The humour of Holland

by Unknown

Act I.

A Village Inn. Evening. Michiel asleep in a chair.

Maria (the maid—behind the scenes). Michiel, where are you? [Entering.] He is lazy enough for a member of the Brussels Committee. Michiel, get up!

Michiel (awaking). Well, what’s up now?

Maria. Wake up, at any rate! Isn’t it perfectly scandalous to lie there, at seven o’clock in the evening, snoring like an ox?

Michiel. Does that hurt any one?

Maria. Is there no work to do then?

Michiel. That won’t amount to much. Travellers won’t give us any trouble, it’s not worth their while to cross the frontier just now; and the farmers have their money under lock and key, and not a cent about them to take a dram with.

Maria. Is there nothing else for you to do? Couldn’t you take your rifle, in your spare time, and drill a little? Everybody is drilling just now; there isn’t a child but can load at twelve different rates. And you, of all others, ought to be ready to give an account of yourself when the rebels come to pay us a visit. People on the frontier, if no others, ought to be always in readiness.

(Sings) “Only with vigilance, powder, and ball,

In time of need, one can live at all

Upon the Belgian border.”

Michiel. Well! you’ve got hold of that sentiment by the wrong end. Let me tell you the right way of it.

“He who would live in a border place

Must always exhibit a double face.

Let the Dutch army come—we’ll fly

Old Holland’s colours right merrily;

Let the Brabanters march this way,

And the Belgian flag goes up to-day,

And so in varying order.

Not by courage or powder and ball,

By cunning alone we can live at all

Upon the Belgian border!”

Maria. Do you know that you deserve to be hanged, with such infamous principles as that?

Michiel. Why, it’s just to escape hanging that I want to put them into practice, as our schoolmaster says.

Maria. Our schoolmaster used to say you were an ignorant ass; but I see that at any rate you have remembered something.

Michiel. He shall be sorry, one of these days, for having spoken of me in that way. But, never mind that, I have a good idea.

Maria. A fine one, I expect!

Michiel. Just listen. We cannot help it if one party or the other wants to annex us; so we must try and keep friends with both, and make each of them believe we are on their side. Now, I’ve asked the house-painter for a couple of pots of paint: there they are. You say I never carry anything out; now you shall just see.

Maria. Well—and then?

Michiel. Why, you see, the Orange flag is still on the church tower?

Maria. Yes; and if you dare to touch it, I’ll scratch your eyes out!

Michiel. My idea was to paint it with the Brabant colours on the side towards Brabant. If the Dutch come from the north—very good! they see the Orange flag. If the Brabanters come from the south—very good too! they’ll see their own colours.

Maria. Well, that’s a nice invention!

Michiel. Isn’t it? I think they ought to give me a prize out of the village treasury; for in this way I am saving every one from embarrassment.

Maria. But you’ve forgotten one thing!

Michiel. Forgotten! What’s that?

Maria. When the wind changes, the Brabanters will see Orange, and the Dutch the Brabant colours; and then, perhaps, both of them will bombard the village, and you in it—which would not be the worst loss of all.

Michiel. That’s true; I never thought of that. But, after all, is there no contrivance to prevent that? With a rope, for instance?

Maria. You’re a nice politician! It doesn’t do to forget that the wind may change. So leave politics alone for the future, or I’ll tell the master what sort of fellow you are.

Michiel. Would you go and tell tales, just because I have a little more sense than the master? He will get us all into trouble before he’s done, because he can’t give and take.

Maria. Then both of you taken together ought to make a man after your own heart. If you ask any of the poor people hereabouts, they will tell you whether or not he knows how to give; and if you were in his place, you would certainly do nothing but take.

Michiel. Yes; having is having, but getting’s the trick! Much good has the master done himself, with all his giving away. Then you have the King; what numbers of people he has helped out of his own pocket-money! And what has he gained by it? Nothing! They are breaking his window-panes with his own three-guilder pieces!

Maria. Would you follow the example of such ungrateful wretches?

Michiel. Just now the question is, What pays best? And if we are ever to be man and wife, it will surely be necessary to scrape a little money together first, if we want to live like decent people.

Maria. We man and wife! You may make your mind easy on that point!

Michiel. It’s not to be? Very good—you’ll change your mind some day, and come asking me on your bare knees to make you my wife,—some day when I’m a great lord, just like the man with the whale,[^[27]] who is now a general among the Brabanters.

Maria. If being a fool and a scoundrel is enough to give a man high rank among the rebels, you will have plenty of chances; but I won’t talk to you any more.

Michiel. Have you anything more to say? Because, if not, I’ll go to sleep again.

Maria. Nothing but this, that for the present, not being a general as yet, you might go to Peter Kluisken’s and fetch the pig that the master has bought.

Michiel. A nice little job! To tramp all that way at this time of night, and in the direction of the Belgian sentinels, too. Well, just you look out; if I meet them, I bring them here—upon my word I will.

[Exit.

Maria (alone). The scoundrel! He is quite capable of doing it. And he expects to marry me? Not if I know it.

Enter Nicolaas, the landlord, with a newspaper in his hand.

Maria. Well, sir, what’s the news?

Nicolaas. Good news, my girl. A division of our brave North Netherlanders is marching this way; perhaps they may even pass through this village.

Maria. That would be a pleasure. I wish some of them would stay here, then the brigands, who yesterday were only a few miles from this place, would never dare to show themselves.

Nicolaas. I think they will keep pretty quiet for the future.

Maria. Are there any more news in the paper, sir?

Nicolaas. H’m! h’m! not so fast, child. [Glances over the paper.] They do not seem to have made up their minds yet at Brussels whom they are going to have at the head of the Government.

Maria. I can quite believe that; and I don’t think there are many men very eager to undertake the management of such a confused state of affairs.

Nicolaas. They may seek long enough, the ungrateful hounds, before they find another ruler under whom they will be as happy as they were under our good old King.

Maria. Any news besides, sir?

Nicolaas. Do let me read in peace.... H’m! yes; they are complaining of scarcity in all the Belgian towns.

Maria. Of course they are. They may hate the Dutch, but they’ll find they can’t get on without Dutch money. What other news is there?

Nicolaas. The Powers have resolved to keep to the non-intervention system.

Maria. Non-intervention! what’s that? It must be a fine thing whatever it is; every one is talking about it.

Nicolaas. Well, how can I best explain it? It means ... not to meddle with other people’s affairs. For instance, if your neighbour comes and asks you to help him because his house is on fire, and you tell him to put it out himself, for it’s no affair of yours,—that’s non-intervention. But listen ... I hear the sound of horses’ hoofs. Who can it be?

A voice outside. Does the burgomaster live here?

Nicolaas. Coming!

“JUST COME IN, LIEUTENANT.”

Maria (looking out). Lancers! lancers!

Enter Edeling, with two lancers.

Edeling. I want to speak to the burgomaster. Does he live here?

Nicolaas. Just come in, Lieutenant. Come in, gentlemen, I am very glad to see you. What will your honour take? Maria, run to the cellar, there’s a good girl, and bring up a bottle of the best.

[Exit Maria.

Edeling. Not for me, thanks; I don’t want anything. My time is short, and so are my orders.

Nicolaas. I won’t listen to a word before the gentlemen have had some refreshment.

Enter Maria with wine; Nicolaas opens bottle.

Edeling. I do not care for useless compliments. I am commissioned to buy some cattle here, and bring them at once to headquarters. How many head can you let me have, and at what price, to be paid in cash at once?

Nicolaas. We will see. (To Maria.) Is Michiel back yet?

Maria. He is only just gone out.

Nicolaas. Then you will have to do the errand. Run at once to Peter Slof and Cornelis de Ruyter, and ask them to come here at once. I want to see them about a cattle contract. Well, what are you dawdling for?

Maria. Because—because——[Looks at the lancers.] I’m so glad! [Runs out.]

Nicolaas (offering wine). Come, just one glass!

Edeling. If you insist. (Suspiciously.) Are you not going to drink too, Burgomaster? (Drinks.) What’s to pay?

Nicolaas. Who’s talking about payment? Haven’t I even a glass of wine to spare for our brave defenders?

Edeling. Well, but you’re an innkeeper. Take these two guilders and put them in your pocket, for it’s against orders for us to get anything on credit.

Nicolaas. And I say I won’t have the money. I can be obstinate enough, too, when I once begin. Take it, and give it to the Government as a voluntary subscription on my part. You don’t trust me, Lieutenant, and that grieves me to the heart. I see I shall have to put on my Sunday coat; perhaps that will give you more confidence. [Fetches a coat, with a medal on it, and puts it on. The lancers salute.] Now, do I look like a man who would betray you? I won that at Waterloo.

Edeling. Forgive me for suspecting you; but so many of your class, especially on the frontier, have turned out traitors, that suspicion has become a disagreeable duty. What is the general feeling in this village?

Nicolaas. Not what it ought to be. I fear that, if the rebels were to arrive, there are those, here and there, who would join them. It seems as though people were struck with blindness; they want change at any price. They have let themselves be persuaded that they will have no taxes to pay under the Brabant Government. That’s the worst of the people here; they are stupid, they don’t reason.

Edeling. They don’t know any better, I suppose. Do you think your friends will be here soon?

Nicolaas. Presently, I hope. Your honour seems to be in a hurry. Is it far to headquarters?

Edeling. A couple of hours. We are to march again at daybreak to-morrow. I am sorry we are not going farther, for I fear we shall not meet any of the enemy. I would willingly have paid them a visit.

Nicolaas. You are very eager for fighting.

Edeling. Particularly so; for, besides my wish to do my duty by my king and country, I have a private account to settle with the gentlemen from the south. They are keeping my bride a prisoner.

Nicolaas. Your bride! I thought women, at least, would have been respected.

Edeling. Her father is a well-known soldier; when the first disturbances broke out in the place where he was in command, he gave orders to fire on the rebels. They never forgave him, and when he had the misfortune to fall into their hands they kept him in prison—his daughter refusing to leave him.

Enter Maria.

Maria. Here come Peter Slof and Cornelis de Ruyter.

Nicolaas. Very good! Shall we go to meet them, and look at their beasts together?

Edeling. Willingly. Thank you for doing the errand (to Maria.), and here is something to remember the Lieutenant by. [Gives her money, and exit with Nicolaas.]

Maria (alone). A guilder! Well, I’ll keep that as a remembrance. A nice man that lieutenant! One can see he comes from Holland. But who are these strangers coming in so timidly?

Enter Van Werve and Clara.

Van Werve. Can we get a night’s lodging here?

Maria. Please don’t take it ill of me, I must ask first where your honour comes from? We can’t take any one in for the night without first knowing who it is we are sheltering.

Van Werve. I will answer your question to the Burgomaster. Where does he live? and can I speak to him?

Maria. He lives here. The Burgomaster and the landlord are the same person. The master will be home directly.

Clara. Will you please tell us what province we are in?

Maria. In North Brabant, Mejuffrouw.

Clara. Thank Heaven! then you are safe, father!

Maria. Safe! Then you are refugees?

Van Werve. Clara!

Clara. I was imprudent, father—forgive me. But I could not control my joy at finding myself once more in our own country, after all that we have gone through.

Van Werve. I am not yet sure that we are safe here.

Clara. If we had anything to fear here, I feel sure, from this girl’s honest face, that she would not betray us.

Maria. I betray you! I’d sooner die a thousand times over. But come and sit down—you seem tired.

Clara. It is true, we have been walking for a long time, and I begin to feel it.

Van Werve. My dear child, what a difficult and anxious journey you have exposed yourself to, to save your father. (To Maria.) Yes, my good girl, I have been in prison,—my daughter has succeeded in saving me, and it is to her courage and devotion I owe it that we have been able to pass the enemy’s outposts and reach this village.

Maria. It’s lucky you just happened to come to-day. A few Dutch soldiers arrived not long ago, who will be quite ready to escort you to a safe place, if you prefer not to stay here any longer.

Van Werve. My comrades! Oh, where are they? Take me to them.

Maria. I will call them,—or—wait—I think I hear them coming.

Enter Edeling.

Maria. What, alone, Lieutenant? Where are the rest?

Edeling. They have gone on with the oxen. I found I had left my cloak here. But whom do I see?

Van Werve. The voice seems familiar.

Clara (hastens to him). Edeling!

Edeling. Clara!—Mijnheer van Werve!...

Van Werve. So you’ve enlisted, Edeling? Well done, my boy! That is what I should have expected of a true-born Dutchman like yourself!

Edeling. Your words remind me that I am no longer my own master. I am expected every minute at the camp.

Clara. Cannot we go with you?

Edeling. I have only my horse; but perhaps there is a conveyance of some sort to be had in the village.

Maria. Oh! three if you like. I will go at once to order one.

Van Werve. Stop a moment, girl. I—alas!—I have no money to pay for a conveyance.

Edeling. Here is my purse—but I really must go.

Van Werve (putting back the purse). I must not accept it. I can never return it. I possess nothing now.

Edeling. Nothing?

Van Werve. Not a cent. The little ready money we had with us we have been obliged to spend on the road; and this morning I had the misfortune, to leave behind——

Edeling. Well?

Van Werve. My portmanteau, with my whole fortune in it, at the village where we stopped for the night.

Maria. Well, portmanteau or no portmanteau, you will have to drive, and I’m going to fetch the carriage.

[Exit.

Van Werve. It was no carelessness on our part; the pursuers were at our heels—we had no time to save anything but ourselves.

Edeling. And isn’t it enough for me to see you safe, sir, you and my Clara? Is not everything I have yours? Take my purse. As soon as you can get a vehicle, follow me as quickly as you can, for I must not delay one moment longer.

Enter Maria, hastily.

Maria. Save yourselves, for Heaven’s sake! save yourselves! they’re coming!

Omnes. Who? What? [A noise outside.]

Maria. The brigands! Don’t you hear them? They’re shouting, “Vive de liberteyt!”

Edeling (draws his pistols). The first who dares——

Maria (seizes him by the arm). Are you mad? What is the good of your pistols against a whole band? Quick! out at the back door. (To Van Werve and Clara.) And you—into this room! I’ll come back to you in a minute.

Edeling. But if——

Maria (pushes him out at a side door). No buts! make haste!

[Exit Edeling.

Van Werve. Can’t we follow him?

Maria. Certainly not. He is a young fellow, and can take care of himself. Three of you would arouse suspicion, and perhaps lead to mischief if he tried to defend you. Just come in here. [Opens the door of a room on one side.]

Clara. We leave our fate in your hands.

[Exeunt Van Werve and Clara.

Enter Michiel, bringing with him a number of Belgian volunteers, among whom Captain D’Eglantiers, Lieutenant Taelinck, Sergeant Pluckx, Corporal Nestiers, and Private Passereau. They speak the broad Flemish or South Netherlands dialect, largely interspersed with French words. On entering, all of them, including Michiel, sing, to the air of “La Dame Blanche”—

Victory! Victory!

