CHAPTER XITHE JESTERS AND THE RHETORIC PLAYERS
That winter the Count Adolphus, who had been seeing service with the King of Denmark, joined the Nassau household at Brussels, where Count Louis was already living; he too hoped for some post under his brilliant brother, and meanwhile eagerly joined the party of the grandees and closely associated himself with the band of young and reckless cavaliers, such as Count Louis, Count Hoogstraaten, young Mansfeld, and Henry Brederode.
It was a gorgeous life, an extravagant life, a life in every way reckless and opulent that these seigneurs led on the edge of revolution, on the edge of the King's wrath, on the edge perhaps of worse things than any of them dreamed.
There were hunts, falcon parties, entertainments at their magnificent country seats, balls, feasts, dinners, masks in the great palaces in Brussels; even the Cardinalists Aremberg, Aerschot, and Barlaymont mingled in this joyous and spendthrift society. But it was the party headed by Orange, Egmont, and Hoorne which went the furthest in splendour, display, and open defiance of the Cardinal and the edicts of the Inquisition—edicts which two Stadtholders at least, Berghen and Montigny, resolutely refused to enforce in their provinces.
Granvelle smiled and wrote his long dispatches to the King, carefully giving instances of the pride and insolence of the grandees, and declaring that not only were theyset against himself, but against the authority of His Majesty. Margaret raged and wept and grew daily more confused; all had forsaken her council board save the Cardinal and his creatures, and her pride began to revolt against Granvelle's obvious treatment of her as a puppet. Her secretary Armenteros, one of the sly Spaniards bred in the school of Madrid, urged her to assert herself, and she could not but see that Granvelle's policy, however acceptable to the King, was most likely to raise a religious war in the Netherlands, which she, a foreigner in fact, though nominally a Fleming, dared not attempt to coerce without the aid of the Stadtholders with their immense local influence.
Early in the new year it became secretly known to the grandees that Margaret had lately sent a letter to the King representing the desperate financial state of the country, the firm hold heresy had, the immense feeling against the Inquisition, the impossibility of counting on the nobility while Granvelle remained in power, and the advisability of recalling the Cardinal for a while.
This news was received as a triumph, and Egmont, with his usual recklessness, gave a great feast, where the toast "to the departure of the man in red" was enthusiastically drunk.
It was past midnight when a party of young nobles—Adolphus of Nassau, Hoogstraaten, Montigny, and Brederode—left Egmont's mansion and turned homewards through the moonlit streets of Brussels.
They would not so soon have left the festival if they had not been inspired by a project of daring mischief: Brederode had a sheaf of violent pasquils under his brocade cloak, Hoogstraaten in the same manner concealed a pot of paste, and Adolphus and Montigny were to keep watch while the other two placarded their insults over any bare wall that offered.
It was a fair night, and the moonlight fell unclouded into the streets, casting sharp shadows from gables andbalconies and rendering the work of the young cavaliers as dangerous as they could wish; even Egmont had warned them against proceeding too far, and William had perpetually forbidden his brothers to indulge in dangerous jests, for William knew Philip.
But they were young, enthusiastic, warmed with wine, absolutely fearless—and where Henry Brederode was there could never be caution.
This nobleman was not wealthy, but of as ancient a descent as any in the Netherlands, being the last representative of the former Counts of Holland, of whose vast possessions, however, he retained only one lordship.
As he stood now leaning against a church door on which he was engaged in pasting his pasquil, it was easy to see the fascination which kept him the friends of men who believed him worthless, for there was a winning charm in the handsome laughing face, the thick curls shading the bold impudent eyes, the humorous mouth, showing the man of ready wit, of endless daring, of quick temper, and ready good nature. He was dressed, altogether beyond his means, in purple and gold brocade; his ruff of Flanders lace was stained with wine, and in the gold silk twist of his left garter he carried a dagger.
Near him stood Anthony Lalaing, Count Hoogstraaten, a chosen friend of the Prince of Orange despite his youth; he was short and very slender, and looked almost like a page as he offered the paste pot, his dark mantle wrapped from his eyes to his knees, his hat pulled over his brow, the only part of his festival attire visible being his rose-coloured silk hose.
Adolphus of Nassau also muffled himself in his cloak, and Floris de Montmorency, the Seigneur de Montigny, a dark splendid cavalier, kept watch at the turn of the street.
The yellow lights of the two oil lamps, flickering before a gaudy shrine to the Virgin set in the angle of the houses opposite the church, showed that the streets were empty,and that no one spied from the windows, alike all dark and shuttered. But as Brederode, with a laugh of enjoyment, was pasting a crude but effective likeness of the Cardinal rapidly journeying to hell in the company of the Devil next to the lampoon which he had already firmly affixed to the church door, Hoogstraaten and Montigny both gave a sound of warning—but too late; a carriage, singularly light and noiseless, swept round the corner, and the nobles, whose own reckless laughter had concealed the sound of the wheels, found the vehicle on them before they could fly.
One of them, at least, did not wish to do so; Brederode turned round, the paste-brush in his hand, ready for any defiance.
The other three crowded close to the door, hiding with their persons the distinct white squares of the still wet lampoons.
"What carriage in these streets at this hour?" whispered Montigny, who, as the most prudent, was also the most nervous and anxious.
His curiosity was not long in being satisfied, the blinds of the carriage were up, and from the window nearest the church looked out the serene smooth face of Cardinal Granvelle.
