’s son?”

“I have been deceived,” answered the Grand Pensionary sternly. “As ye say, fooled!” His eyes expressed an anger that Florent would not have believed them capable of, so utterly did it contradict their usual look of stately kindliness. “Who would have thought that there were such guile and deception in this young man!”

“I have warned you,” said M. de Montbas. “He was over quiet; and never could I imagine that one of his House would be content with a subservient position.”

“My eyes are opened now!” De Witt rose. “Perhaps it is better that he and I should meet without disguise. Since he hath rejected my friendship it is well that I should know it.”

He drew a quick breath, and for a moment it seemed as if the old hatred fought against so long, carefully concealed and never acted upon, was asserting itself,--the hatred of the stern republican for princely insolence and tyranny; the hatred of the son of Jacob de Witt, the innocent prisoner of Loevenstein, for the son of the man who had flung him there.

M. de Montbas saw the expression, and read it by the light of his own bitter dislike to William of Orange.

“You have been acting on your principles instead of your instincts,” he said. “In your heart you never trusted him.”

“I have ever done him justice,” answered John de Witt, “and treated him in such a manner that this act of his, this contemptuous blow in the face of my authority, is base ingratitude.”

“You never loved him,” insisted M. de Montbas in the same kind of trembling, nervous anger. “Though ye have had the tutoring of him, ye never loved him.”

The Grand Pensionary looked straightly into the soldier’s face.

“Nay, I never loved him,” he said. “It was not possible.”

“But you trusted him.”

“It is my habit,” returned M. de Witt proudly, “to trust those with whom I deal.”

M. de Montbas shrugged his shoulders impatiently. To Florent’s covertly observant eyes he seemed in an agitation bordering on fear.

“To join Prince John Maurice at Breda!” ejaculated the Grand Pensionary. “It is a scheme concocted with the Princess Dowager--the Prince was recently at Cleves. Who, besides, would he have with him?--Heenvliet, Renswoude, and Boreel, I thought that I could have trusted them; but Bromley and Van Odyk, I had intention of replacing … they are at the bottom of this----”

“The Prince, and no one but the Prince, is at the bottom of this!” cried M. de Montbas.

The Grand Pensionary gave a stern smile.

“You think I have been weak; I have only acted as I considered right, and as I should act again. Maybe even yet I may by persuasion overcome this youth’s worldly ambition. If not, we, the States and I, are capable of sterner measures.”

“They should have been used before.” M. de Montbas suppressed his impatient voice. “Where you have once been so utterly deceived, can you ever confide again? If William of Orange will do this, what will he not do?” The speaker’s sallow face flushed with the energy of his feelings. “France and England, who neglected him when he was nothing in the State, begin to court him now. Why should he not revenge himself on the party that deprived him of his inheritance by intriguing for sovereign power with our enemies----”

“M. de Montbas, you go too far,” interrupted the Grand Pensionary. “We have neither right nor reason to suspect the Prince of these deep designs. He is a boy, misled by his ambitions.”

“This is clever work for a boy,” replied the Count, with a sour smile. “He has outwitted you, Mynheer.”

“That is no shame to me.”

“It may be a danger to the State,” was the swift answer.

“You blame me,” said the Grand Pensionary quietly. “I do not doubt that, on all sides, I shall receive censure.”

He moved slowly back to his desk, and M. de Montbas sprang from his chair.

“Ay! You have been wrong from the first! You cannot tame an eagle with sugar and smiles; if you want to keep him you cage him, otherwise he will fly as soon as he is able, though he may have taken your friendliness while his wings were growing.”

“I did what I would do again,” repeated John de Witt firmly, and without bitterness.

He picked up the Prince’s letter and looked at it again.

“The Princess and the Elector, his guardians, declare him of age--it follows he will be claiming a seat in the Council of State,” he remarked.

“Zeeland will demand the restoration of the Stadtholdership,” added M. de Montbas.

“Maybe.” De Witt spoke thoughtfully. “There will be a fierce fight; perhaps I could gain the Princess, at least I will see her.”

He glanced at the blue china clock on the mantelshelf.

“The Assembly is now sitting,” he remarked.

“We have not yet decided the question of these riots,” said M. de Montbas.

“This letter puts a different complexion on the matter.” M. de Witt folded and placed it in his pocket as he spoke. “I must set the whole affair before the Assembly.” He turned to the secretary, “Will you lock up those papers in my desk, Mynheer Van Mander?”

“Yes, Mynheer.”

Without further speech the Grand Pensionary and M. de Montbas left the room.

Florent did as he had been directed. With a mechanical intelligence of the hands, leaving free the excited workings of his brain upon what he had just heard and the meaning of it, he put away the papers, neatly, in their various drawers.

He was about, in the same absorbed fashion, to lock the desk, when a sudden, unexpected thought held him still.

What were these papers? Without a doubt valuable to Hyacinthe St. Croix--to William of Orange.

And they lay there before him, at his mercy to read, to copy--to steal.

Prudence no longer restrained him. In the last half-hour he had decided to remain not another day in the service of M. de Witt. He had nothing to gain from the Grand Pensionary.

Yet he stood in the hazy sunlight hesitating, the key in his hand and the open desk before him.

St. Croix would pay him well, but he was not thinking of St. Croix.

What would the Prince give for the contents of the private desk of M. de Witt?

Florent did not want money--but he craved to stand for something--to be of value--to merit consideration in the eyes of this young man who had suddenly unfurled the Orange standard.

And what had he to offer but the poor services any clerk could give?

Still he hesitated; but that same recollection that filled him with hot desire to serve William of Orange held him back. Thinking of William of Orange, he could not do it.

He locked the desk and went into the outer room to give the key to M. Van den Bosch.

The clerks of M. de Witt were discussing the situation in a subdued agitation. Florent tendered the key, half defiantly.

“Are you leaving?” asked M. Bacherus, with a look of surprise on his wrinkled face.

Florent answered briefly, and took his hat and cloak down from a peg.

“What do you think of this news from Zeeland?” asked Van Ouvenaller, adjusting his spectacles.

“I am sorry for M. de Witt,” returned Florent dryly.

Van Ouvenaller rubbed his chin.

“These are troublesome times,” he remarked gloomily.

Florent left the room and the Binnenhof.

The Hague was already alive with excitement; the streets seethed with unrest. The daring of the Prince’s exploit made it almost unbelievable; this and that rumour were spread and contradicted. The burgher companies were out, and by the time Florent had reached the Plaats it was announced that M. de Montbas was in council with the States, and that a message had been sent to Hellevoetsluis, where De Ruyter lay with the Fleet. These messages, intended to quiet the people’s fears of a _coup d’état_ on the part of the Prince, were received with derision. There were more orange favours worn than white ones, and more satisfaction than anger expressed at the success of the Prince’s enterprise.

In the Kneuterdyk Avenue, close to M. de Witt’s house, Florent met St. Croix.

They exchanged hasty greeting in the crowd.

“You have heard the news?” the Frenchman smiled.

“You received the returned packet?” retorted Florent.

“Yes; the Prince is prudent to refuse to enter into negotiations that are bound to be detected.”

Such was not Florent’s reading of the action.

“Will you come to my lodgings to-night?” he asked. “We cannot talk here.”

“To-night----? Agreed.”

They parted.

Florent smiled rather grimly to himself. St. Croix would find his new prey flown, since M. de Witt’s secretary had decided not to remain another hour in the Hague.