The enemy’s away!

Who conquers through sheer bravery

But Old Brabant and liberty?

Victory! Victory!

Glory and loot to-day!

Maria. Well, they do look like lunatics; and there’s that villain of a Michiel with them.

D’Eglantiers (wiping his sword). The victory is ours, comrades! Our courage has repulsed the enemy, and maintained the glory of our name. Lieutenant Taelinck, see that none of the Hollanders escape who are hidden away here, do you hear?

Taelinck. I have seen to that, Captain. All the exits are well guarded.

Maria (aside). The poor quarter-master! how will he escape?

Michiel. What will the gentlemen please to take? Everything in the house is at your service.

Maria. Just listen to the contemptible rascal?

D’Eglantiers (to Michiel). You’re a fine fellow! Just let the lass fetch a litre of wine from the cellar.

Michiel. Do you hear? Fetch wine for the gentlemen.

Maria (treading on his toes as she goes out). You villainous traitor!

D’Eglantiers (to Michiel). Do you live in the house?

Michiel. I live here, Captain. (Aside.) I need not tell him in what capacity.

D’Eglantiers. You are a brave citoyen! Without you, we should never have found the way to this village so soon. I think I might make you Burgomaster.

Michiel. Indeed you couldn’t do better, Captain. I will at once give orders to have the Brabant flag hoisted.

[He is about to leave the room.]

D’Eglantiers. There’s no need of that. It’s obscur out of doors, and one can’t very well distinguish the colours. But I’ll tell you what to do. Go at once and fetch the notables of the village, and tell them to come here to-morrow with the first lumière to hold a meeting of the council. Corporal Nestiers, go along with the Burgomaster, and whoever does not come with you at once, de bonne volonté, you must bring him by force; for liberty must triumph.

Michiel (aside). Michiel, Burgomaster!

D’Eglantiers (sits down). I shall make my headquarters here provisionally. Let’s see—what has to be done now?...

Enter Maria, bringing wine. All sit down and drink.

D’Eglantiers. Ahem!—reports ... but who is to write them? Lieutenant Taelinck, can you write?

Taelinck. No, Captain.

D’Eglantiers. Why are you a lieutenant then?

Taelinck. But you can’t do it either, Captain—or read, for that matter.

D’Eglantiers. Silence! I’m a captain to give orders, not to write. Sergeant Pluckx, can you write?

Pluckx. Not I—but there’s Private Passereau, he knows how.

Passereau. Plaît-il?

D’Eglantiers. I’m asking if you can write.

Passereau. Verdikke![^[28]] eh?

D’Eglantiers. If you can write—don’t you understand?

Passereau. Je n’entends pas—verdikke!

Pluckx. Verdikke is the only word of Flemish that Passereau knows.

D’Eglantiers. So he can’t write Flemish. (To Maria.) Can you write, my girl?

Maria. At your service, Captain.

D’Eglantiers. That’s curious! Sit down here, then, and write as I dictate.

Maria (sits down at the table—aside). What an idea!... Yes, I think it will do!

D’Eglantiers. Write: Report....

Enter Nicolaas, Nestiers, and two others.

Nestiers. Captain, here is a fellow who has been rebelling against us.

D’Eglantiers. Well—what has he been doing?

Nestiers. He forcibly resisted our entrance into an écurie in which there was a lancer’s horse standing.

D’Eglantiers. And where was the lancer who sat on the horse?

Nestiers. He is nowhere to be found.

D’Eglantiers. Well—just look through the whole village till you find him.

[Exeunt Nestiers and others.

D’Eglantiers (to Nicolaas). Who are you?

Nicolaas. I am the Burgomaster.

D’Eglantiers. The ex-burgomaster! I have put another burgomaster in your place—do you understand? But if you will make your soumission to the Committee, then, perhaps....

Nicolaas. Never!

D’Eglantiers. What!—do you know that I can have you fusillé?

Nicolaas. So you may, if you like!

D’Eglantiers. What do you say? Stop where you are—I shall have a word to speak with you presently—do you understand? (To Maria.) Write!

Nicolaas. What! Maria, are you giving this scoundrel any help?

Maria. Why not? The gentleman was in such trouble because he could not find any one able to write.

D’Eglantiers. Where did I leave off dictating?

(Sings) Write with care—or you’ll regret!

Maria. Captain, not a word I’ve written—

You have told me nothing yet!

D’Eglantiers. Write: Our army, fear-compelling,

Took six hamlets in a day.

Nicolaas. Since they saw no en’my—surely

No great wonder anyway.

D’Eglantiers. Of the foe full seven hundred

Fell before our conquering force!

Nicolaas. Numbers which, if rightly sifted,

Come to just one lancer’s horse!

D’Eglantiers. Out of all my valiant heroes

Only one has fall’n—the which—

Nicolaas. As I’ve just had information,

Fell dead drunk into a ditch.

D’Eglantiers. Good!—you now may cease your labours!

So!—a neat despatch you see,

Accurate and interesting,

As they always ought to be.

Nicolaas. Such as all despatches be!

D’Eglantiers. Well—now let us just look at it. H’m that’s written very cleverly. Now for the proclamation. Another sheet of paper! Write: Proclamation! Have you written that sentence?

Maria. Yes—what next?

D’Eglantiers. We, Captain d’Eglantiers and Lieutenant Taelinck,—to all who are about to read these presents—salutation!

Maria (writing). To all who are able to read these presents....

D’Eglantiers. About to read, I said! Fellow-citizens! we are bringing you la liberté. We have risked our life-blood to procure it for you: we also hope that you will show yourselves reconnaissants.... Hey! now what do you say to such a sentence as that? That’s what I call eloquence!

Maria. Undoubtedly! That is very neatly said, Captain.

D’Eglantiers. I see you’re a girl of taste and intelligence. Go on—and that you are to give us ... give us ... everything that is necessary. Well, that’s short and to the point, isn’t it?

Maria. A very fine style, and any one can understand what is meant at the very first reading.

D’Eglantiers (gratified). Can’t they just?

Maria. Now you’re going to sign both papers, aren’t you, Captain?

D’Eglantiers. Yes; I’ll put a little cross to them—that’s my mark. Lieutenant Taelinck, are you going to sign them too?

Taelinck (half asleep). Yes, yes. [They sign.]

D’Eglantiers. Now the report must be enclosed in an envelope, and sent to the General, and the proclamation will be posted up to-morrow.

[Maria hastily hides the signed paper in her dress, and folds another, which she hands to D’Eglantiers.]

Maria. Here you are, Captain. (Aside.) I have it all right.

D’Eglantiers (hands the paper to Private Passereau). Get on your horse at once, and take this paper to the General.

Passereau. Verdikke! Dans la nuit——

D’Eglantiers. Go at once! [Exit Passereau.] Well, that’s finished. Now I’ll go and get an hour or two’s sleep. You’ll call me, my good girl, when the council is assembled, won’t you?

Maria. Yes; and in the meantime I will go and post up the proclamation.

D’Eglantiers (takes it hastily from her, and puts it into his pocket). No; I must first read it out, or have it read, to the council. Now, where is my bedroom?

[He is about to go into Van Werve’s room.]

Maria (quickly). No, not there. The left-hand door, sir.

[Points to a door on the opposite side.]

Nicolaas (aside). I don’t understand it. Why does she want to put that fellow into my bedroom? (Aloud.) Maria, are you mad! the other room is——

Maria (interrupting him quickly). Just suited to a prisoner.

D’Eglantiers (pointing to Nicolaas). Then he must be put in there.

Nicolaas. But——

Maria (quickly, aside to Nicolaas). Leave it to me!

D’Eglantiers. Good-night! (Turning to the Volunteers.) If Nestiers comes with the portmanteau, tell him to bring it into my room. Do you hear?

[Nicolaas goes into the room in which Van Werve and Clara are hidden, while Maria takes a candle and shows D’Eglantiers into the left-hand bedroom.]

Taelinck (crouching over the fire). B-rrr! it’s famously cold!

Pluckx. I believe you! The Government really ought to provide us with better clothing.

Taelinck. That’s just the beauty of liberty, that every one has to look out for himself.

Pluckx. And that’s just what I mean to do, so soon as that girl comes back.

Edeling (appears in the doorway and looks in). These fellows are everywhere! I am caught in a trap.

Pluckx. But just tell us now, Lieutenant, who is supposed to be governing us at the present moment? for every day I hear of a fresh sovereign, who has been recommended to us.

Taelinck. Who is governing us? Why, Liberty!

Pluckx. I shan’t be sorry to see some change, then; for I haven’t yet seen the colour of Liberty’s money. I think the lass must be very hard up.

Enter Maria.

Maria (aside). Is this rabble going to stay here all right?

Pluckx. I say, my girl, look here. Have you got a blanket or rug you could let me have?

Maria. What for?

Pluckx. You’ll soon see that—comprenez?

Maria. I have; if you will be sure to give it back.

Pluckx. Oh! you shall have it back soon.

Maria (takes a blanket out of a chest). Here is one; but you shall not have it, unless you give me your tunic as a pledge that you will return it.

Pluckx. Come, none of that chatter!

Maria. Gently, gently! You have seen that the Captain lets me write his proclamations for him. Nothing would be easier than for me to put in a word against you, if you don’t behave yourselves.

Taelinck. The girl is right, Pluckx.

Pluckx. Well, here’s my sarrau, then! It’s not a bad exchange. [He gives his tunic to Maria, and cuts three slits in the blanket.]

Maria. What’s that for?

Pluckx. A new-fashioned overcoat for the winter. [Puts his head and arms through the slits. All laugh except Maria.]

Maria. Well, as you’ve spoilt my blanket for me, you shall not have your tunic back either.

Enter Nestiers.

Nestiers. Come, men, here are your billets; and here (laying it on the floor) is the Captain’s portmanteau.

Pluckx. You mean the portmanteau that the Captain looted this morning.

Maria and Edeling (aside). Is it possible?

Taelinck. Well, be quick and give out your billets. I’m going to stay here. I suppose there’s a second bed in the Captain’s room?

Maria. Surely.

Taelinck. Allons donc! Right-about march! Place a sentry outside the front door, and see that no one goes in or out without permission from the Captain or me.

[Goes into D’Eglantiers’ room with the portmanteau. The others retire. Enter Edeling, to whom Maria hands Passereau’s tunic, in which he escapes.]

Act II.

Middle of night. D’Eglantiers alone with the portmanteau under his arm and a candlestick in his hand.

D’Eglantiers. I see they’ve brought me the portmanteau. Let’s seize the golden moment, while old Taelinck lies snoring like an ox, to inspect the contents a bit. [Breaks the lock, and rummages through the portmanteau, taking out a necktie or some similar article, which he puts on.] What do I see? This seems to be a handsome capture! And I’ll be hanged if these are not Government bonds! Ma foi! Now I’m a rich man, and can let the service slide with an easy mind! I shall lose nothing by resigning—no one ever got his pay out of a Provisional Government! However, we must keep a sharp look-out, and not let any of my comrades find out what has been in here! All honest fellows, no doubt, but suffering from the same complaint as myself! Where shall I hide the packets? The portmanteau won’t lock now; and, besides, several of them have seen it already.

[Remains standings with the bonds in his hands. Enter Maria.]

Maria. Up already, Captain?

D’Eglantiers (starts, and tries to hide the papers). What,—what is it?

Maria (aside). That’s the portmanteau in question. (Aloud.) Nothing, Captain; I came to see if you wanted anything.

D’Eglantiers. Nothing! or,—wait! (Looking at her attentively. Aside.) The girl seems trustworthy ... otherwise ... yes, I suppose that will be best!

Maria (aside). What is he considering with himself?

D’Eglantiers. My good girl, I have here some of the army reports; could you tell me of a safe place, where no one comes poking and prying round, and where I can cacher them in safety till my departure?

Maria (aside). He’s running into the trap of his own accord. (To D’Eglantiers, pointing to the cupboard.) Shall I hide them in here, under the house linen? But in that case you must give your men orders not to go about plundering my cupboards.

D’Eglantiers. I’ll promise you that, but just open it.

[Maria opens the cupboard; D’Eglantiers hides the bonds inside it.]

Maria. I think, Captain, that packet must contain something more than reports and general orders!

D’Eglantiers. No, it really does not, by——

Maria. Well, I’ll believe you; so you need not swear about it. But it looked to me rather like bonds. [Locks the cupboard, and is about to put the key in her pocket, but D’Eglantiers prevents her.]

D’Eglantiers. Stop! I keep that key, do you hear?

Maria. Do you, sir? they’re bonds! Otherwise you would not be so much afraid of losing them!

D’Eglantiers. Yes, if that were true——

Maria. Then you wouldn’t be captain of a volunteer company, would you?

D’Eglantiers. No, certainly not!

Maria. No, if you were only rich, you’d already be a Member of Congress,—perhaps even of the Provisional Government....

D’Eglantiers. Yes; I do really think, if I were richer——

Maria. Not a doubt about it! A man of your talents and your eloquence would certainly have reached a high rank at Brussels, but for the want of means.

D’Eglantiers. You’re flattering me; but, after all, think of the numbers of conceited fools that have been elected to Congress! They do nothing but talk and mismanage matters.

Maria. I really think that you ought to be there, sir. It’s quite a mistake your not going! Brussels is the only place fit for you.

D’Eglantiers. I tell you once more, you’re a flatterer; but I promise you one thing,—as soon as I’ve hoisted the Brabant flag on the church tower of this village, I’ll go to Brussels and ask for my discharge.

Maria (aside). A pleasant journey to you,—so long as the bonds remain here!

Enter Taelinck.

Taelinck. You’re up early, Captain?

D’Eglantiers. Yes, yes, good-morning! (Looking sideways at the portmanteau.) May the devil——

Taelinck. It seems to me you’ve been looking out for yourself already. Was the portmanteau quite empty like that?

D’Eglantiers (somewhat embarrassed). Well, there wasn’t much in it.

Taelinck. You’re not a man of your word, Captain! You promised that we should share and share alike, whatever was in it.

D’Eglantiers. When there is nothing, there’s nothing to share; do you hear?

Taelinck. You might at least have waited to open it till I was there.

D’Eglantiers. Lieutenant, you’re becoming insolent; you’re forgetting discipline!

Taelinck. I shall let the General know that you keep all the loot to yourself.

D’Eglantiers. There stands the girl,—ask; let her témoigner whether there was anything in it but——

Maria. But eight linen shirts, which the Captain gave me to put away in the cupboard. Shall I get them out, Captain?

D’Eglantiers. Yes, yes,—here’s the key! (Aside.) That’s a little jewel of a girl!

[Maria opens the cupboard, and takes out a pile of shirts, which she drops on the floor. While the two officers are busy picking them up, she hides the bonds under her apron.]