Even Brederode concealed the paste-brush, and the others lowered their faces into the folds of their mantles.
But the carriage stopped, and Granvelle looked straight at Brederode.
"Good evening," he said. "You enjoy the night air of Brussels?"
"As well on foot as Your Eminence in a carriage," replied the Baron, throwing back his head, his eyes beginning to dance with defiance.
"Oh, I," replied Granvelle, his glance travelling over the other cavaliers—"I am returning to La Fontaine after supper with the Regent."
"I also am returning home," replied Brederode. "My host was the Count Egmont."
"Did the Count win any more dice throws?" asked the Cardinal.
"Nay, we were not occupied in gaming," said Brederode; "but had we played," he added, with his reckless loyalty to Egmont, "I doubt not the Count would have won."
"Ah, he has luck," smiled the Cardinal, "but he may find the throw of the dice that made him the designer of the liveries a perilous victory."
The three cavaliers drew closer together; for all their high spirits and youthful bravado they knew what power the Cardinal had with Philip, and what the King's wrath meant. There might be eventual death for all of them if Granvelle saw what was pasted on the church door behind them.
But Brederode answered dauntlessly—
"Is there not some peril in Your Eminence driving abroad so late and unattended? Best be on your way; you are not so popular in Brussels."
Granvelle smiled.
"I am well aware that I have enemies capable of assassinating me, but I am able to despise them, even"—his glance again swept the silent three—"if these here are among those willing to lie in wait to do me a mischief."
"Whoever advised you so, lied!" cried Brederode.
The Cardinal leant farther from the window. "Who are those behind you?" he asked. "Methinks I know the figure of the Seigneur Hoogstraaten, or is it some page? And a member of the House of Nassau—would it be now—Adolphus or Louis?"
"Adolphus," answered that knight, who would not involve his brother in his adventure; "and by your leave we have as good right to be abroad as yourself."
"An amorous adventure?" smiled Granvelle. "Yet a church door is a strange rendezvous."
"Your Eminence knows best of that," said Brederode, with utter recklessness. "There are others beside you who know how to reconcile love and the Church."
Granvelle was well-known to be far from saintly, and the thrust caused him to wince. Adolphus caught Brederode's sleeve and besought him to hush.
"How many insolences go unchecked in the Netherlands!" said Granvelle softly. "But the King is not so easily mocked. Your names are all noted in Madrid."
"Go there and remind His Majesty of them," answered Brederode, "and place my name high on the list, and say I sent you there to write it."
Hoogstraaten pulled him back, and Montigny, disdaining to be disguised now his companions were discovered, moved forward, while Adolphus deftly set his back against the placard.
"Your Eminence will take no notice of the Count," he said, "since he is obviously far gone in wine."
"I take no notice of any of you," replied the Cardinal, "and I think you are more drunk with treason than with wine——"
"Treason?" shouted Brederode; "who dares give that word to me?"
And he was hurling himself on the Cardinal, but Hoogstraaten and Adolphus held him back and forced him against the wall; he laughed and broke loose from them, disappearing in the shadows behind the Cardinal's carriage.
"Ah, Floris Montmorency," cried the Cardinal, "is this the place for the Stadtholder of Hainault?"
"I but amuse myself with my companions," replied Montigny, with a smile, though he was deeply conscious of his false position.
"The nobles of the Netherlands choose dangerous amusements," said the Cardinal, "and the Princes of Nassau dangerous company," he added, glancing at Adolphus.
The three nobles, bitterly irritated at the Cardinal's questions and his delay, could hardly restrain their impatience, especially as they suspected that he knew well enough what they were about, and what they concealed behind them on the church door.
"You think I too dare something in reprimanding you?" said Granvelle, "yet I cannot believe that the chivalrous Houses of Nassau, Lalaing, and Montmorency would combine against a defenceless priest."
"Your Eminence need have no fear of that," replied Montigny, "though we are not among those who have found priests defenceless—nay, very much the opposite."
"The March air," replied Granvelle, "is too keen to give a relish to this banter of wits with boys and roysterers."
"We wish no conversation with Your Eminence," cried Adolphus angrily; "you might have driven on, for us, without a word."
"I am sorry," said the Cardinal, with a keen look at Montigny; "yea, I say again that I am sorry to see the Stadtholder of Hainault in such company."
With this remark, which Adolphus and Hoogstraaten received as an insult and Montigny as a threat, Granvelle signalled to the coachmen and leant back in his seat.
As the carriage drove on up the slope, Montigny looked anxiously for Brederode.
"Where is he? Fled?" Adolphus asked.
But a shout of laughter answered them; the Count was standing at the corner under the shrine and pointing after the Cardinal's carriage.
When the other three cavaliers looked in this direction they could not forbear laughter either. On the back of the carriage in which Granvelle was taking his stately departure was pasted the lampoon and the picture of His Eminence hastening along with the Devil.
While the others had been using their wits, Brederode had used his paste-brush, and to greater effect.
"Par le Cordieu!" cried the Count, "his face will turn yellow when he sees that!"
"But he will guess who did it, my Brederode," said Hoogstraaten, "and what kind of exploit will that show in us?"
"Give me the bills," added Montigny, "here is enough for one night."
