Читать книгу I Will Maintain - Bowen Marjorie - Страница 8

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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—