Maria. There they are,—eight of them!

Taelinck. That’s five for me,—but was there nothing more?

Maria. Nothing. [She locks the cupboard, and returns the key to D’Eglantiers.]

D’Eglantiers (aside to Maria). If I ever get into the Government, I’ll see that you have a pension.

Maria. I should like to ask you something, sir. First, about the landlord,—my master, you know,—the man you took prisoner yesterday, and who is in that room; will you set him free again?

D’Eglantiers. H’m! h’m! a rebel like that? but, since you ask it ... well, go and fetch him!

Maria. And in the second place, will you let my sister and my uncle, who are sleeping here, go back to their own village undisturbed?

D’Eglantiers. Where do they live?

Maria. Why ... not very far off.

D’Eglantiers. Well, if they lived at the other end of nowhere, I should let them go, since it is you that ask it!

Maria. Very good; I’ll go at once and tell them.

[Exit.

D’Eglantiers (aside). That’s the right sort of girl! she’s saved me from all my anxiety.

Taelinck (aside). I don’t feel anything like easy about that affair of the cupboard!

Enter Nicolaas.

Nicolaas. Captain, the maid tells me you have given orders for my release.

D’Eglantiers. Yes; because that girl asked me, I’ve let you go, but mind what you’re about next time. The council is going to assemble here, and you may vote with the rest, because I want liberty to flourish.

Enter Pluckx.

Pluckx. Captain! here’s the council; are you ready for them?

D’Eglantiers. Yes, yes, let them come; but,—I tell you what,—let ten or a dozen of our men come in too, so as to maintain full liberty during the discussions; do you hear?

Pluckx. Very good, Captain.

[Pluckx goes out, and returns with the principal men of the village, headed by Michiel, as Burgomaster, and some Volunteers.]

Nicolaas (to Michiel). What in the devil’s name are you doing here? Look alive, and get to the stables!

Michiel. Why, master, are you there? That’s lucky. I’ll have you for my man-of-all-work, master!

Nicolaas. Why, man, are you gone wrong in your head? or——

Michiel. Not at all! The Captain here has made me Burgomaster of the village;—so you see, sir, that things look very bad for you.

D’Eglantiers. Silence! The council is going to be opened, and every one is to sit down.

[The “Notables,” with Michiel in their midst, sit down in a circle, while D’Eglantiers takes his place at a table, with Taelinck by his side.]

D’Eglantiers. The séance must be public, as is the proper thing for all liberal governments.

Nicolaas. Of course—so that every one can hear the nonsense that is talked.

D’Eglantiers. Therefore, Pluckx, open the door; but don’t let every one in, or the room will be overcrowded, you understand?

Nicolaas. A very wise precaution!

[The front door and shutters are opened. It is daylight.]

D’Eglantiers. Citizens! in the name of the Government, I offer you la liberté, les lumières, et l’ordre légal. Do you understand that?

The Schoolmaster. It seems to mean the same thing as freedom, enlightenment, and law and order.

Nicolaas (standing up). Surely, sir, it is scarcely necessary to give us what we have possessed for a long time already!

D’Eglantiers. Silence! I bring you liberty in all things,—no more coercion,—no more monopoly! Education and trade are free. Is there a school here?

The Schoolmaster. Certainly, sir, the Society for National Education—

D’Eglantiers. Done away with! Abolished! The parents are free from henceforth, and, as a natural consequence, the children also. No more schools; at any rate, none of the National Education Society’s!

Nicolaas. That I am quite willing to believe.

D’Eglantiers. Silence! Is there any factory in this commune?

Nicolaas. There are six, in which hundreds of people earn their living.

D’Eglantiers. Monopoly must be abolished. Every one ought to be allowed freely to make what he likes. Therefore all the factories must be sacked.

Nicolaas. The factories sacked? Is that the freedom you are bringing us? (Turning to the Notables.) And you are going to allow this? (Confusion in the meeting.)

D’Eglantiers. Silence! Volontaires! the first man that contradicts, you are to shoot through the head. Otherwise free discussion becomes an impossibility.

[The Volunteers take aim.]

Michiel (quaking with terror). Of course—the Cap—Captain is right. The—(in confusion)—the factories must take his word for it. What a kind amiable man the Captain is! Long live the Captain!

D’Eglantiers. All the ready money in the village must at once be placed in my hands, in order to clothe my valiant troops.

Nicolaas. They can take care of themselves in that respect (Points at Pluckx.)

D’Eglantiers. All the wine and provisions in the place must be presented to my troops as a voluntary gift.

Nicolaas. Anything else?

D’Eglantiers. All swords, guns, knives, spades, axes, pickaxes, ploughshares—in short, all iron tools must be handed over to me.

Nicolaas. He’s not hard to please, he isn’t.

D’Eglantiers. And the council is to deliberate whether it would not be well to send in an address declaring their submission to the Government.

Michiel. A very good idea.

Nicolaas. I should like to say a word.

D’Eglantiers. Speak up!

Taelinck. He can’t speak. He is only the ex-Burgomaster; he is not entitled to a share in the proceedings.

D’Eglantiers. Never mind—let him speak as one not entitled.

Nicolaas. If I may speak without danger, I should like to ask what is the Government that we are to submit to? I have already heard some half-dozen sovereigns mentioned; and really I should not be surprised if you had offered the crown to a Chinese mandarin.

D’Eglantiers. Tut! tut! all you’ve got to do is to submit—it doesn’t matter to whom. That’s not your business.

Nicolaas. Then I vote against such an absurdity.

The Schoolmaster and others. So do I! so do I!

D’Eglantiers. I shall put you under arrest if you don’t vote as I tell you.

Nicolaas. Is that what you understand by liberty?

D’Eglantiers. You are at liberty to talk as much as you like, but you must vote as I wish.

Nicolaas. I thought you were more liberal than that, Captain!

D’Eglantiers. I can’t waste time arguing with you. [Takes the proclamation out of his pocket.] Here’s my manifesto. Let the Burgomaster read it out loud.

Michiel. Silence! Let every one listen! (Reads.) “Proclamation,—We, Captain D’Eglantiers——”

D’Eglantiers. That’s me, standing here.

Michiel (reads). “And Lieutenant Taelinck——”

Taelinck. Here’s the man you’re reading about, compère!

Michiel. “To all that shall read these presents, salutation! salutation!” (Bows.)

D’Eglantiers and Taelinck. Salutation!

Michiel (reads). “Citizens! a Dutch army, ten thousand strong, is marching on this village!” What’s this?

D’Eglantiers. That’s not on the paper, you scoundrel!

[General consternation.]

Michiel. It is there—read for yourself!

D’Eglantiers. Then it’s a forged document—parbleu!

Pluckx (examines the paper). It’s signed by you and the Lieutenant, sir.

All. Go on! go on!

Michiel (reads). “As I am not in a position, with the forces at my disposal, to withstand so powerful an enemy, I hope you will not take it ill of me if I beat a retreat——”

All. Well, now!

Michiel (reads). “Within a quarter of an hour!”

Nicolaas. A pleasant journey to you!

D’Eglantiers. What sort of an infernal thing is this? [Snatches the paper out of Michiel’s hand. Aside to Taelinck.] Yes, indeed, there’s my mark!

Taelinck. And mine, too!

D’Eglantiers. Then the girl has cheated us!

Pluckx. If ten thousand men are marching on us, the best thing we can do is to march off in the other direction.

Nicolaas. And we will go to meet them.

Michiel. Yes, we’ll escort them in in triumph!

[All the Notables, and the majority of the Volunteers, leave the house.]

D’Eglantiers. What the——! What are you doing! Stay here! It’s all a swindle!

Enter Maria, with Van Werve and Clara, disguised as peasants.

Maria. Captain, here are my sister and my uncle, who——

D’Eglantiers. Here! you child of Satan! I’ll sister and uncle you! What sort of a paper is this that you’ve written? Come, now!

Maria (aside). The fat’s in the fire now, and no mistake!

D’Eglantiers. Answer me! what sort of a paper is it?

Maria. Why, sir, haven’t you read it?

D’Eglantiers. I’ve heard it read, and——

Maria. Did you let it go out of your own hands?

D’Eglantiers. Insolent, too? Who’s asking questions, you or I?

Maria. A word in confidence, Captain? [Draws him aside.] Don’t you understand?—that was a trick of mine to——

D’Eglantiers. A trick?—a fine trick! I’ll——

Maria. Hush! hush! do! I knew that the Dutch troops were coming, and in order to let you know it privately I wrote it down on that paper. I hoped you would read it by yourself, and then act as circumstances might demand.

D’Eglantiers. Well—in that case! But it is strange, though——

Enter Pluckx.

Pluckx. Captain, it’s time for you to show yourself. Half of our men want to leave, and the villagers are beginning to arm!

D’Eglantiers. What the——[Breaks off, and looks towards the cupboard.] I must get hold of my bonds first. Lieutenant Taelinck, go on. I’ll follow immediately.

Taelinck (also looking at the cupboard). Aren’t you coming with us, Captain?

D’Eglantiers. Presently, presently.

[Taelinck goes out slowly, followed by Pluckx. D’Eglantiers runs to the cupboard, opens it, and searches in vain for the packet.]

Maria (aside). What shall I do now? Wait!—I have it.

[Hastens out and comes back with Taelinck.]

Maria (to Taelinck). It is just as I told you—the Captain has been hiding gold and jewels in that cupboard.

Taelinck (comes forward, and taps D’Eglantiers on the shoulder). Well, Captain, what have you got there, say?

D’Eglantiers (surprised). Eh! what?

[Turns round, and seeing Taelinck, hurriedly closes the cupboard.]

Taelinck. You’ve hidden our booty there,—that’s quite clear. Open that door again, and look sharp about it.

D’Eglantiers. What’s the good?—there’s no money in it.

Taelinck. I’ll report you!

D’Eglantiers. I won’t give you the chance! [Draws his sword.]

Taelinck (defends himself). You miserable thief.

[They fight. Van Werve and Clara are about to take the opportunity of escaping, when Pluckx enters with his men.]

Pluckx. What! fighting here? Why, the Hollanders are coming!

D’Eglantiers. What! Where? When?

[Shouts of “Oranje boven!”[^[29]] outside. Van Werve rushes at Taelinck and disarms him.]

Van Werve. Yes!—“Oranje boven!”

Pluckx. Here they come! Sauve qui peut!

[Tries to escape by the front door.]

D’Eglantiers. Where’s the back door?

Maria (calls after him). Don’t forget your bonds, whatever you do!

[As D’Eglantiers attempts to leave by the back door, Michiel enters, accompanied by several Soldiers, and knocks him down with a pitchfork, while Taelinck is being held by Van Werve. Edeling, Nicolaas, Soldiers, and Armed Villagers enter by the front door, and disarm Pluckx and the rest of the Belgians.]

Michiel. Halt! Captain! you were mistaken after all! “Oranje boven!”

D’Eglantiers. Traitor of a Burgomaster!

Edeling. My Clara!

Michiel. See there! I knew we should catch them.

Nicolaas (to the Dutch leader, pointing at Michiel). Captain, you had better secure this rascal! it was he who brought the rebels here.

Michiel (as he is seized by the Dutch). How! what?—why, I showed you the way myself!

Maria. The pitcher to the well—Michiel!

[The insurgents and Michiel are led away.]

Edeling (seeing Maria). Good-morning, my lass—didn’t I come back to see you, as I said I would? (To the others.) This is the girl who helped me to escape.

Van Werve. She has served us all.

Van Lennep.

PROVERBS.

He who lives with cripples learns to limp.

The best steersman stands ashore.

Self is the man.

He gives an egg to get a chicken.

They are not all princes who ride with the emperor.

He howls with the wolves when he is in the wood, and bleats with the sheep in the field.

A little too late, much too late.

Stand still a while, you lose a mile.

The nearer Rome the worse Christian.

Call no herring before he’s in the net.

He who has choice has anxiety.

Don’t put too many eggs under one hen.

If fools were silent they’d be wise.

No man dies of threats.

The fowl that cackles most does not lay most eggs.

No mad dog ever ran for seven years.

One can see by the stockings whose leg is broken.

You should hang your cloak towards the wind.

No man ever limped for another’s sore foot.

It’s ill stealing where the host is a thief.

’Tis ill eating cherries with lords.

When slovenly people turn over a new leaf they polish the bottoms of the saucepans.

What belongs to the ravens[^[30]] will never drown.

All offices are greasy.[^[31]]

What the sow does the little pigs must pay for.

With much pounding the stockfish becomes tender.

No man sees his own hump-back.

’Tis an ill water, said the horse, for he could not swim.

’Tis an ill morsel that chokes one.

Let them pump who are cold, I have my coat on.[^[32]]

All that come of cats will go mewing.

Let the plover peck, I have the eggs in my hat.

Though the ape should wear a golden ring, yet he is an ugly thing.

He who has a fine cat should bring no furrier into his house.

Lands become sand, sands become land. (Landen versanden, sanden verlanden. An epitome of the physical history of Holland.)

The greater jurist the worse Christian.

When the gnats dance in January the farmer comes to beggary.

Beware of a fair Spaniard and a swarthy Englishman.

Better sit still with an owl than fly with a falcon.

The first man in the boat has the choice of oars.

It’s the third strand that holds the cable.

Man overboard—an eater the less.

A tired horse would rather see a dirty stable than a clean high-road.

A woman’s hair pulls worse than the main-topsail.

At Boulogne there are more traps than mice.

White and black[^[33]] were the making of Venice.

A hundred Dutchmen, a hundred knives.

A hundred Frenchmen, no knives.

A hundred Scots, two hundred knives.[^[34]]

In Italy—too many feasts, too many chiefs, too many storms.

The Spaniard seems wise, and is not.

The Frenchman seems a fool, and is not.

The Italian seems wise, and is so.

The Portuguese seems a fool, and is so.[^[35]]

A husband’s mother is the devil on the floor.

A house full of daughters is a cellar full of sour beer.

’Tis easy piping to those who love dancing.

Smoke, bad air, and scolding wives, are what drive men out of the house.

A DUTCH PODSNAP.

“A glass of wine, mamma?”

“No, thank you, papa.”

“You, Caroline?”

“No, thank you, papa.”

“Frederica?”

“No, thank you, papa.”

Ditto, ditto, for Marie, Antoinette, and Hortense.

“Hendriek doesn’t take any wine?”

“Oh! no, papa.”

“And my Lijsje?”

“Oh! it would be dreadful, papa!”