Hoogstraaten cast his paste pot over the wall of the garden nearest, and Adolphus was glad to end the perilous jest; the night air, the conversation with the Cardinal, had cleared their minds of the fumes of wine and excitement. It had been a dangerous moment while they stood with their backs against the placards on the church door.
"The news of this may reach Madrid," continued Montigny, endeavouring to disarm Brederode of his brush.
"Madrid is a great way off," returned the turbulent Count.
"But Philip has a long arm," said Montigny; he took the rest of the pasquils from Brederode and thrust them into his own doublet, and cast the brush over the wall after the paste pot.
Brederode was inclined to be angry, till two of them passed an arm in his, and the four of them went up the street, the Count shouting a song loudly enough to bring the solitary watch to the street corner as they went by.
They had almost regained Egmont's palace, where Hoogstraaten and Montigny were lodging, when their progress was suddenly interrupted.
A man stepped from a doorway and stood right across the path of the four nobles. Their first thought was of violence, and all of them clapped their hands on their swords, but the fellow threw out his hands to show he was defenceless, and then they noticed that he wore the famous livery—the camlet robe with the hanging sleeves embroidered with the bunch of arrows.
"There is only one of you with his face uncovered," he said, in a low eager voice, "but he is the Seigneur Brederode——"
"At your service," said the Count; "whose fellow are you?"
"Alas, I am no one's fellow," was the reply; "thislivery is but a disguise bought with my last ducats. Titelmann is after me."
"Are you a heretic?" asked Montigny.
"I am nothing at all, but I played the part of the Cardinal in the rhetoric play, and the bonnet maker where I lodged betrayed me to the Inquisition. But the boy of the house warned me, and I crept out and got this habit, and have been in the streets ever since, and if some great noble will not take me into his house, Titelmann will get me at the last."
"I like your humour," said Brederode instantly, "and all enemies of the Cardinal are friends of mine——"
Montigny checked him and turned to the stranger.
"Fellow," he demanded, "is this tale true, or but some ruse? Answer me truthfully. I am the Stadtholder of Hainault."
"Before God it is true," answered the other earnestly. "And I speak in dread of my life, and with no object but to gain protection. Ever since it has been dark I have been creeping from corner to corner, hoping to find some seigneur——"
"Friend," interrupted Brederode, "I could take you if my house was bigger and my debts less. But Egmont," he added, with his usual admiration of that nobleman, "Egmont will give you shelter—his house is as full of heretics as Geneva itself."
"Then I will hasten to throw myself on the protection of the noble Count," answered the other gratefully. But Montigny, fearing the recklessness both of Brederode and Egmont, was for seizing this stranger who might be anything that he did not say he was—even one of Granvelle's spies—when Adolphus said, "Surely I know his voice, his look——" he dropped the mantle from his face as he spoke, and gazed keenly at the other, who gave a quick exclamation.
"It is the Count Adolphus of Nassau! Then out of his princely goodness he can vouch for me." So saying,he thrust back the hood of his habit, revealing the smooth keen face, the agate brown eyes, of Duprès, the Elector Augustus's skryer.
"Yes, it is he," said Adolphus, "who predicted a bloody death for all of us. And now you are in fear of death yourself," he added, with a smile; "it is strange that one who can read the future cannot foretell his own perils."
"Alas, noble seigneur," replied Duprès, with his usual mingled impudence and reverence, "the angels became capricious and would not give me any more good advice, and I, growing restless, must needs leave a good master and go on my travels which have brought me here—and will lead me no further than the stake unless one of your princely Graces have pity on me. I have seen," he added, with a slight convulsive shudder, "men burning who have beheld angels in the flames and died happy, calling on Christ. But I have always been profane, and am more like to see devils and die blaspheming my God."
"We would deliver no one to death for such an offence as yours," replied Montigny. "And since the Count Adolphus knows you, he will take you to the household of His Highness, where you will be sheltered."
The skryer bent and impulsively kissed the young knight's hand.
"Can he converse with angels?" demanded the Count, who had kept silence so long with difficulty. "If so he may bring them for me——"
"Alas, my magic table is lost," replied Duprès, "and the impression of the mystic seals—they went down on board ship, off Havre."
"But you can tell my fortune?" persisted Brederode.
"You will find that in the bottom of a wine cup, may God forgive you!" cried Hoogstraaten, dragging him on.
"Yes, best go home before more befall us," said Montigny, and the four parted—Brederode and his two friends back to the mansion of Egmont; and Adolphus, with the skryer humbly behind him, to the Nassau palace.
CHAPTER XIITHE GRANDEES
The huge and lavish household of the Prince of Orange, which included counts and barons, easily afforded shelter to the poor skryer. William listened to his story, gave him a place among his people, and straightway forgot him.
But Duprès, after his late miserable adventures, was sufficiently happy to find himself under this gorgeous patronage; he had his room, his laboratory, his weekly wage, and by means of the devices he had learned from his late master, Vanderlinden, he earned many an odd ducat from the numberless people who came and went in the mansion of the Prince.
He gained, too, a considerable dole from Anne, who was overjoyed to see him again, and rejoiced at the diversion a visit to his laboratory afforded. He worked on her childish vanity with perfumes, soaps, lotions, cosmetics; and on her idle credulity, by foretelling the future by means of cards and mirrors; and with the ready wit and facile ability which were his stock in trade, he speedily became a favourite with the Princess, who was the only member of the household sufficiently idle to be able to afford him limitless time, patience, and encouragement; for Anne had no friends, and she was not interested in her second child who lived apart with nurses and maids.
