Читать книгу I Will Maintain - Bowen Marjorie - Страница 5

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“Do you accompany M. de Witt to-day?” asked Van Ouvenaller.

Florent replied without looking up—

“Yes.”

“I think he will be out of humour,” remarked the other secretary,—“I do not mean angry, like other men, but sad.”

The note of admiration in his voice was marked. Florent continued docketing the papers, letters from England, before him; Van Ouvenaller, who had just entered the library, stood against the desk looking down at him.

“It is this pastor,” he continued. “He has very ill repaid M. de Witt’s courtesy.”

“Mynheer the Pastor Simon Simonides?” inquired Florent. “I saw him—why did he come here?”

“By the order of Their High Mightinesses,” answered the other, with some satisfaction, “to ask M. de Witt’s pardon for a sermon he preached some days ago—before you came to the Hague.”

Florent glanced up.

“A treasonable sermon?”

“He strove to stir the people into sedition by accusing them of ingratitude to the Prince of Orange, and spoke very burningly against the Republic.”

“He looked sour and fierce,” said Florent, “but M. de Witt was very gracious to him.”

“Too gracious,” returned Van Ouvenaller, with some heat. “He said as sole reproof—‘Mynheer, you have outstepped your duty, which is to heal, not to create, discord,’ and with that made him stay to dinner. But the old man was not softened; he left as hot against us as he had come.”

“Why should M. de Witt care?” asked Florent.

Van Ouvenaller slightly smiled.

“You do not know him; he cannot bear to feel any against him—if he thinks the people dislike, distrust him, it strikes at his heart. It is the same with the Prince. I swear that since Mynheer took over His Highness’ education his one idea has been to gain his friendship.”

The speaker’s worn, plain face lit; it was clear he admired his master—to a foolish extent Florent thought.

Van Ouvenaller spoke again.

“You have not seen the Prince?”

“No—I am curious.”

The older secretary made no answer. He fixed his eyes on the picture of the garden seen through the straight window, with the afternoon sunshine in the trees and the figure of Agneta de Witt seated in the shade, spinning, her brass-bound Bible beside her.

Florent gazed too.

“This must be dull for M. de Witt’s children.”

Van Ouvenaller answered quickly—

“They do not live here, but with M. de Witt’s sister, at Dordt. This is a visit.”

“Then without them,” smiled Florent, “this great house must be very dull indeed.”

“It is quiet,” said Van Ouvenaller simply, “but one is too immersed in affairs to notice it; and M. de Witt will always live quietly now Madame de Witt is dead.”

Then he drew out his watch and added, in a changed tone—

“M. de Witt will be waiting for you—have you the papers?”

Florent put them into the red velvet bag that went daily to and fro in the Hague, containing, as a foreigner remarked, half scornful, half admiring, “the most important documents in Europe,” took his hat and cloak from the wall, saluted Van Ouvenaller and stepped into the hall. He did not need to betake himself to the Grand Pensionary’s private cabinet, for John de Witt came down the wide, pleasant stairs with his hat on.

“You are punctual.” He smiled, drawing on his gloves slowly. He was entirely in black save for his falling lace collar, and looked pale and tired. “I have been a little delayed to-day. We go first, Mynheer Van Mander, to His Highness’ house”—he avoided pointedly the word “palace,”—“afterwards to the Binnenhof.”

Florent ventured on no comment. He half resented the notable simplicity with which the Grand Pensionary of the United Provinces walked through the streets of the Hague attended only by himself carrying the famous red bag. Of what use was power, he thought, if it but meant the taking up of an enormous weight of cares and anxieties and receiving in return the treatment of an ordinary burgher citizen?

John de Witt did not speak as they went along, and it was with an absorbed, though courteous, air that he returned the many salutations bestowed. Florent wondered what he was reflecting upon, and if the grim unfriendliness of the old Calvinist pastor still troubled him. Then, as they reached the low buildings of the Palace, he snatched his own thoughts to the moment. He must have his wits about him—there was St. Croix’s letter.

They were received by Mynheer Van Ghent, the Prince’s governor, in a fine but gloomy chamber with a painted ceiling.

Half the Palace, considered now the property of the State, was locked up, and the Prince allowed but the use of one wing. To Florent the room had an air of mournful splendour—built for a palace and used as a prison—there was a sense of sombre dreariness over the whole building; the furniture was scant and plain, there were no pictures on the walls, and the bookcases, plain and austere, held volumes of a severe look and character, mostly on mathematics or tactics.

A gloomy place for a young man to live in, watched by enemies; a dreary place for a Prince to be brought up in, surrounded by cold faces, by suspicion, distrust, and enmity; a cheerless habitation for the heir to a ruined House, friendless, early orphaned, and forced to guard his every word and look.

M. de Witt’s policy might be that of conciliation and concession; he might hold out his hand sincerely, and with his heart in it, but it was not easy to imagine life as very pleasant for the young Prince in these stern environments.

Mynheer Van Ghent talked a little with the Grand Pensionary. Florent had heard that the Prince hated his governor; it was common knowledge that he had fallen ill of chagrin when forced to part with his former tutor, his uncle Mynheer de Zuylestein. Florent therefore observed Mynheer Van Ghent closely, and found in him nothing displeasing, but rather a kind of melancholy austerity and a gentle demeanour.

He stood a little apart from him and his master, and could not hear what the two were saying; their voices were low and guarded. He wondered where the Prince was; if he would see him; if he would, possibly, be able to convey Pomponne’s letter.…

The heavy door at the end of the room, which was not far from him, opened quietly; a young man stepped into the apartment and closed the door after him.

Florent was startled, taken aback, confused. The young man regarded him out of a pair of remarkable eyes, gave him a slow, mournful, unsmiling glance, and seemed to hesitate.

Florent was not sure. The youth was plainly, even shabbily dressed, and looked too grave and tall for seventeen.

But de Witt turned and held out his hand.

“I find Your Highness well?” he inquired.

William of Orange crossed the room.

“I am very well,” he answered respectfully. He bent his head to his governor and to the Grand Pensionary. “Will you come into the other room to-day, Mynheer?” he added. “I have desired a fire there.”

Florent Van Mander was studying him greedily now, cursing himself, too, for a lost chance. That moment when the Prince entered he could have slipped the package into his very hand if only he had known him at first sight. He drew the letter out of his pocket, watching the Prince the while.

M. de Witt had his back to him.

Certainly His Highness was tall for his age, and with none of the awkwardness of boyhood; he was elegant rather, delicately made, and carried himself with an air of unnatural, almost dangerous, quiet and control.

Despite his plain dress and subdued manner, he was not in the least insignificant, but of a noticeable and princely appearance. To Florent, even at this first glance, a personality masterful and attractive.