Mijnheer Van Arlen, having gone through this ceremony, half-filled his glass, filled it up with water, and then carefully corked the bottle, to be put away for to-morrow. In this way it would be made to last ten days, and as a rule it did so; for the above invitation to his wife and seven daughters was renewed every day, and every day regularly declined. However, there were some exceptions to this rule: in the first place, when papa was on a journey. Every year papa had to take a journey for the Minister; it was a mission of mysterious importance, whose destination no one was to know. It always came off quite unexpectedly, immediately after the receipt of his second quarter’s salary. On these occasions the bottle, if it still contained any wine, was emptied by the family, and papa’s own particular tumbler—a most precious one, of ruby glass, with a flower-pattern, and the initials H. M. engraved on it—put away in the china-cupboard for the space of ten days. For this unexpected, mysterious, and important journey always lasted exactly ten days, during which time the daughters enjoyed the mild joke of calling their mother “Madame Veuve,” and were solemnly requested by her not to do it, for, as she said, it was a sort of joke that always sent a cold shudder through her. She preferred being called “little bride,” which took place once a year, on her wedding-day, an occasion which formed the second of the exceptions referred to above. On this occasion papa always provided mamma with the surprise of a glass of port at dinner, and all the seven daughters had some too, though in their hearts they would have preferred not taking it, for they detested it—and it always gave one such a colour in the evening!

The third exception—which was only half a one—occurred when papa had a relation or a friend from out of town on a visit, when mamma would take a glass; and then the bottle had to be finished, for wine only turns flat if it is left standing.

To-day, however, was merely an ordinary day. Papa had received no instructions as to his journey, and the wedding anniversary was some time off; though the friend from out of town was expected, and might arrive any week. He was something more than a friend—he was a late brother-in-law; for Mevrouw Van Arlen—Hortense Muggenhout, as denoted by the initials on the tumbler—had had a younger sister, who had married Heer Van Noost Prigson, a most respectable man, as appears from his double-barrelled name, which was never forgotten, either by himself or the Van Arlen family. Mijnheer Van Noost Prigson had lost his wife not long after the birth of his only son.

Uncle Van Noost Prigson had written to-day he would come; but he was a man of business,—of much business,—and he wrote so quickly that three-fourths of each of his letters were illegible. Fortunately, papa was also a man of business, and in his responsible position was brought into contact with so many matters—cipher, among others—that he was able to read the writing of Uncle Van Noost Prigson, at least the greater part of it. This time, however, the most important part of uncle’s letter was in figures, and he always made his figures very indistinctly. He said he might possibly come on the 3rd (it might also have been the 8th), unless it were the 10th—or (for the figures might equally well have stood for that) the 21st—while at the end of the letter he added, with equal distinctness, that it was to be between the 14th and 16th, for which again one might have read the 24th and 26th. Equally uncertain was the duration of his visit; its purpose, indeed, was explained, and this papa thought fit to keep to himself. It must surely be a matter of importance, thought the eight ladies, for the thought that he—with his vast experience of all sorts of business—should have failed to decipher this part of the letter never entered their heads for a moment.

Papa filled a most important office,—it was in the year 1846,—and in consequence of one thing or another, perhaps in connection with the mysterious journeys, he had, one 6th of December, received a token that the State appreciated his services. Since that day, the said token had been inseparable from the black coat, without which no one ever saw Mijnheer Van Arlen. It was quite in harmony with the impressive wrinkle on his forehead, which looked as though Van Arlen had for years been staring upward in a bent position,—in harmony, too, with the compressed lips, which seemed in continual fear of letting a State secret escape; while his hair had become quite white, probably from the anxiety occasioned by the weighty matters which occupied his head. The daughters found in papa the type of a handsome man, and at the same time of a thoroughly respectable one; mamma adored him with the enthusiasm which every good housewife is bound to feel for her husband, and never spoke of him except as “Mijnheer Van Arlen.” Conversely, he always referred to his wife as “Mevrouw mijne echtgenoote;”[^[36]] and he preferred to allude to his daughters in numerical order, unwilling to admit the outer world to so great a degree of familiarity as to speak to it of his daughters by their Christian names.

Either the bottle had stood too long on this particular day, or some other cause had spoilt Van Arlen’s taste for it; anyhow, he did not finish his glass, and, when dinner was over, fixed a penetrating gaze on the door, and remained silent.

“Are you not well, papa?” asked Caroline.

“Quite well, my child!”

“Difficult business?” asked Mevrouw, sympathetically.

“Oh! all business is difficult, mamma,” said Van Arlen, weightily, and stared into nothing more perseveringly than ever.

Mamma sighed, and the daughters looked sadly at papa. Could Uncle Van Noost Prigson’s letter be the cause of the trouble?

“Will you have any dessert, papa?”

The dessert was standing ready, as usual, on the small side-table. A box of flat biscuits, a butter-dish, a corner of cheese under a glass cover, and a little dish of fruit, or, if there was none to be had, of preserved ginger. But papa did not care for dessert, and never took any, except when the above-mentioned relation or intimate friend from the country was present; for “a dinner is not complete without dessert.”

“No, thank you, my dear? Will you?”

“Oh! you know I never do. Shall we say grace?”

Grace was said, reverent and short, as is befitting in a house where a good tone prevails, and papa folded up his napkin neatly, and laid it beside his plate; whereupon Leida fetched the matches, and gave papa a light, which he accepted with a gracious nod, just as he had done yesterday, and the day before, and all the year round, with the exceptions aforesaid. Then eighteen-year-old Leida gave her papa a light kiss on his forehead, just above the broad wrinkle.

“Why, papa! you must not be so gloomy; just let me kiss the trouble away,” said she.

“What tricks next?” asked papa, sportively; and mamma called her a monkey, and all the six sisters thought it such a good thing that Leida was in such spirits, and had such a knack of getting papa into a cheerful humour.

Van Arlen lit his cigar, and went slowly and thoughtfully to his own room, whither he was called by his weighty official cares, and where a mysterious locked portfolio lay ready for him. He turned the key in the lock, sat down in his easy-chair, and went to sleep. He was quite right to lock himself in,—a State secret might so easily have escaped him in his sleep,—nay more, the secret of his after-dinner nap, which was entirely unknown to his household and the outer world, might have leaked out. About half-past seven there was a modest knock at the door; the person knocking waited patiently till all the State secrets should be covered up; and when the door was opened, the table before Van Arlen was strewn with papers. The inkstand, however, remained on the mantelpiece.

But she who entered the room suspected no deception, and was not on the look-out for traces of it. Year after year it had been Mevrouw Van Arlen’s habit to bring her husband his “first cup” at this hour, and the ten minutes which he was accustomed to give her served for the discussion of domestic matters. Papa listened attentively to what mamma had spent on milk and on bread, on peas and beans and matches,—nothing is too small for a great man,—and then handed out the exact amount from the secret drawer of his writing-table.

“And then, papa, Caroline and Frederica and Marie ought to have new hats.”

“And the three others?”

“They can have the old hats of the three eldest done up with new trimmings.”

“And what becomes of their old ones?”

“They can use them for every day.”

Van Arlen tried to form in his own mind a visible picture of the change; but his habit of considering affairs of State somewhat dimmed and confused his sight in matters of everyday life.

“I do not rightly understand you, my dear. It seems to me that the three eldest might just as well have the hats of the next three, as the next three have the hats of the elder ones passed on to them.”

“Caroline, Frederica, and Marie are the eldest.”

“Is that a reason, mamma? Let us take, as our fundamental principle, impartiality. Let us act without respect of persons—it is a wise rule, a guarantee for the stability both of a government and a household. Let us give no occasion for jealousy by measuring with two different measures.”

“But, papa——”

“Believe me, my dear, parents who show partiality are sowing the seeds of unfriendly feeling, discord, hatred. Let us be wise, and not bow to any antiquated principle of primogeniture. What human experience has found to be fatal in society, must not be introduced into our smaller circle by us, the individual units of society.”

“But in that case they might as well all keep their own hats, and trim them up afresh.”

“Let it be so.”

How mamma was to settle matters with her daughters was her business; the head of the family was concerned solely with the legislative, not with the executive department.

“And Leida must keep her old hat because she has been so untidy; but she will have to have a new ribbon on it.”

Van Arlen nodded assent.

They must have been great men who first preached impartiality, and abolished the right of primogeniture. Here, in this individual instance, was a saving of three new hats,—what economy would be effected by the application of the system to a whole State!

“And you yourself, mamma?”

“I have been thinking of keeping on the mourning for another year. My black dresses are all quite good still.”

“And we were so fond of poor Cornelia! When the mourning is worn out the dead are forgotten, people say. We must show that it is not the case with us.”

“Or that we have been careful of our clothes,” Van Arlen might have added; but though this inference did not enter his head, another did.

“So we shall not go out this year?”

“I’m sorry, for the girls’ sakes; but it really is a duty. But, all the same, we must not keep them quite shut up either.”

“No, of course not.”

Mijnheer and Mevrouw Van Arlen were silent for a little.

“We must not keep them shut up,” repeated the mother, thoughtfully. “Do you think it possible you might some time be transferred, Van Arlen?”

“Oh, Hortense! don’t ask such questions.”

“It is not out of curiosity, but in the interest of our family. You are in such favourable relations with people in high positions.”

“What do you think is the cause of this, mamma?”

“Well, your knowledge, your ability, your great——”

“Do you think that a man possessing such qualities—mind I don’t say I possess them—has much chance of being sent away to a distance?”

“No, but—it is hard.”

“It may be hard,—but when a man is indispensable—I don’t say that I am indispensable—he has to put up with it. The feeling that he is doing his duty conscientiously to the State, ought to have most weight with him,—and it certainly makes things easier.”

Van Arlen finished his tea, and handed the empty cup to his wife—the usual sign that the audience was over.

“Another cup?”

“Yes, please—but no sugar.”

This condition was as stereotyped as the dessert; papa only took one cup with sugar; the ladies did not care for sugar, except at evening parties, when they took it to prevent mistakes and confusion.

Van Arlen then went to work,—read, signed documents, made a note here, and drew his pen through a sentence there,—and became so absorbed in his work that he never heard Marie come in on tiptoe, to set down the humble domestic cup of tea on the table covered with State documents. At the stroke of half-past nine Van Arlen rose, and once more made his appearance in the family sitting-room, where an old-fashioned card-table had been set out. After working all day, he found that his mind needed some relaxation. His wife and two of the daughters,—who took turns in this, as in other things, were already seated; the cards were dealt, and he had only to begin. They were playing whist for recreation, and not for money—therefore no reckoning was necessary; but the marking was done with laudable accuracy, and every mistake was severely reproved—for the furthering of every one’s enjoyment; for enjoyment without seriousness does not deserve the name.

Papa never spoke a word except what was required by the game, and did not like any talking to go on in the room; so that the five daughters who were not playing, sat silent round the big table, each with her needlework, thinking about the hats they were not to have, the mourning that their mother was to go on wearing, the ball to which they were not invited, the opera they never went to, the new fashions other people were going to wear, the novel they were in the middle of, but which must not be read aloud now papa was in the room, the riches they missed, the enjoyment they did not know, the past that was so poor, and the future that did not promise to be richer.

There was a ring at the bell.

All the ladies looked up; even papa laid down the cards he was just about to deal.

“Brother Van Noost Prigson!” said Mevrouw, in a tone of some anxiety,—as well she might, for there was no meat in the larder—in fact, nothing in the house but a small angle of cheese, and a few ounces of ginger from the uneaten dessert.

Van Arlen said nothing: he was never precipitate, and in all circumstances of life preserved his presence of mind.

“What a quiet little ring!” said Frederica.

“Could it be a message from the Minister, papa?”

“Leen has not heard the bell—shall I ring?”

Mevrouw Van Arlen assented, and the sitting-room bell was heard—a quicker and more excited ring than the heavy, respectable front-door bell.

“The bell rang, Leen.”

“Yes, ma’am, I’m here.”

“No—the front-door bell.”

“No, indeed it didn’t, ma’am.”

“We all heard it.”

“Impossible,” muttered the maid to herself, as she went to see; “or else it must be some one who pulled the bell and ran away—and you can’t be always on the look-out for that.”

All listened in strained expectation. The front door was opened, but no sound of voices came from it; it was closed again, and Leentje was heard shuffling off to the kitchen.

“She might come back and say who it was,” mamma assented.

Leentje was again sent for.

“Who rang the bell, Leentje?”

“Just as I thought, ma’am,—it was some boy that ran away.”

Mijnheer Van Arlen was inwardly very indignant that his family—among whom so good a tone prevailed—should make such an exhibition of themselves in the presence of a servant. Mamma blamed the girls’ curiosity, but could not unconditionally accept the theory of the boy,—Leentje had been too long at the front door for that. If it turned out that she had been speaking to a “fellow” there, she would have to leave next day. That sort of thing would not do in a respectable house. The girls likewise declined to believe in the boy—the bell had been rung too quietly. They wanted to go out and look whether anything had been pushed under the door. Then it struck Antoinette that the mysterious ring might be connected with burglary, and this opinion gave rise to some eager whispering, which caused papa to turn a frowning brow, not once, but twice, in the direction of the large table. In an unguarded moment Leida slipped out into the passage, to institute an investigation in loco, but neither on nor under the door-mat was there any trace of a paper. All conjectures remained fruitless.

If the little street-boy, with the newly mended kettle on his back, who, merrily whistling his favourite tune, had crossed the quiet street, and pulled the bell, to give his aunt’s sister-in-law a run from the kitchen for nothing,—if that small evil-doer had known what a change and excitement he had caused in a respectable family, insomuch that Van Arlen himself, who filled such an important post, had laid aside for a moment the business which occupied him, he would probably have repeated the experiment on the following evening—if only out of pity for the monotonous life of the seven ladies, to whom even the pulling of the bell was an event.

The night has passed;—the little, sputtering, flickering night-light, which burns in Van Arlen’s bedroom—for Van Arlen does not believe in having no light in the house, one never knows what may happen—has consumed all its oil and gone out. The insolent sun, which has no pity for faded carpets and curtains, has penetrated everywhere; and if one could walk through the Van Arlens’ house at this hour, when their high tone is still asleep, one would lose much of the reverence inspired by the important position, the refined manners, and the ceremonious intercourse with each other of its inhabitants.

But at this hour in the morning no one walks through Van Arlen’s house except the maid, who, by the terms of her engagement, is bound to “do” two rooms before breakfast. This involves rising before five, though she does not go to bed any earlier for that; she is also supposed to answer the door, go out once in four weeks, “if it suits,”—and have neither right nor claim to any extras beyond her wages, which are moderate, and her perquisites, which are nil.

To be weighed against all this is the great advantage of living with respectable people, and that is a great deal in these days, Mevrouw says. Besides this, Leentje is a “whole” orphan, and therefore ought to appreciate the privilege of finding a home with such a family—though it is true that Mevrouw Van Arlen will never engage a servant with any parent or relative living, to save trouble with their families.