While William was becoming more and more absorbed in the task of defeating Granvelle and the policies he stood for, Anne was becoming more and more addicted to herfortune telling, her magic experiments, her wine drinking, and her bouts of fury, which rendered it almost impossible to find any one to wait on her. Only Rénèe le Meung remained at her task, patient, impassive, serving her mistress with as much devotion as if she loved her, concealing her faults as much as possible, and doing all in her power to make Anne preserve a reputable appearance before her world. It was a thankless, bitter task, but Rénèe performed it with as complete a self-abnegation as any anchorite his daily round of prayers and penances.
Anne had drifted completely from her husband, the passionate affection she had once evinced for him never revived in one single moment of tenderness. His quarrel with Granvelle, which had closed the Regent's Court to her, his absorption in affairs in which she refused to take the slightest interest, and the neglect she fancied she had received from all in Brussels, had produced in Anne a bitter disappointment from which grew an equally bitter dislike of her husband whom she regarded as the author of these evils.
But William, eminently generous, peace-loving, and used to domestic gentleness and serenity, made more than one attempt to restore amity; Anne's character bewildered and confused him.
Soon after he had received the momentous news that Cardinal Granvelle had requested the Regent's permission to accompany his brother for a few days into Burgundy to visit their mother, and that Egmont's offer to go to Madrid and explain the affairs of the Provinces in person had been declined, and that the King's answer to the petitions of Orange, Egmont, and Hoorne to remove the Cardinal had been a dry and stiff note bidding the three once more take their places at the Regent's table, William summoned a meeting of all the grandees who had leagued with him against the Cardinal.
The Prince was serious that day; he was often serious lately; matters in the Netherlands became daily worse.The daily sight of the horrible executions of the Inquisition were driving the people to frenzy, the estates and cities were protesting against the abuse of their charters, and Margaret was helpless. She advised moderation, she promised moderation, but she did not enforce it, for Inquisitor Titelmann was daily in her antechamber, and she was as afraid of Peter Titelmann as she was afraid of Granvelle and of Philip.
So the Prince of Orange, looking about him, beheld confusion, tumult, mystery, danger, and blood; the sky was dark, the air heavy with menaces, and to his acute ear an even more deadly sound was discernible—the first low roll of drums beating up for war. The day of the gathering of the grandees, passing through a little cabinet on his way to the chamber where he was to meet them, he unexpectedly saw his wife, leaning on her side in the window-seat, arranging strange Eastern cards in fantastic patterns.
Behind her a glory of coloured glass cast blue and crimson and gold light over the smooth panelled-wood walls of the little room, over the bent figure of the Princess in her trailing, untidy gown of white and black Venetian velvet, and over the crudely coloured and grotesquely pictured faces of the cards she was arranging with such care.
On a stool near her, but out of the stream of light, sat Rénèe, her brown dress scarcely distinguishable from the panelling and the shadows, but her fair face, her vivid hair, brilliant above the plain linen of her small ruff.
William paused on seeing the two women. Anne glanced up and then down again without saying a word; Rénèe rose and curtsied. The Prince hesitated a moment, then crossed to his wife and laid his hand on her shoulder.
"Ma mie," he said gently, "what occupation is this for you?"
"I am telling my fortune," returned Anne, "in the hope that the future may be fairer than the past; I am telling little Anne's fortune, in the hope it may be better than mine."
"Why in this public place?" asked the Prince.
Anne violently threw down the two cards she held and rose.
"Because I am tired of my rooms! I am tired of everything! Why do you interfere in my movements?"
William caught her small, hot, and feeble hand.
"If you would live more in accord with me I could make life sweeter for you," he said almost wistfully.
She stood sullenly, looking away.
"Listen, Anne," he continued, "it means much to any man who has difficult affairs on his shoulders to know his wife is bearing her part with patience and discretion——"
"Ah, now you are preaching, like my Uncles Augustus and William," cried the Princess fiercely, "and that, princely Highness, is what I would never endure."
She swept all the cards savagely from the window-seat to the floor and turned away; the Prince's anger was checked by the sight of the limp that marred her walk and impeded her haste to be gone from him.
Rénèe began picking up the cards; the light fell over her now, glorifying her opulent beauty that neither her plain dress nor her own cold indifference could eclipse.
"Where is the Princess going?" asked William.
"I think she will go to the workshop of her alchemist, as she calls Duprès, the Burgundian whom Your Highness is sheltering."
The Prince looked keenly at this fair woman who might have so easily been brilliant and who was so extraordinarily passive and so unnaturally patient; it was not the first time he had noticed her utter self-effacement.
"Child," he said kindly, "I fear your service is a dull one and your mistress difficult."
"I hope for nothing better, Your Highness," replied Rénèe quickly.
"You are very pretty to be so meek," smiled William.
The warm colour rushed to the waiting-woman's face; she stood looking down at the gathered cards in her hands.
"Her Highness keeps me out of charity," she said; "my father was slain as a heretic—we lost everything. I am quite friendless, and quite penniless, but for Her Highness."
"I am sorry," replied the Prince gently; "but do not speak of charity—and what you gain is hardly earned. I have marked that. What were your estates?"
She named them.
"They were confiscated by the Inquisition," she added.
William sighed, well knowing that such property was impossible of recovery.