But the Van Arlens are far too respectable to let us waste any more time over their servant,—more especially as by this time they are all assembled at breakfast, with the exception of the head of the house, for persons who do much brain-work need more rest than those who only tire their bodies—so Mijnheer says. Mevrouw is seated before the tea-tray—the daughters take cold water. Nothing is wholesomer than cold water. Moreover, butter—at least, much butter—is bad for the health. Bread in large quantities is also unhealthy, and the ladies prove, by the extent of their breakfast, that they quite subscribe to this opinion. The “whole orphan,” also, is educated in the same doctrine, but she is allowed to poison herself every morning with coffee—so long as she does not exceed her two ounces a week.

“I don’t know how it is, mamma, but that ringing the bell last night does worry me,” said Frederica, by way of morning reflection; and the other girls reflected also, and talked it over, and objected, or supported each other, as if there were really an interesting question at stake,—till papa’s arrival restored silence. He cast one glance over the paper, which no one was allowed to inspect before him, for fear the news might evaporate, and then put it into his pocket,—for girls have no business with newspapers, and his wife did not care to see it. During the meal he spoke little—he was oppressed by the prospect of all the important affairs awaiting him; and he ate his bread and butter, and drank his tea, with a solemnity which made it difficult to realise that they were only ordinary bread and tea.

Presently he rose. “Oh! papa! you scarcely give yourself time for breakfast!” said his wife, and he did not dispute the proposition. He kissed her and his daughters on the forehead in silence, put on his hat, and went to his office, thoughtful and abstracted, as if bowed down by the weight of his position. He did not even see people who bowed to him; as for miscellaneous human beings, they were not worth his attention.

Suddenly some one stopped him.

“This is lucky! I was just on my way to your house!” cried this person in a loud voice,—so loud that all the bystanders could hear Van Arlen being addressed like an ordinary human being. “Have you been out to a funeral this morning?”

A well-regulated smile hovered for a moment about the official’s mouth,—“No, brother.”

“You look just like it. How are they all at home?—your youngsters growing up—eh? Nothing particular going on?”

Thus talking, Brother Van Noost Prigson walked along beside Van Arlen, and entered with him—no, actually preceded him—into the door of the building where he exercised his important functions. Preceded him! Van Arlen went down five per cent. in the estimation of his subordinates that day; and when his own messenger, with a low bow, threw open the door of his private office, Van Noost Prigson was again the first to tread the magnificent carpet, on which inferior officials scarcely dared to set foot when expressly summoned by their chief.

“Not much to do—eh?”

“On the contrary, I am very busy to-day.”

“Well, well—reading and signing documents, and all that sort of thing—I could do that too.”

“I shall have to sign about three hundred and forty separate papers.”

“Well—I’d do that in half-an-hour; but if you really are busy, I won’t keep you. I’ll come and dine with you to-day.”

“Very good—and in that case, I’ll see——”

“Don’t give yourself any trouble. I’ll call in and see Hortense myself. You know you needn’t make any difference in your ways for me, and I daresay you couldn’t very well afford it either.”

Van Arlen looked at his brother-in-law as if to ask, “Do you mean to insult me,” but his expression changed as he met the glance of the cheery but penetrating eyes. “Living is dear at the Hague,” he said.

“The more fool you, then, to stay here—and with seven daughters, too! Just listen, Van Arlen,—I have a plan, but I can’t carry it out without your help.”

“Let me hear it before I promise.”

“My plan is—to make Van Arlen rich.... Where did you get that ridiculous thing?” he suddenly broke off.

“Which?” asked the official—following Prigson’s eye, which was directed to his breast.

“Why—that bit of ribbon. I never heard of your getting it. From Santa Claus, I suppose?”

“I don’t understand you, Prigson; if you mean my Order, I make it a point of honour to wear it, and I don’t like its being made a joke of.”

“A joke, my dear fellow? I have the most fervent respect for all orders of knighthood—especially if they are sent home on St Nicholas’ Eve.... Come in! Beg pardon—I forgot this was your place. Can I stay?”

Van Arlen glanced at the door,—it was only a clerk with documents, and Prigson was suffered to remain while the clerk waited and the official signed.

“This is the sort of thing that goes on all day long.”

“Well—it seems to me you earn your money pretty easily. But say, Van ... I suppose no one can hear us talking here?”

“No one.”

“Well,—it doesn’t matter to me, but I shouldn’t like it on your account,—I want some money.”

Van Arlen drew the palm of his hand across his forehead, and stared at his brother-in-law without answering.

“I’m so fearfully in debt that I don’t want to give the alarm. I should be much obliged if you could let me have those thousand florins I lent you. In a month or two you can have them again, if you want; but I’ve got to live till then, and I have nothing left.”

“It comes at a very inconvenient time, Prigson.”

“My dear fellow, I would like nothing better than to give you a receipt for the whole sum in full; for you’re a good fellow, and have to struggle so hard, one ought not to make it harder for you. But, just say now, when would it be convenient?”

Van Arlen thought for some minutes.

“At the beginning of next year,” he said slowly.

“I wish I could wait so long. I wish I could; but I have an expensive undertaking on hand, which will perhaps by next year put me in a position to accommodate you. But, for the moment, I must have money; and I dare not try to raise it myself for fear of ruining my credit, which I can’t do without just now.”

“Come in!” said Van Arlen, in answer to a knock at the door.

“His Excellency would like to speak to you,” said the clerk.

“So those fellows let themselves be called Excellency, do they? I thought that was bad form now-a-days,” said Prigson, loud enough to be heard by the clerk. But Van Arlen did not reply, he was too thankful for the chance of escape from his brother-in-law.

“I suppose you’ll be gone some time? An Excellency like that has plenty of time for talking; he doesn’t work himself to death,” said Prigson.

“It may be a couple of hours before I can get away.”

“In that case I’ll say good-bye. By-the-by, is there any place where I can see the papers? Are you a member of the Besogne Club?”

“At the White Club you’ll find all the daily papers.”

“And will one of your cards be enough to admit me?”

“I haven’t a card here, but——” Van Arlen looked round, and his eye fell on the card of one of his subordinates. “This will do just as well.”

“Merci!” said Prigson, with a just perceptible smile, and left him.

When Van Arlen returned from the Minister’s private room, he sent to ask the functionary whose card he had given to Prigson to come to him, and, while waiting, wrote a note to his wife, informing her of that gentleman’s arrival.

Before the note had reached its destination, however, the person in question had already appeared on the scene. He had been shown into the salon, where, after sending up his name, he paced up and down for about half-an-hour, vainly seeking for diversion in the four framed engravings representing the divisions of the day, typified by English ladies in the large bonnets and short waists of a fashion forty years old. The alabaster clock, with gilt ornaments, was not going—it had not gone for twenty years,—and the vases were as clumsy in form as monstrous in colouring.

“Everything dates from the year twenty,” muttered Prigson, after a hasty glance at one article and another, “and these things never break! The whole house and furniture is of the year twenty—the girls too. Is none of them going to appear? Hortense surely doesn’t require to make such a toilette.”

He pulled the bell. It had given no sound for the last ten years;—but, as it happened, the maid was just passing the door.

“Look here, my girl—you seem smart enough—just run upstairs and tell your mistress I have only ten minutes to spare, and I have to go out of town again directly.”

“Thank Heaven!” thought Mevrouw, when the maid came up with the message, “then he won’t stay to dinner!” and in another moment she was downstairs, endeavouring, by extra cordiality, to remove the impression which the long waiting must have produced on Prigson.

“I’m sorry, brother, you can’t stay to dine with us in a quiet way,” she said after a time.

“If you really make a point of it, Hortense, I can alter my plans to suit,” answered Prigson; “but you must not let me put you out in any way.”

“Oh! not in the least; certainly not. You are always welcome, and our table is large enough. And what are you doing just now?”

“At this moment I am living on my means, for the last enterprise came to nothing. But now I really have my eye on something good. You must try and persuade Van Arlen to take it up; it is certain to make him rich——”

He was interrupted by “Good-morning, uncle!” in three different voices; and the three eldest Van Arlens proceeded to welcome Prigson, who, in entire disregard of the tone of the house, embraced them one after the other.

“Always the same,” said their mother, smiling, and shaking her finger at him, and the three girls blushed and sat down. Then appeared the two next, to be welcomed in the same way; and presently the two youngest turned up, to be likewise honoured by their uncle. All seven were as neat as if they had come out of bandboxes, and each had some fancy-work in her hand.

When the subordinate official whose card Van Arlen had given to Prigson appeared in the former’s room as desired, he was received with—

“Oh, Mijnheer Talm, I have just taken the liberty of using your name.”

“You do me a great honour, sir.”

“One of my relations, Herr Van Noost Prigson, from London, wished to be introduced to the White Club, and you know I can’t go there!”

Mijnheer Van Arlen meant that his position was too important to allow of his doing so. The official bowed—he quite understood that.

“I happened to have your card lying here, and I thought you would be willing to do me that service.”

“Certainly, very much flattered. Can I be of any further service to your relative? Take him about anywhere? But I don’t speak English.”

“Oh, he speaks Dutch quite fluently,” replied Van Arlen; “if one did not know it already, one would never guess that he came from London. So it might be as well not to mention it.”

“Very good, sir.”

Mijnheer Talm was about to withdraw, with a low bow.

“By-the-by, Mijnheer Talm, is Department Y in order?”

“I thought there was no hurry about it.”

“The Minister has been asking me about it to-day, so I should be glad to have it as soon as possible.”

“I can promise to have it ready to-morrow.”

There was work enough in Department Y to occupy Talm all day and all the evening, perhaps half the night as well; his meeting Uncle Prigson was scarcely possible under the circumstances.

In any case, there was not much chance of this happening; for when Prigson had left the Van Arlens’ house, with a promise to return at dinner-time, he went straight to the White Club, and got himself introduced by a Secretary of Legation; and when Leida went to the confectioner’s to double the stock of dessert-ginger, she saw Uncle Van Noost Prigson sitting at the club window! Her heart beat high with so much grandeur.

And Talm’s conversation for the next six weeks consisted principally of the English millionaire whom he had introduced at the White Club at his chief’s request. He thought it would do him no harm at the next chance of promotion.

We left Van Arlen alone in his private room at the Government office. There are moments in life when one prefers not to be alone, yet has not the courage to break away from solitude; moments when a seemingly impossible resolution must be taken, when one would be thankful if—instead of thinking and acting for one’s self—one could blindly follow the dictates of another. All the weight of his important position had never oppressed Van Arlen so much as the idea suggested to him by his short interview with Prigson.

Imagine a man who, without knowing a note of music, is handed the score of a symphony and told to read it. That was about his state of mind with regard to the question Van Noost Prigson had asked him. He had not a thousand guilders in the world—not even a hundred.

He walked up and down his room, staring at one thing and another, but unable to forget that thousand guilders, and the smallness of his salary. If he had a thousand—no, not one, but ten, twenty, a hundred thousand—would he not be a happy man? Then he would really live, as he now only had the appearance of doing;—distinguished society, pretty dresses for his wife and daughters, all pleasant things vainly desired, would be his! Imagination has peculiar force in such cases, and Van Arlen’s painted this ideal life for him with rough but forcible touches, till he was once more recalled to reality and the starting-point of his reverie—the thousand guilders!

Where was he to get them? He must have them. Sell his possessions? The furniture was worth nothing. The pictures?—who knew if the English engravings might not be rare and valuable? He did not understand such things. He had indeed pretended to some knowledge of art, but he had none. If he had only the smallest grain! What would a collector give him for them? Two hundred and fifty guilders each? Surely they might be worth that. Perhaps more—perhaps——

Then arrived documents for signature, and Van Arlen signed his name—signed again, and yet again, and imagined that he was endorsing bank-notes. Why was his name not of equal efficacy when written on a cheque? He could always pay the amount later on; it was only for the time he wanted it.

Suddenly Van Arlen stood still. “Temporary—only temporary—and if I pay it back, no one will ever ask after it.” He opened a locked cash-box; it contained more than enough to help him; it did not belong to him; it had only been left in his care, to give account of when the sum was complete. He stood up, and wiped his forehead, and once more paced up and down.

Who was going to inquire after it? The Minister? He had other things to think of. His colleagues? The affair did not concern them; they did not even know of its existence. His inferiors? They would certainly mind their own business; and if they did not,—after all, he was their chief, and could give them what answer he thought fit. There it lay. He opened the little parcel. Surely no one knew the numbers!

There was a knock at the door. Van Arlen started as if he had committed a crime, yet kept looking at the money that had been entrusted to him. It was in an unsteady voice that he said, “Come in.”

“Mijnheer Van Teuten would like to speak to you.”

“Van Teuten?—I’m busy—well, one minute, then. Tell him to come in.”

The man ushered into the private room wrote a magnificent hand. For the moment that was nothing to the point—yet, after all, it was something, for Van Teuten owed his career to it—“the best hand in the department.” He did not write quickly—that was beneath his dignity—but for really beautiful writing no one could come near him.

Van Teuten was visibly disturbed, as he stood facing Van Arlen, who sat leaning over his desk. The cash-box was shut.

“Well, Mr Van Teuten?”

“Mr Van Arlen—I’m come—I hope you’ll excuse it. I’ve come to make a request, on which my future depends.”

Van Arlen looked up from his paper, and coughed importantly, fixing his dark eyes on the chief clerk, as though he suspected him of high treason.

“You know perhaps that—that I have absolutely no means of my own, and, with the title of assistant secretary (which I owe to my handwriting)”—here Van Teuten raised his head with a certain pride—“in spite of my handwriting, still only draw the salary of chief clerk.”

“Do you want to be promoted, Mr Van Teuten?”

“Promoted—that is to say, sir—not exactly; but, Mr Van Arlen, I can’t live! I’m poor, sir, and—if I write a good hand—Heaven forbid, sir, that I should boast of it; but, well, it is hard that one should have one’s merits, and be forced to suffer from poverty.”

Van Arlen gazed fixedly at the owner of the fine handwriting, and asked him for a definite statement of what he wanted—his time was valuable.

“Do excuse me, sir; but I’m nervous—I’m agitated. I shall have to pay my rent on Saturday—three-quarters’ rent, sir,—and I’ve nothing—nothing—not so much as that!”

“Very sad for you, Mr Van Teuten, but you know that I can be of no use to you in this matter.”

“Nay, Mr Van Arlen, you can. I only want two hundred guilders—nothing more, and then I am saved—saved! And, you see, if I stood alone, sir, I shouldn’t care—I should find some way out of it,—but I have a wife and five children. Oh, God! Mr Van Arlen, it’s my last hope. Don’t let me go like this!”

Van Teuten pulled out a red pocket-handkerchief, and dried a few tears with it. Van Arlen stared at him, still lost in thought, and forgot the man’s request in the comparison he was drawing in his own mind, between this case and his own. At last he asked slowly, “What do you want me to do?”

“Lend me two hundred guilders, sir,—that’s all that I hope, I entreat, I beg of you——”

“Just listen to me, my good Van Teuten, and don’t get excited,—tears are not becoming in a man of your age. We’ve all got to work for our families, and some men in this world happen to be better off than others—but that’s no reason for giving way to passionate grief. As to your request, it’s out of my power to grant it. Next time there is any question of increase in salaries, I will do my best to improve your position, but for the moment I cannot help you. If I did, I should have all your colleagues asking me for the same thing to-morrow, and my position will not allow of my coming to the assistance of officials in this way.”

Van Teuten was searching his mind for a word—a sentence. To-morrow, when he did not want them, he might think of hundreds; now, he could find none that would add force to his entreaty. He soon gave up the effort, and tried another tack:

“The Minister is rich, sir,—don’t you think he might give or lend me two hundred guilders?”

Van Arlen looked straight at him. True, the Minister was rich, and what he refused Van Teuten he might yet be induced to grant to Van Arlen.

“If you would only speak for me, Mr Van Arlen,—I don’t want to exalt myself—and yet, I believe—don’t take it ill of me if I say so—I think my services are worth something—and if His Excellency would be willing to give me the money, I should be saved.”

“Probably His Excellency would have the same reasons for declining as myself; but I cannot conceive, Mr Van Teuten, that there is not one of your colleagues who would be willing to help you out of a temporary inconvenience.”

Would Van Arlen himself have found one so quickly?

“Oh! plenty!—but they want security—they want a guarantee; and ... do you think His Excellency would become security for me?—or you, sir—your name will do anything you like.”

“My good friend, you understand that I, in my position, cannot afford to get mixed up with any such affair, nor can the Minister either. Try and come to some arrangement with your landlord, but don’t expect anything from these quarters, under such circumstances. We can’t have anything to do with such matters.”

Van Teuten bowed his head—he had exhausted his arguments, and all to no purpose; he had completely forgotten the eloquent address, thought out last night; the courage with which he had armed himself had oozed away—he went out silently. But suddenly he turned back.

“If it were outside the official circle, sir, could you help me then? I could get money at an interest of one per cent. per month—only I must have the security of one of the superior officials.”

“I have told you, Mr Van Teuten, that I, in my position, cannot occupy myself with any matters of the kind. I am sorry for you, but I can do nothing.”

The man with the fine hand went away, slowly and dejectedly, and Van Arlen was once more alone with—or rather without—his thousand guilders.

---

It is a mistake to suppose that, for the preparation of jugged hare, a hare is necessary. Mrs Van Arlen understood very well how to give a dinner, which, to the uninitiate, seemed the finest kind of “company” dinner, and yet consisted of the most commonplace everyday dishes. But there is an infinite difference between rice in a dish and rice in a mould—more especially when the latter is served with lemon sauce. The ham was prepared à la mayonnaise—Van Arlen was so fond of that dish,—he always partook of it when on those mysterious journeys of his; and then—you need not have a whole ham for it, a few slices are quite enough. Moreover, there stood, on the side-table, besides the never-failing ginger and cheese, a silver dish with ten little halfpenny tarts on it. It was quite a splendid dinner; papa and uncle had each a bottle to himself, and besides the ordinary wine glasses there were others of smaller size for the better wine.

But, with all this magnificence, a certain gloom prevailed among the Van Arlens. This is the way with the great ones of the earth; they enjoy wealth and ease without appreciating them.

Prigson, on the other hand, was, as usual, in excellent spirits. He felt in nowise overawed by the splendour of the feast, or the eight silk skirts which rustled round about him.

“You see, it’s just our ordinary family dinner,” said madame, with a pleasant little laugh. Prigson gave the obligatory answer, and paid no attention whatever to the material part of the dinner.

“Which of you girls are going out with me this evening?” he asked. “I can’t take all seven—three is the maximum—or else your father will have to come too.”

“You know, Prigson, my position is such that I cannot devote a single hour to mere enjoyment.”

Madame sighed, and said, in a compassionate tone, that brother could form no idea of the life Van Arlen led.

“No doubt,” said Prigson; “but I admit that it is far from appearing to most people what it really is.” Prigson made the remark entirely without sarcastic intention, and went on, with a smile, “I would bet something that you haven’t even read the paper yet, Van Arlen.”

Van Arlen usually read his daily paper from title to imprint while taking his breakfast; but to-day he had entirely forgotten it.

“I haven’t once looked into it; and here’s the proof,” he said, taking it still unopened from his pocket.

“So you haven’t seen my advertisement?”

“Your advertisement?—no—did you insert one?”

“Do you remember our talk at your office?”

Van Arlen had not forgotten it for one moment, and if Prigson had paid more attention to him, and less to Caroline and Leida (who, in fact, were very pretty girls), he would have noticed that Van Arlen’s looks continually took the vague direction which indicated that his mind was elsewhere. His wife, who noticed it, ascribed it to the responsibilities of his office; his daughters were thinking, this evening, more of their uncle than of him. Certainly papa was the very type of a handsome man, but uncle had something very distinguished about him—especially since Leida had told them about seeing him in the club.

“What advertisement is that, brother?” asked Mrs Van Arlen.

“Oh, my dear Hortense, it belongs to those matters which ladies can’t understand; but if it comes to anything, and Van Arlen is willing to take a hand in it, he has only to say the word. You can make your fortune over it, Van Arlen.”

The word “fortune” awakened in the Van Arlens a feeling which used to come over them day by day, and had as regularly to be suppressed. Now, however, they were able to give way to it for a moment, and Van Arlen himself—still under the influence of what he had endured that afternoon—looked at Van Noost Prigson with interest.

“How could that be done?” asked Mrs Van Arlen almost indifferently; while all the girls, holding their breath, looked at Prigson in order to form their own conclusions as to whether his project were practicable.

“In the first place, you would have to give up your situation; in the next, to leave the place; and in the third, to work rather harder than you do at present; but, on the other hand, you would earn six times as much money.”

“You evidently don’t know what the life of a Government official is,” said Van Arlen, with a contemptuous smile at the mention of harder work than his.

“Oh, dear, no!” said his wife; and the daughters looked in consternation at the man who had dared to cast the slightest doubt on the extent and importance of papa’s duties.

“Well, what now, Van Arlen?” said Prigson, seeing that his brother-in-law seemed once more lost in a brown study, “are you off to that office of yours again? You had better come to the opera with us this evening; that is to say, if these ladies are inclined to come.”

A cold shudder—but it was one of delight—completely overpowered the self-control of Frederica and Marie. They scarcely knew the opera, except by name,—papa never went there,—and it was very long since they had been invited by any one else.

“The opera?” said Van Arlen, “I don’t care about that; it’s a sin against common sense.”

“I beg your pardon?” asked Prigson, perplexed.

“Why, all the people there die singing—I can’t get over that.”

“Eh?” said Prigson, evidently much taken aback; “well, I never thought about that. But now I do think about it, I should say that the opera is the most natural picture of life. There are so many people that weep and wail all their lives; is that so very much more unnatural than that they should sing when they die? But, granting that it is as you say, let’s go to an opera in which nobody dies. Isn’t Don Pasquale on to-night, young ladies?”

“I think so, uncle,” answered Frederica, blushing, for none of the girls even thought of looking at the theatrical announcements. What was the good?

“Yes, yes—Don Pasquale. Come, Van Arlen—that’s a comic opera—just the thing for you!”

Van Arlen shrugged his shoulders. “I don’t mind a comic opera—not if it’s really comic,” he said.

“Come along, then—you’re sure to like Don Pasquale.”

“No, I can’t—another time, perhaps—I’ve too much to do to-night,” said Van Arlen, absently looking at the alabaster clock that did not go, but nevertheless seemed able to tell him that it was now his time.

“Yes,” said his wife, “and if we’re to go to the opera we shall have to dress.”

“Hortense! Hortense!” said Prigson, with a mischievous glance.

“What do you mean, Prigson? Of course I can’t let the girls go to the opera with a strange gentleman. I’ve always done my best, brother, to give my daughters a good bringing-up.”

Prigson was too polite to answer; Van Arlen had folded his hands,—his wife did the same, and soliloquised in silence.

“Six of the ten tarts left over ... perhaps the confectioner would take them back ... at any rate, one might try. Leentje might go and see.... The opera ... that has not happened in the last ten years—what are we to do about dresses?—we shall have to be quick about it.... Amen.”

Her reflections were brought to an abrupt conclusion, for Van Arlen had opened his eyes with a sigh, and once more saw Prigson before him. Oh! what would he not have given not to see him—to have opened his eyes in the consciousness that he had been sleeping! Sleeping, from the moment of meeting his brother-in-law in the street; sleeping, when the latter reminded him of the debt, when he had been alone after Prigson’s departure, when Van Teuten stood over him; sleeping, too, that last quarter of an hour, when he stood before his desk after Van Teuten had left him.... But he had not slept—all, all was real ... and then to go to a comic opera on the top of that!

“Excuse me, Prigson, but I must go back to work immediately, there are some documents wanted in a hurry.”

“Oh! so things are sometimes wanted in a hurry at a Government office?” asked Prigson. “No, thank you—take one of my cigars—real Havannah, fifteen cents—delicious—just try one.”

“Oh, uncle, it’s positively sinful!” said Leida, who had nearly forgotten etiquette so far as to hand him a light, which at a ceremonial dinner would have been highly unfitting.

“Sinful is it?... How old are you now, Leida?”

“Eighteen next birthday, uncle.”

“Good-bye, then—till later—no, don’t apologise. But don’t go to sleep, Van Arlen,” Prigson shouted jocularly after his host, and then added, turning to Leida, “A happy time of life, Leida, I wish it were mine still;—but when I was that age, I didn’t think fifteen cents too much to pay for anything I liked.”

“How do you mean, uncle?”

“Just what I say, my dear girl. What is life, after all? isn’t it always seeking for what you like, whether you understand by that the smoking of a good Havannah, or the consciousness of having done a good action? Enjoyment means just what people like—and the older they are, the more they want of it. It’s unjust of old people to say that it’s the young ones that always want to enjoy themselves—the old ones are just as set on it, but they get their enjoyment out of other things. Well, any man who can get himself one enjoyment for fifteen cents is certainly not cheated out of his money.”

“But, uncle, must one always have money to enjoy one’s self?” asked Leida, naïvely, but very much à contre cœur—for her whole life was in evidence to prove that, as a rule, one must.

“Certainly not, my very charming Leida,” said Prigson, rising, and added, as he embraced his niece, “That’s a treat for nothing, do you see?”

“Not for me, uncle,” said Leida, laughing mischievously, as she ran out of the room.

“It’s really a pity that Van Arlen’s such a harlequin!” muttered Van Noost Prigson to himself, and then went to join his elder nieces at the window.

Van Arlen was once more in his room, and had locked the door—but he didn’t go to sleep. He had his hand in his breast-pocket, and his fingers were clutching a little packet that seemed to burn them.

Borrowed? No—not borrowed; it was stolen—it was not his. And yet he was not a thief—he had already as good as put it back,—only the execution was awanting to complete his intention. He strained his ears listening for Prigson and the others to go out at the front door. As soon as they were gone, he would hurry to the office and put back the money! Why were they dawdling like that? If anything happened to prevent his going—if he were to find the lock out of order. Why did they not start? If there were a fire in a street he had to pass—if he were to meet with an accident.... Do be quick, Prigson! the money is burning me—if I start now, we shall be in the street at the same time—then I shall have to go with him, and he will have to walk slowly on account of the ladies. Which way shall I go? My hat—where did I put my hat? If Prigson were to take my hat by mistake—happily it has a mourning band on it. Why don’t you go, Prigson? Have you given up the plan?

There was a knock at the door, and his wife entered.

“Are you going out, Van Arlen?”

“No, my dear, no.”

“I thought you looked as if you were going to start.”

“Certainly not, certainly not! Go now, make haste, or you’ll be late.”

“Perhaps you’re going to give us a surprise.”

“No, no—I’ve too much to do—and I don’t care about operas, where people die singing. Good-bye, Hortense, good-bye! Don’t let the girls come up, I’m too busy.”

At last, at last, he heard the door close! and when Caroline, as the eldest available daughter, came to bring papa his cup of tea, his room was empty.

“Papa has surely gone too,” she said, as she went down again.

“I don’t think it’s very nice of him if he has. Why, he said that if he went we should go too.”

“Papa doesn’t care for operas.”

“Oh! I think he likes them well enough, really—only——”

She stopped herself just in time, keeping back the word, the great word, which might be thought, but never spoken, in the Van Arlen household.

When the family came home that night Van Arlen was even more silent than he had been at dinner, but his silence was a dull apathetic calm. The ladies had enjoyed themselves “awfully”; their flushed cheeks and dancing eyes spoke volumes for the effect of this unwonted gaiety.

“Oh, papa, you must go some time!”

“Was it comic opera?” asked papa.

“Oh, yes! indeed it was—awfully!”

“Yes—but really comic, good comedy?”

“Oh, yes, very good,” said mamma.

Van Arlen’s position was too important for him to let himself be guided by any chance person who chose to label an opera as comic. A thing must really be what it is given out for.

“I suppose you care nothing at all for tragedy, then?” remarked Prigson.

“Well, not altogether that, but a tragedy must be really tragic.”

The conversation, of which some fragments are thus reported, will scarcely make the reader long to hear the rest. The Van Arlens consistently kept up their depreciation of sour grapes, to the great delight of Prigson, who amused himself by defending all sorts of paradoxes. But though the hands of the alabaster clock unchangeably pointed to half-past one, it was getting late. Uncle Van Noost Prigson prepared to take his leave, and Van Arlen made no great effort to detain him. He thought his brother-in law a good fellow, and, under certain circumstances, an indispensable person; to-day, however, Prigson reminded him of so much that he would willingly have forgotten, that his presence became well-nigh intolerable. He breathed more freely when Prigson got up to go; and it was with a certain cheerfulness that he remarked, as he looked out at the front door at the stars, “I see you’ve a fine night.”

“We’ll hope so,” said Prigson; “but now, business for a moment. I asked you for something this morning—not for the sake of embarrassing you, but of getting myself out of a hole. When can I have that money?”

“Will to-morrow evening do?” asked Van Arlen, with a sigh of thankfulness that it was no longer in his pocket.

“Don’t let it be later than that—you know you’ve always told me I could have it when I liked, otherwise I shouldn’t have asked at such a moment.”

“Oh, it’s no trouble to me!” said Van Arlen, though he was wondering all the time where the money was to come from.

“Now for my plan. I will guarantee that you get the money back three days after the King has signed this concession—but then you will have to work the Minister!”

“I?”

“No one is in a better position to do it; the business is honest enough, but, like all business, it has a shady side to it: and the authorities have a nasty way of seeing the black before the white. There is some black about it, I won’t deny; but if you can manage to show up the white, we shall be that thousand guilders to the good.”