"When you find your husband I will dower you," he said.
Rénèe lifted her face; he could not understand the look on it which almost startled him.
"I thank Your Highness," she said. "Shall I now attend the Princess?"
"Yes, keep with her," returned the Prince. He was turning away when he added, "Whom does she meet in this workshop?"
"Very few, Highness; sometimes there is there a certain Rubens, a lawyer, and his wife, who are friends of Duprès."
"That is not company for the Princess of Orange," said the Prince. He frowned, hesitated; then turned sharply away.
Rénèe stood still a moment, the rose colour glowing in her face, then went in search of Anne.
But the Princess was not in Duprès' laboratory; the waiting-woman found her in her room, sunk in the apathy that was the usual result of her fits of passion.
She sullenly bade Rénèe leave her alone, and that lady turned away, idleness and the whole afternoon before her. Katrine had already slipped out into the garden to meet some cavalier, the other women each had her own duty or her leisure; there was no company for Rénèe. She went out into the beautiful galleries, empty for once, and turned rapidly towards the hall where the Prince was to meet thegrandees. It was one of the principal chambers of the mansion, and had a large musician's gallery from which Rénèe and the other waiting-women and pages often watched the balls, masques, and feasts going on below.
Rénèe now tried the little door leading to the private staircase of the gallery—it was unlocked; the meeting was no secret, and precautions against eavesdroppers had not been taken. With a heart strangely beating, Rénèe mounted the little dark stair and came softly out into the gallery which was shadowed and partly concealed by long crimson brocade curtains stitched and fringed with black.
Sheltered by the heavy folds, the waiting-woman peeped down into the hall glowing from the light of a great fire which flamed up the huge chimney, and sparkling from the winter sunlight pouring through the coloured glass of the high long windows.
On the walls hung tapestries of silk run with gleams of bullion: they represented the story of Medea and Jason.
Against the brilliant background were grouped all the grandees and nobles who were leagued against the Cardinal.
Rénèe's glance went eagerly from one to the other. There was Egmont in a camlet doublet with hanging sleeves embroidered with a bunch of arrows, in imitation of his famous livery; there was Hoorne, aloof, silent, gloomy, disliking his company only less than he disliked the Cardinal; there was Montigny, young Mansfeld, and Hoogstraaten, gorgeous young knights in brocade and silk; the two graceful younger Nassau Counts; the Marquis Berghen, heavy and corpulent; Brederode; the Seigneur de Glayon; Meghem, alert and warlike; and William of Orange, the man who was the acknowledged leader and centre of these Netherland Seigneurs and Stadtholders.
He was leaning over the high back of a gilt leather chair, talking earnestly of the instances of the atrocities of the Inquisitors which had come to his ears, and of the necessity for resisting them and their protector, Granvelle, to the utmost.
"Granvelle has asked for leave to go to Burgundy," he finished. "From secret information I believe he has asked for leave on Philip's advice, but, be that as it may, it must be our charge to see that once he has left the Netherlands he does not return."
He ceased speaking, but did not move from his easy yet thoughtful attitude while the groups about him broke into animated speech, while above all could be heard the voice of Brederode offering to wring Granvelle's neck if ever he should again set foot in the Netherlands once he had left them.
Rénèe gazed at William as he stood quietly observing the others, his dark face resting on his slim brown hand, a confusion of gold and crimson light falling over his slender figure; she noted the violet sheen of his Sicilian brocade, and the stiff points of the openwork double ruff which encircled his small well-shaped head.
Rénèe remembered how she had first seen him coming up the stairs of the town hall of Leipsic to greet his bride, and how, on the evening of his wedding day, she had looked down from a gallery on him, as she was looking now, and seen him move through the slow figures of the dance and sit beside Anne on the gold couch while the mummers brought them lilies and sweetmeats.
Rénèe had long since reversed her first judgment of the Prince. She no longer thought him an idle extravagant courtier, she had seen him proved brave, able, resolute; she knew that he set his face against the tyranny which put the Netherlands under the Inquisition, and now she heard him speak for liberty of conscience, for tolerance, for justice for the heretics—those poor creatures about whom great nobles usually concerned themselves not at all.
Hecared, however; she had heard him speak in a moved voice of Titelmann's burnings and slayings; she had heard him dare to declare that these things should not be.
She found that she believed in him—strangely, intensely believed in him; it seemed to her that he was onlyhalf-revealed even to these men about him, that there was a part of him as yet known to no one, and that he had qualities which had never been guessed. She believed he would go further than he said, do more than he promised, be indeed a buckler and a shield, a light and a sword, to her country.
She drew completely back behind the curtains and put her shuddering hands before her face. She knew now why she had stayed with Anne, enduring everything; it was because of him, because she wanted to serve him, to hear of him, to be near him, because she thought he was the hero whom she had despaired to find, because she loved him.
Erect and motionless she stood, hearing his voice again as he spoke to his friends—the voice and tone of a self-reliant man, but one who eagerly wants sympathy, who almost wistfully asks for trust and belief. Rénèe had noticed before this gentleness of the strong nature, this affectionate friendliness of the astute wit, and they were to her eminently lovable traits, for by his gentleness she judged his strength—that greatest strength that is ever allied with sweetness.