“But I don’t see——”

“No need you should, for the moment. Take the papers to your room, read them, think over them, and, once more, three days after the granting of the concession, your debt is no longer in existence.”

“Prigson!”

“Van Arlen!”

“What you ask—can it be reconciled with an honest man’s conscience?”

“What do you take me for, Van Arlen?”

Van Arlen was silent for a moment, and then said slowly, “For a man who wants to be rich.”

“Quite right, my dear fellow, and you should do the same. With this concession your fortune is made. You will have a situation with a salary of ten thousand guilders.” And with a cheerful “Good-night,” Prigson departed, while Van Arlen went up to his room.

It was many hours before he rose from his chair. The sun was shining in at the window, but he had no inclination to sleep; he had been absorbed in the documents. He read from beginning to end, thought for a while, folded them up, and muttered—

“Heaven preserve me from it!”

Thoughtfully he went to his office that morning. He could find no solution to the Prigson question, and there was nothing to help him.

He was summoned to the Minister’s presence, and found him extraordinarily amiable—a bad sign.

“Sit down, Mr Van Arlen, sit down,” said His Excellency. Van Arlen obeyed.

“Mr Van Arlen—it is possible I may be mistaken—but it seems to me as if, just lately, you had shown—passez-moi le mot—less zeal for business than I formerly thought was the case with you.”

“Your Excellency, I was not aware that I had felt less zeal for my duties than at any other time.”

“Is there anything worrying you? Your health?”

“It is excellent, thank you.”

“Domestic trouble?—it might be indiscreet to inquire—but I take an interest in all my subordinates. Is there perhaps any financial trouble? Just tell me freely. Our salaries are not high, I know, but, if I am rightly informed, you have some private means.”

“At your Excellency’s service,” assented Van Arlen.

“I thought so, otherwise we might have thought of offering you some assistance in this respect. But as it is, I suppose the extent of your work is such that it presses too heavily on one man; and so I have been considering the feasibility of appointing one more official to my department, subject to His Majesty’s approval of my nomination.”

Van Arlen turned deathly pale; now he understood the Minister’s friendliness, and the fate that lay before him; he understood also that the first offer was by way of gilding the pill. He had refused the gilding from pride, but had to swallow the pill all the same.

“I assure your Excellency that I do not know what work could be entrusted to such an official.”

“That is quite a minor detail,” said His Excellency, naïvely. “However, I wished to consult you first about the matter, and perhaps you will be so kind as to have the proposal drawn up. Baron Regenstein is the person meant.”

“The son of your colleague?”

“I believe so; but he is a man of great acquirements, whose help will be extremely useful to you. I shall want the paper before two o’clock.”

Van Arlen bowed and rose.

“Oh, as to salary, we shall give him eighteen hundred guilders.”

“Your Excellency will allow me to remark, that in that case you will have exceeded the estimate for the department.”

“Then we must see how we can manage with the smaller salaries. Didn’t some one die a month or two back?”

“Yes, an assistant secretary.”

“Very good; and I just heard this morning that we’ve probably lost another. Van Teuten left town quietly last night.”

“Van Teuten!” exclaimed Van Arlen, in consternation.

“Yes. Do you know anything in particular about him?”

“He came and asked me for two hundred guilders yesterday.”

“Well, why couldn’t you let him have an advance? or you might have sent him to me; if necessary, we could have helped him by getting up a collection. But you’re too busy to attend to such things; it’s a good thing we’re going to have some extra help. Good-morning, Mr Van Arlen.”

“That, too!” said Van Arlen, when he was back in his own room, and then called out to the messenger that he could see no one.

“A gentleman has been here; he said he would come back.”

“Can’t see any one to-day.”

“Mr Van Arlen!” said a voice, just as the door was closing.

“Impossible, sir, the Minister is in a hurry.”

The door was shut, and the voice—and all persons with whom it subsequently came in contact—were aware that there was “something up,” perhaps a reorganisation of the whole department.... So much only was certain, that no one knew what it was but the Minister and Van Arlen, which still further increased the latter’s importance.

But the drawing up of a proposal for the appointment of a supernumerary official was no joke. It was long since Van Arlen had such a ticklish document in hand, and the only reason it seemed to him that he could give was,—“Whereas it is our pleasure ... to supersede Van Arlen.” At last, however, he found the way to do it. By noon the document was ready, and one of the copying clerks, in whose discretion he placed unlimited confidence, was sent for to prepare the mysterious paper for its high destiny, in Van Arlen’s own room. At a quarter to two it was fairly written out, and Van Arlen presented himself before the Minister, who took the document, thanked him courteously, and glanced through it.

“You have forgotten the date when the new appointment is to begin,—the 1st of the following month,” said His Excellency, in a tone which clearly conveyed: “Really, Mr Van Arlen, your work is too much for you.”

Van Arlen returned to his room with the paper in his hand, and found Prigson at the door.

“Good-morning, Van Arlen.”

“Excuse me, Prigson; I haven’t a moment to spare.”

“What is it now? Country in danger? What’s that document?”

“Ministerial business.... Where is Mr Zuigman?” This to the messenger.

“Gone away, sir.”

“Tell him to come here immediately.”

But after his highly important activity in his superior’s private room, the copying clerk Zuigman had understood that he was in need of some slight recreation, and, alleging a commission in town, he had gone off for a stroll round the square. His immediate superior had given him leave at once. One doesn’t refuse modest requests like that to a man perceptibly high in Van Arlen’s favour.

“What now?” said Van Arlen. “My head is going round. Zuigman must come to my room the very first thing to-morrow morning.”

“Can I help you, Van Arlen? What is it has to be done?”

“Writing, man, writing!—a proposal addressed to the King that will have to come before the Cabinet Council.... I don’t know what to do.”

“Can’t you do it yourself?”

“I!” said Van Arlen, in consternation.

“Well, a good writing is not your strong point,” laughed Prigson, “otherwise you never would have risen so high. The man with the worst hand gets on best, because they can’t keep him on as a copying clerk. Just give me a pen.”

“But, Prigson, it’s a great document! strictly secret—no one is to know anything about it!”

“I’ll promise not to tell; let’s have a look.” And before Van Arlen could prevent it, his brother-in-law had already glanced over the paper.

“Heaven be good to us! a magnificent bargain!”

“A bargain?”

“Why, of course! Now-a-days it’s not their own sons that ministers help forward; they do it for each other’s. Regenstein is to get this, and your man’s son has just been put into a good thing by his father’s colleague. Splendid exchange! Did you draw up the proposal?”

“I have no time now, Prigson. Do be kind enough to let me alone.”

Van Arlen rang the bell, and sent for one of the clerks. Van Teuten entered.

“Mr Van Teuten!”

“Sir, I have—”

“We’ll see to that presently. Sit down, Mr Van Teuten, and write—here—recopy this page; but mind you put in the insertion! The first time a document of mine has been disfigured by an insertion! My head’s going!”

Van Teuten wrote as he was told, and in a quarter of an hour the work was finished. He perceived, with visible complacency, how much better his writing was than that of his colleague.

“Two different kinds of writing! Never yet happened with a document of mine; and it’s got to go to the King and the Cabinet Council!”

With these words Van Arlen rushed out of the room, leaving Prigson alone with Van Teuten.

“Can you copy decently?” asked Prigson.

“I venture to say, sir, that there isn’t another hand like mine in this department.”

“What do you earn at this work, now?”

“Six hundred guilders, sir. Mr Van Arlen has perhaps told you that I am financially in circumstances of great difficulty.”

“Well, it is indeed too little for a man who writes a hand like that; but surely you’re out of all your troubles now?”

“I?—I just wish I were!”

“Why, a man who knows all about a secret document like this need not be poor any longer than he likes.”

“Secret, sir?”

“Most particularly so,” said Prigson, turning away, while Van Teuten considered with himself whether it could really be the case, and whether, if so, he could profit by it.

Van Arlen came back, thanked the copying clerk, and recommended him to keep the matter secret.

Prigson stole a glance at Van Teuten, who was now convinced of the truth of his words.

“Do you want anything, Mr Van Teuten?” asked Van Arlen, for the man remained standing.

“May I venture to remind you of my request yesterday, sir? Perhaps you know that ... that I ... yesterday....”

“Yes, I know—nothing takes place in this department without my knowledge; but the Minister and I have agreed to take no notice of such ill-considered action on the part of a member of this department—provided, of course, it is never repeated.”

“No, sir, I give you my word it shall not. Oh, if you had only known what I felt this morning, when I thought of my wife and children searching for me! I couldn’t stand it any longer, sir, and I came back.”

“The wisest thing you could have done.”

“But that does not save me! I have obtained two days’ respite; but after that—I am hopelessly lost, if no help comes. If you will allow me, sir, I will go before the court to-morrow.”

“I’ll do better for you than that,—I’ll send a subscription list round the office, and let you have the amount. His Excellency is sure to put his name down too.”

“And if there is any deficiency, I’ll make it up,” said Prigson.

“Certainly a State secret,” thought Van Teuten, amazed and confused at the turn matters had taken,—which he ascribed entirely to the secret. He too was involved in it,—but, alas! he had read nothing, that was not his habit. A good copying clerk never reads—he only writes. “To begin on Aug. 1st,”—that was all he could remember. But it must be a secret of the highest importance,—and the stranger who seemed to have the principal share in the business was—yes, what could he be? Then he remembered that Talm had spoken of an English millionaire, introduced by him at the White Club, and somehow connected with Van Arlen;—but the millionaire, according to Talm, knew not a word of Dutch—it was for that very reason that Van Arlen had entrusted him to Talm’s guidance; and now the secret document, and the unexpected help, and the change in his fortunes—had Van Arlen, perhaps, been raised to the ministry?...

Van Arlen and Prigson were left alone.

“Did you look over my papers?”

“Yes.”

“And——?”

“I don’t want to be in it; your business is not—not honest.”

“What do you call honest, Van Arlen?”

“Perhaps I expressed myself rather harshly—it is not what it seems to be.”

“You say that?” sneered Prigson. “Come, Van Arlen, that can be no reason for you to dislike a thing. But we’ll grant that it is more profitable for the contractor than for the State—that’s a matter of course. Do you think we’re going to make the State presents, while the Ministers put their sons into all the fat Government places? Just tell me, on your conscience, Van Arlen, is that an honest business, that appointment? I bet something you had a heap of trouble to give the thing a decent appearance?”

Van Arlen nodded.

“Well, now, there’s a present of eighteen hundred guilders being made to Regenstein. I suppose your Minister’s son is getting double that? And am I to be fool enough not to get my share out of the ‘Widow Woman’ too? Let’s be wise, and follow the good example set us.”

Van Arlen was silent.

“Shall I tell you something? The functionary now being smuggled in—for whose coming you have been obliged to find the reasons—is really appointed in order to oust you. He is to do your work, and you are to become supernumerary, and then who knows how soon you’ll be pensioned off?”

“Then I shall fall honourably.”

“Cold comfort that; it’s surely no dishonour to prevent the blow. Once more, I’ll give you a receipt for that debt; I offer you a well-paid position, and if the concern comes to smash—for that might happen—I will guarantee that you shall lose nothing.”

“So you admit that the thing is not honest?”

“My good Van Arlen, you’re the very type of infantile innocence. If it were quite safe and certain to be profitable, I could do without your help. One word more,—if you still refuse, Regenstein is a good friend of mine; he gets his appointment on the first, and within a month from that date I shall get what I want without applying to you. Just think over that.”

“Prigson, you are a tempter.”

“Van Arlen, you are a fool.”

“If it should come out that I have been playing a double game?”

“If this Minister is still in office, just remind him of that appointment; if there is another, you can lay the blame on his predecessor, and the disorder occasioned by the unnecessary nomination of new officials.”

“But—I took an oath——”

“And didn’t the Minister do so too? Come, shut up shop for to-day, and come and dine with me.”

“With you?”

“Why not? Yesterday I was your guest, to-day you are mine. I am staying at the Bellevue; but if there are too many princes there for your taste, we’ll go and dine at the Badhuis restaurant.”

“Impossible; I can’t leave the office till four. If you’ll believe me, Prigson, I envy the clerks, who can take their hats and go whenever they like.”

“The burdens of greatness.... So you’re free at four, are you? Well, I’ll drive round and fetch you.”

Accordingly, at four, Prigson arrived in a cab, and conveyed not only Van Arlen, but his wife and Leida, to the garden restaurant at Scheveningen known as the Badhuis. They dined sumptuously, and did not even refuse champagne. This was an unheard-of event in their lives—but they were not paying the bill.

After dinner, as they were sitting on the terrace, they perceived Mr Talm. Mr Talm had on flesh-coloured kid gloves, and an eye-glass prominently fixed in his left eye, the cord waving in the wind like the web of a gigantic spider. Talm was quite presentable, and, being now of opinion that the Van Arlens were presentable also, he accosted them, and was honoured with an invitation to join their party.

Madame thought it would be nice to walk up and down the terrace, and Leida also showed herself pleased with the idea. Talm offered his escort, and Prigson was once more alone with his brother-in-law.

“The business is clinched now, isn’t it?”

“No,” said Van Arlen, “I have been thinking it over, and I must abide by my first answer.”

“That’s a pity,” said Prigson—“a pity for you—for, as I said, the matter will have to be got into shape without you; but I should have liked to have you in it, because I’m heartily sorry for you. Just excuse me a minute,” he went on, rising and signalling to a stranger, who was casting sinister glances at the teacups—“it is my friend Valtoucourt, one of the associate concessionaires.... I’m sorry, for I could have introduced you to each other—in fact, I shall have to do it after all,”—and Prigson, continuing in French, presented Baron de Valtoucourt to his brother-in-law, for whom he invented a high-sounding title on the spur of the moment. Van Arlen had never thought that his name would sound so well in French. But French was not his forte, and now his silence made him seem more solemn than ever; and he was convinced in his soul that Baron Valtoucourt thought him the pivot of all the home and foreign politics of Holland. Prigson did his best to strengthen this hypothetical opinion. “You see, my dear fellow,” he said to the stranger, “if Van Arlen is willing, he can do anything, but he is fond of raising objections—ce cher Van Arlen.”

The stranger muttered, with amazing rapidity, a long French sentence, of which Van Arlen could not seize a word. He therefore confined himself to ejaculating now and then “oui” or “peut-être,” and at the close wrapped himself in a diplomatic silence. His wife and Leida returned with their cavalier; the stranger greeted them with a bow, as deep and solemn as though he were announcing her death-sentence to the Queen of Spain; he then bowed no less deeply to Talm, who, on his part, was not to be outdone, and, deeply impressed by the high solemnity of the occasion, made another low bow before Van Arlen. The latter, having witnessed the performance three times, involuntarily saluted his assistant secretary in a similar manner.

It was, in fact, most impressively solemn.