As she stood there hidden, listening to his voice, the strangeness of life smote her almost intolerably. He was a great Prince who would never notice her save with that kindness of utter indifference which he would show to any of his servants; there was she, helpless to serve him, bound to eternal abnegation yet dedicated to him with her whole untouched heart and soul; and there was Anne, his wife, to whom he turned for companionship and sympathy, repulsing him fiercely, almost hating him, preferring the society of Duprès, the charlatan, or to drink herself stupid in her chamber rather than share any of his aims and cares.
And to keep her from utter degradation, to soften her furies, to coax her good humour, to excuse her, to put the best of her forward and conceal the worst, that was the only service Rénèe could render the Prince—a littlethankless service, one that would be never rewarded, not even noticed in its true worth, yet she was glad to do it for this man who was standing for her country and her religion, this man whom she loved.
She heard the grandees leaving—their pleasant voices, the mingled footsteps, the opening and closing of the door.
When silence fell she looked again over the edge of the balcony.
The Prince was alone, seated by the fire, his head bent; by his side was a pretty little white hunting dog, and William's right hand absently caressed its long ears.
His face was in profile to Rénèe, and the firelight played over the fine lines of it, the low forehead, the straight nose, the firm mouth and chin, the compact head with the dark close hair; he was slightly frowning, and his brows were drawn over his eyes usually so wide open and vivacious.
In refinement, precision of outline, exactness of proportion, and expression both of elegance and force, he looked that perfect type, at once intellectual and athletic, which the ancients gave to their heroes—a type so removed from coarseness or grossness as to appear almost delicate, yet in reality strong with the supreme strength of a brain perfectly adjusted and a mind perfectly balanced and a body admirably made.
The twilight began to enter the sombre, magnificent chamber, and all the colours of glass windows, rich furniture, brilliant tapestry were blended into one deep glowing shadow, in the midst of which the dying ruby gleam of the fire brought out the figure of the Prince in his gorgeous brocades, his thoughtful face now serene as a fine mask, leaning back in his gilt chair and gazing in the flames, so wholly unconscious of that loving spectator who watched him so breathlessly from the gallery.
At last she moved away, quietly through the shadows, down the dark stairs and back to her duty. Anne was in her usual place by the stove, drinking sugared beer, and little Katrine was moving about the room sobbing underher breath with a great red mark on her face where her mistress had slapped her for being late.
Rénèe whispered to the girl to go away, and herself commenced the duties of putting in order all the Princess's disarranged things.
Anne began railing at her in a voice broken with tears; the waiting-woman hardly heard, for in her ears were the words she had just heard the Prince speak, and before her eyes the picture of him in the twilight, alone and thoughtful.
CHAPTER XIIITHE DEPARTURE OF THE CARDINAL
Cardinal Granvelle had asked and obtained leave to go to Burgundy to see his mother, whom he had not beheld for nineteen years.
That was now common knowledge, and a tumult of rejoicing broke forth which frightened the Regent almost more than the tumult of rage and hate which had preceded it.
For it seemed as if the people believed that with the departure of the Cardinal all their wrongs and miseries would end and the golden age begin; pamphlets, lampoons, caricatures, issued in hundreds from the secret printing presses, were scattered in the streets, pasted on the walls of the churches, and found their way even to Granvelle's cabinet and Margaret's antechamber; the rhetoric players became daily bolder and performed their satirical plays before huge audiences who forcibly protected the actors; heretic preachers addressed their followers even from the pulpits of churches from which the priests had been driven, and two of them, condemned to the flames by the Inquisition at Antwerp, were rescued, even after they had been chained to the stake, by the furious people, who carried them back in triumph to their lodgings.
And it was not only the people who thus recklessly displayed their joy at the departure of the hated minister. The victorious nobles, particularly Egmont and Brederode, openly exulted in the downfall of their enemy, for none of them believed that the object of his visit was more thanan excuse, and it was generally thought that his journey to Burgundy was a mere pretext for retiring with dignity from a position he could no longer maintain.
Various rumours were abroad: some said the Cardinal had asked to be removed from the Netherlands, others that he was obeying secret orders from Philip and was furious at leaving the contest with the grandees, but whichever of their surmises might be correct it was certain that he was leaving and almost as sure that he would not return. Already a wit had pasted a notice "to be sold" over his villa "La Fontaine," and much laughter was provoked by the famous statue with "Durate" on the pedestal, which word had a mocking sound now.
But through all this hearty, intense, noisy rejoicing of the Netherlanders the Cardinal remained serene. Perhaps what gave him his calm was his knowledge of the other side of the picture; he knew Madrid, he knew Philip; he knew too how all this present rejoicing would be paid for some day, how Philip had marked and noted the names of these gay nobles who had driven out his minister, how all the reckless jests, pasquinades and speeches, the famous insolence of Egmont's livery, the disloyalty of Berghen and Montigny, were all known to Philip, and by him patiently and painstakingly noted down. Philip knew how to wait, but he had a memory no detail escaped.
Granvelle was not vindictive, and he was too politic to be inclement; he had no desire to be avenged on the men who had caused his downfall, and his last words to the Regent were to advise her to overlook the present disorders.
Indeed he disdained all his opponents save one only, the Prince of Orange.
He saw that without him the other nobles would be nothing; he was the guiding spirit of Egmont and Hoorne, neither of whom could have stood alone, and the first of whom, at least, would easily have been won by the Cardinal but for Orange.
"He is a dangerous man," said Granvelle with admiration,and loyally warned his master; then, with an unruffled spirit and a smile for all, set out on his journey to Burgundy.
Brussels seethed with excitement and joy; the members of the great trade guilds, the armourers, the cloth makers, the glovers, the gardeners, turned out in bands and paraded the streets; many of the shops closed while the servers and apprentices went out to see the Cardinal pass; parties of Protestants went about singing the hymns of Marot, and defying the law. It was a general holiday, and the only people angry and discomfited were the Cardinalists, Barlaymont, Aerschot, and Vigilius, who saw their power at an end; even the Regent was glad to see Granvelle go, for she hoped and imagined that the seigneurs would be easier to manage than the astute and able priest.
"Poor Madame Parma," remarked the Cardinal to his brother, the Seigneur de Chantonnay, who accompanied him in his carriage, "she cannot manage her charge at all. His Majesty should send a man to the Netherlands."
"The Duke of Alva for example," replied Chantonnay, who hated the Netherlanders.
"Alva is too severe," returned Granvelle; "these are people who will not bear too light a curb, too heavy a yoke. Alva has already recommended the taking off of the heads of Egmont and Hoorne."
"Why not?" said the other, who was vexed at his brother's fall and extremely irritated by the joyous and insolent farewells being given to the cavalcade as it passed towards the gates. "They are little better than rebels."
"Egmont is more useful to His Majesty alive than dead—better buy him than behead him."
"Is he to be bought?"
"Easily—poor, extravagant, vain——"
"But he is under the influence of Orange," said Chantonnay.
Granvelle smiled.
"There you have the crux of the situation, my friend,"he replied. "The Prince of Orange. That is the man to strike, the others are boys and roysterers—but he knows how to use them. If it had not been for him I should not be leaving the Netherlands now."
"Why is he so disloyal?" asked Chantonnay peevishly.
"Ah, who knows what game he plays!" replied the Cardinal rather wearily. "He is serving neither King nor Church, so he must be serving himself—ambition!"
They had now nearly reached the gates of Caudenberg, and the Cardinal's escort, princely train and numerous equipages, were blocked for a moment by the narrowness of the streets and the pressure of the exulting crowds. Chantonnay was afraid of violence, even of assassination; there had been rumours of hired murderers lying in wait for the Cardinal, ready to take the first opportunity of attack; but Granvelle, who had driven alone and unarmed at night out to his country residence, was not to be frightened now, though the crowd might very well be dangerous.
He looked steadily and keenly out of the coach window at the faces of his enemies.
"They are sturdy people," he remarked, "who will give the King much trouble. And what truly grieves me is to see what little respect there is for holy things, one might say that there is no religion left in the land."
"Yet the great nobles have taken the Cardinal's Hat from the livery, I observe," said Chantonnay, "and put instead a bunch of arrows."
"The Duchess requested it," returned the Cardinal, who was still intently observing the crowd. "But what helps that? The Hat but meant insult to me and God's poor priests, whereas the arrows mean that they are banded together against the King, which is a declaration of rebellion no monarch should endure."
The carriage now moved on, and the Cardinal leant back in his seat; he had been looking to see if any of the nobles were among the crowd, for he wished to report very exactlythe behaviour of these seigneurs to Philip. So far he had noticed none above the baser sort, but presently, as they neared the gate, he looked out again and up at the house near by where he knew Brederode had his lodgings.
And there at one of the windows was the Count together with the Count Hoogstraaten, the two of them laughing and throwing up their caps and clapping their hands in undisguised triumph and delight. This boyish exultation brought to Granvelle's cheek the angry flush the stately victory of William of Orange had failed to evoke; the brilliant minister, the skilful politician, the haughty priest tasted humiliation when he saw himself the butt of the malicious wits of these two young cavaliers.
He drew into the farthest corner of the carriage, but they had seen him, and, leaning out of the window, shouted their farewells with redoubled pleasure as the procession finally passed through the gates.
Then, with the common impulse not to let their defeated enemy escape too cheaply, they rushed down to the courtyard.
"I must see the last of the old fox!" cried Hoogstraaten, and he flung himself on his horse which stood waiting for him.
"I too!" laughed Brederode, "and as I am not booted I will come with you."
So saying he leapt on the Count's croup, and they dashed through street and gates in pursuit of the Cardinal's statelycortége, which was attended by a number of sumpter-mules, lent him by the Duchess.
The two knights on the one horse, Hoogstraaten in his buff and gold riding suit, his black velvet cap with the long heron's feather fastened by an emerald, his violet mantle; Brederode in the tawny damask satin, Flanders lace, scarlet points, and silk hose, in which he had danced nearly all through the night, were at once recognized by the crowd and cheered and applauded as heartily as the Cardinal had been hissed and execrated.
Brederode gaily waved the mantle he had snatched up as a pretence at a disguise, and laughed over the edge of his triple ruff which was something broken and something stained, and the couple plunged through the gates and out on to the road where the Cardinal was commencing his stately, if tedious, progress towards Namur, the first stage of the journey.
There were several others following the cavalcade, notably one of Egmont's gentlemen, and one who was in the employ of the Marquis Berghen, that nobleman whom the Cardinal disliked and feared next to the Prince of Orange.
But there was no representative of the House of Nassau dogging the retreat of His Eminence, and William would have been far from pleased had he known of the exploit of Hoogstraaten and Brederode.
For a while these two cavaliers kept a discreet distance from the Cardinal, and remained at the side of the road in the rear and near to the baggage mules.
But this did not long satisfy Brederode; he wished to ride by Granvelle's actual carriage, and to let him see who was escorting him on his journey.
And so, when the road fell into a little ravine, the two cavaliers rode along the edge of the height until they were beside the carriage and could look down on it, and when the way was level again they reappeared at the edge of the autumn forest, near enough to His Eminence's coach to look in at the window.
Granvelle's attention was attracted by Chantonnay to this spectacle of two men on one horse, and he looked out of the carriage.
Hoogstraaten had thrown his mantle over the lower part of his face, but Brederode's reckless face was uncovered save for the brown curls the March wind blew across his brow and cheeks (for he was hatless).
The Cardinal knew both instantly.
"They are buffoons," he remarked, but though he tried thus to dismiss the incident, it vexed him; however,the annoyance passed when he reflected how dearly the jesters were likely to pay for their jest.
The two cavaliers, regardless of the fact that the Cardinal had seen them and that therefore a full account of their exploit was certain to reach Philip, continued to follow the cavalcade in its slow progress over the rough, muddy winter roads until they reached a high piece of rising ground that commanded a full view of the surrounding country—bare woods, fields, hedges, disappearing into the cold blue mist of the distance.
Here they waited, and looking scornfully down on the Cardinal's coach as it passed, watched it lumbering along the road to Namur until a turn hid it from their eyes.
"At the first stage Granvelle will write of this to the Duchess," remarked Hoogstraaten, in a grave voice; his high spirits had left him, his prudence, though not his courage, was alarmed at what he had done.
But Brederode laughed; prudence was as unknown to him as fear; he had a far better claim than Philip to the Countship of all Holland, for his ancestry went unbrokenly back five hundred years to the ancient sovereigns of that province. In his heart he regarded the King as a usurper, and he had no respect either for him or his ministers; indeed, his furious loathing of Granvelle and his policies was based on his hatred of seeing his native land, where his forebears had ruled, in the hands of foreigners.
"Well, we have seen the last flick of the fox's tail," he said joyously, "and now we may go home to dinner, this keen air has given me an appetite."
Hoogstraaten turned the horse's head towards Brussels.
"Yes, the Cardinal has gone, but his disciples remain," he answered thoughtfully.
"The seigneurs will see to them," said Brederode confidently.
"Ah, I know not," remarked Hoogstraaten; "I believe Armenteros, the Regent's secretary, has more influence with her than Orange himself. But we shall see."
"Ay, we shall see, my Anthony," returned Brederode, "for my part I do not think so gloomily; if Armenteros behave as Granvelle has, then he may follow the same road—we have cast down a Cardinal, do you think we are to be baffled by a clerk?"
And he began to sing a cheerful song in a merry bass voice which rose very pleasantly over the still winter woodlands.
When they reached the Caudenberg gate they found the city still full of joyous emotion, and received as noisy a greeting as they had done on their departure.
Hoogstraaten would have dismounted at Brederode's lodgings, but that nobleman would by no means permit it, and they continued their progress through the city, exchanging joyful congratulations and greetings with those who were making a festival of Granvelle's departure.
As they made their way up the high streets which led to the ancient Brabant palace which was the Regent's residence, they were hailed by a half-laughing voice, and the Prince of Orange galloped alongside them.
"We have escorted His Eminence on the road to Namur!" cried Brederode.
"And though hungry and thirsty and cold," added Hoogstraaten, "we are now joining in the rejoicings of the good citizens."
"Ah, seigneurs," said William, with a little smile, "one day your pleasantries will end in a mischief, I fear."
"To our enemies, yes," replied Brederode. "Where is Your Highness going?"
"To wait on the Regent."
"So soon?"
"Ay, Margaret having flung away one prop must seize another; she is a weak woman and cannot stand alone," remarked Hoogstraaten.
"Shall we see you at supper to-night?" asked Brederode, as the Prince touched up his horse.
"Nay," smiled the Prince, "a wise man avoids your suppers, my Brederode, at least when he has business to perform."
"I have an excellent cook," pleaded the Count.
William, still smiling, shook his head and rode on towards the Brabant palace.
He went slowly, without parade or a single attendant, greeted affectionately and loyally by most of the people, for though some were doubtful of his attitude, the bulk believed that he would defend their liberties, and a great number even of the heretics had their hope in the great Catholic Prince who had already spoken against the Inquisition.
To-day, too, he was regarded by the people with added respect and interest, for it was clear that now the Cardinal had fallen, the Prince, as the principal member of the league that had brought about Granvelle's downfall, would be the greatest man in the Netherlands. Many wistful eyes were turned towards him as he rode, for many felt their fate was in his hands.
His deportment was not that of a man either triumphant or joyous; he was pale beneath the clear brown of his proper complexion, his eyes were guarded and thoughtful, and though he smiled with his usual pleasantness at those of his acquaintances he met, his manner was absent, and he seemed neither so gay nor so careless as he had done even a few days before.
When he reached the Brabant palace he met Egmont leaving the gates; the Count was flushed with pleasure at the reception the Regent had given him, and loud in his protestations of loyalty to Church and King; he was disposed to be frank and generous in his triumphs, and to heartily forgive all his enemies now the chief of them had been removed.
William regarded him affectionately, but said very little, and his air was still grave as he entered the palace.