The stranger was a man who knew life, and could understand that a man might fill a highly important position without being an accomplished French scholar. He therefore slackened the flow of his words, and assured them that he should consider it a great honour to have Van Arlen as a director.

“But,” said Van Arlen, “I never said that!”

“Si, si,” said the stranger, “we understand one another perfectly;” and then he pressed his hand and gave utterance to a friendly wish, whereat Van Arlen (unwilling to acknowledge even to himself that he did not understand) replied, “Nous verrons.”

Next morning he sent for his wife and Leida to his own room, and completely bewildered them, first by swearing them to secrecy with regard to a conversation they had neither heard nor understood, and next by completely losing his temper, when Leida innocently asked: “Why, papa, you frighten me—one would think it was high treason!” He was so violent that Leida went off into hysterics, the girls came up to see what was the matter, and Van Arlen left for the office in a very bad temper.

He found that Prigson had been there, and was coming back at three o’clock.

The Minister not only refused to have anything to do with the subscription list for Van Teuten, but hinted disapprobation of those who had got it up; and let fall expressions which tortured Van Arlen all the morning, making him wonder whether His Excellency had penetrated his secret. At last Van Teuten came, and he was forced to acknowledge his failure. The poor man, nearly in despair, was about to make a last effort, and ask the Minister to become security for him, when Van Arlen had a luminous idea.

“I will——” he said. Van Teuten was overwhelming him with thanks and blessings, when he interrupted him:

“On these conditions I will become security. First, the money must be here by two; secondly, you must borrow, not two hundred, but twelve hundred; thirdly, the whole matter must be kept secret.”

Van Teuten was ready to promise anything,—he would willingly have made him a present of his soul into the bargain. Not long afterwards a former Government clerk, who was now “in business on his own account,” was admitted to Van Arlen’s private room. The money-lender was inclined to make objections—twelve hundred guilders was a large sum for a clerk whose income only amounted to the half of that sum.

“If I don’t raise that difficulty,” said Van Arlen indifferently, “I see no reason why you should.”

“Yes, you see—but you are mortal like the rest of us; you might have to retire, or be put on half-pay—excuse my suggesting such things, but they’re all possible.”

“You’re not lending money to me, but to Mr Van Teuten; if anything of the sort were to happen, he would find you a new security.”

At last the matter was settled, at an interest of seven and a half per cent. The money-lender produced the twelve hundred guilders, and carried off the bill, duly stamped, and signed by Van Arlen and Van Teuten.

When the man with the handwriting was once more alone with his chief, the latter said, “Two hundred guilders are all you want for the present; I’ll keep the rest for you, in case you should get into difficulties again. Never mind about the interest—I’ll pay that.”

Van Teuten was fairly dazzled by such liberality. There must be something behind it—probably the State secret.

The news went like wildfire through the department how that unlucky devil of a Van Teuten had been set on his legs again by Van Arlen! Zuigman knew what to think of it—he had seen documents; but he never spoke, and that his colleagues knew right well.

Talm, too, had his say on the subject,—Talm, who had introduced the millionaire, and had, yesterday evening, walked on the terrace at Scheveningen arm in arm with his chief’s wife. Further and further spread the fire, and every one made his conjectures. Van Teuten’s rescue remained the great event of the day.

It struck three, when Prigson was announced. Van Arlen was deep in his work.

“What zeal! But of course you want to leave the books in good order when you go!”

“I’m not thinking of going, Prigson.”

“What do you say? And our agreement?”

“I have made no definite agreement; but, in so far as I have made any promise to join you, I withdraw it.”

“What the deuce! Van Arlen, aren’t you right in your head?”

“On the contrary, I have come to my senses. When one has been an honest man for thirty years, Prigson, one is thoroughly in love with honesty.”

“Especially the way it is appreciated! The reward of all your honesty will be, that you fall from the tree, like an over-ripe fruit, and lie there till somebody treads you flat.”

“Better so than trample on one’s self.”

“That is a gymnastic feat I would rather leave to a Münchausen. But you’re mad, Van Arlen—the matter is getting into shape after all.”

“Do you think so?” Van Arlen stood up, and looked his brother-in-law straight in the face. “Do you think I would ever allow it?”

“My good friend, you won’t be asked. Regenstein is going to negotiate the business.”

“Then I’ll inform the Minister. The supernumerary will be on his guard.”

“Like the dying gladiator—moriturus salutat—it’s heroic, but comic too. I’d be more sensible, if I were you, Van Arlen.”

“Prigson, when I came here this morning, with the feeling that I had broken my oath and betrayed my country.... Oh! I couldn’t stay here a day—I couldn’t live—I should lay hands on myself.”

“Treason—perjury—you do choose such fine words! and the real point is, whether you’re going to depart from an old habit or not. Believe me, you’re the slave of habit.”

“I prefer to remain so.”

Prigson looked at him, and saw that his mind was made up. But he had one resource left, “Well, I suppose you’re your own master, and can do as you like.... But I’m sorry—I shall have to remind you of what I asked you for the other day.”

Van Arlen put his hand in his breast-pocket, and laid a small parcel on the table before Prigson, “Will you kindly see if that’s all right?” he said.

Prigson was disappointed. He did not need the money—in fact, Van Arlen’s utter inability to pay would have been worth another thousand guilders to him.

“I suppose it’s all right,” he said, glancing over the notes. “There, Van Arlen,” he said, with a sudden change of tone, and a quaver in his voice, “give me your hand, old fellow! you’re better than most men. Good-bye! Stay as you are!”

He left the room, and Van Arlen, finding himself alone, felt like a man saved from shipwreck.

It is some weeks after the first of August. The new official has long been installed, and the Minister does nothing without consulting him. Everything passes through Mr Regenstein’s hands.

It is Sunday afternoon. On Sunday afternoons, as a rule, it is too hot for a walk; or, if not too hot, it is too cold. If neither too hot nor too cold, it most likely threatens rain; and if none of these three atmospheric conditions prevails,—well, formerly Van Arlen always had urgent work to do. This Sunday, however, he is quite at leisure, and the weather is perfect, but—it is the anniversary of Aunt Cornelia’s death.

Van Arlen looks over the blinds at the passers-by, most of whom are on their way to the Bosch. Here and there a quietly dressed lady, with a Bible in her hand, threads her way through the throng.

“I think I’ll go to afternoon church,” says Caroline. “Will you come, Frederica?”

“Oh, yes, Caroline,” answers Frederica, with a little sigh, and they go.

Leida and Hendrika made a slight grimace.

“Papa really might go out for a walk with us.”

“Oh, fie! girls!” said their mother, “that would not be at all proper on a day like this.”

“Couldn’t we keep the day just as well to-morrow, mamma?” asked Leida simply. “I don’t see why we should have to keep it up for twenty years; I’m quite sure that Uncle Van Noost Prigson himself doesn’t remember it now.”

The name made Van Arlen look up.

“Oh, papa—have you heard anything more about the situation uncle was talking about at dinner that day?” asked Marie.

“That’s all come to nothing, dear child; I have been talking it over, but they say they can’t do without me at the office.”

“But, papa,” asked Hortense, “if they can’t do without you, how does it happen that you have less to do than you had?”

“Does the importance of a position lie in the mere amount of work?” asked Van Arlen, with dignity.

“Papa has this secret business now, you see,” said his wife, anxious to help him out—she was looking straight before her. “This business is, by itself, of tremendous importance.”

“Is that since Uncle Prigson was here?” asked Leida, going up to her father, and laying her arm over his shoulder. “You’re not angry with me any more, are you, papa?—you know—since that morning?”

Van Arlen bent down to his daughter and kissed her on the forehead. “No, little girl,—I can’t be angry with you.”

“But you never travel now, papa. Has that part of your work been taken away? That’s stupid!”

“The travelling has come to an end,” said Van Arlen thoughtfully,—“come to an end for good and all.”

The item “Travelling expenses,” in the Van Arlen budget, was now replaced by another, which was, “Instalments and interest on debt.”

“That’s a pity,” said Caroline, “because now you can never take two of us with you, as you promised to do long ago.”

“That plan has come to nothing too, child. Besides, I’m getting old.”

“Oh, papa!—you old! that’s the first we’ve heard of it. It must be since you gave up your glass of wine at dinner.”

“Papa has to keep his head clear, you see,” said Mrs Van Arlen. “That’s the penalty of greatness, girls!”

She was silent, and they all followed suit. No one had anything more to say. If only a caller would come!—but since papa had entered on his important position as supernumerary in the office, callers had been scarce. So the dull Sunday wore away. The two eldest girls came home from church; the dinner hour drew near, and, still in silence, the Van Arlens took their places round the big table, on which a soup tureen was the only dish visible. It does not take long to eat soup, and the dessert, as usual, remained untouched. Already Leentje had stuck her shining Sunday face, and her hat with the flowers in it, through a crack of the door, to give notice of her departure—for it was her day out, and “it suited.” The family were still seated round the table. Why should they rise?—the evening was long enough. Suddenly, however, they were startled out of their inertia by the front door bell. Leida went to answer it, and immediately returned with Van Noost Prigson. Van Arlen felt himself turn pale—was he to be tempted again?

His wife, too, was seized with panic—supposing Prigson had not dined! Fortunately, he set her mind at ease forthwith.

“I left the dinner-table before dessert, fearing that otherwise I should not find you at home. I suppose you’re going to Scheveningen?”

“No; it’s rather too crowded for me at the Badhuis on Sundays,” said Van Arlen, feeling that it would not quite do to allege to the widower the anniversary of his wife’s death as their reason for remaining at home.

“Crowded! The father of seven daughters ought simply to revel in crowds. What do you say, nieces?”

The nieces had no opinion to offer on that point.

“Really, Van Arlen,” Prigson went on, throwing himself back in his chair, and surveying the seven girls, one by one, with a well-pleased expression,—“really, my dear fellow, you ought not to stay at home on Sunday evenings! At any rate you should send your daughters to church.”

The younger ones looked mischievously at Caroline and Frederica.

“It has always struck me as strange, Van Arlen, that there are so many old maids at the Hague. What in the world is the cause of that?”

“Because the girls are rather hard to please, uncle,” said Leida.

“Oh, that’s the reason, is it?” said Prigson, with an air of simple faith. “I’m sorry to hear it—I’ve just come to look for a wife at the Hague.”

“For Cousin Cornelius, uncle?” asked Leida. “I suppose he’s about twenty now, isn’t he?”

“Good for nothing, girl! And have you heard, Van Arlen?” he continued, turning to his brother-in-law.

“What?” asked the latter.

“Oh! you know well enough,—you’re only pretending, because you want to make out it’s a State secret.”

“On my word, as an honest man——”

“That’s worth something, as we know. So you haven’t heard? Next week your Minister’s going to resign.”

“Prigson!”

“The day before yesterday, it was brought before the Cabinet Council, and His Majesty made as little difficulty over the matter as I should have done. He’ll get the Grand Cross now, and perhaps be Minister of State—but you’ll be rid of him!”

Van Arlen sat looking at his brother-in-law, without moving a muscle of his face, and the girls felt convinced that papa knew just as much about the business as Prigson.

“And the best of it all is, that your friend Regenstein has been doing his level best to pull His Excellency down! Well—reap as you’ve sown!”

“Prigson, we’re not alone here.”

“I see no earthly reason why your wife and daughters may not know it. I hate these mysteries. They may shout the whole thing from the housetops, for all I care.”

“But think of my position!”

“It will be greatly improved, Van Arlen. Regenstein has made his own terms, like a sensible man; but I’ll tell you about that later. As soon as I heard that His Excellency was going to close his portfolio, I came to the Hague at once; last night I had a talk with him, and now my business is done. The Minister wasn’t of the same mind as a certain fellow I know, when he found himself set aside.”

“But, Prigson!”

“All men are not equally conscientious, my dear man. His Excellency had too much common sense to make difficulties,—but that’s not to the point. Enough that the matter’s settled! By Jove, but I’m sick of it! To Amsterdam yesterday—to Rotterdam this morning—but now I’m going to get some rest!”

Van Arlen shook his head doubtfully over such lack of principle.

“And are you remaining in town some days?” asked Madame, with distinction.

“That depends, Hortense. I’ve told you what I came for.”

“Uncle is sorry for the Hague ladies,” said Leida. “But remember, uncle, they’re very hard to please.”

“I think I shall have to run off with one. What would you do, Van Arlen, if a fellow ran off with one of your daughters?”

“Prigson, my daughters are far too well brought up, ever to be exposed to the danger of such a thing.”

“But supposing a man comes and proposes in due form?”

“I think it’s going to rain,” said Marie.

“Dear me! isn’t that picture hanging all on one side,” exclaimed Hendriek, at the same moment.

“Mamma, have you noticed that the edge of the tablecloth is all ravelled out here?” asked Hortense.

Frederica rose to pick up her napkin, which she had dropped.

“Shall we have tea in the front or back room, mamma?” asked Antoinette, whose turn it was to see to the housekeeping this week; and they rose, followed by Caroline, who went over to mamma, to whisper a very confidential communication with regard to a ribbon in the latter’s cap. Leida was lighting a spill for papa. “You might as well ask, uncle, what is the amount of the dowry papa is going to give us,” she said, handing Uncle Prigson a light at the same time.

“Pretty girls need no dowry,” answered Prigson.

“Thanks for the compliment to your nieces,” said Leida, with a roguish curtsey, as she left the room.

Prigson and Van Arlen were once more alone.

“Prigson,” said the official, “I must repeat to you candidly what I have already told you—you’re not playing a fair game.”

“Do you think I want to turn your daughters’ heads?”

“I didn’t mean that—your enterprise, which now seems about to succeed——”

“Say, which is going to succeed; but let that matter rest just now.”

“Surely you have a conscience, Prigson?”

“An amazingly big one, Van Arlen; and, between ourselves, I think it’s made of some elastic substance, most likely of the same material as your Minister’s and your friend Regenstein’s.”

“Prigson! Prigson! a time will come——”

“Dear me! Van Arlen, what a platitude!”

“You’re scoffing, Prigson; but listen, you set store by the respect of your fellow-creatures—mine, for instance; you told me once that I was better than many men.”

“Well remembered; but have I forfeited that respect?”

“Not quite, yet—but still——”

“The greater part? Good. Now the proof of the sum; Van Arlen, I want to ask you for the hand of your daughter.”[^[37]]

“Prigson, do remember that we are discussing serious matters.”

“But, Van Arlen, I’m speaking as seriously as I ever did in my life. Your Leida is a nice, pleasant, merry girl, with a good heart, and—excuse my having seen a little deeper into your domestic economy than perhaps you like—Leida knows how to keep house.”

“Your age!”

“Do you reckon by the heart or the head?”

“You might be her father!”

“If I had six more daughters, like you, I wouldn’t envy their position. I don’t understand, Van Arlen, why you should make any difficulty about it; a father of seven girls ought surely to be glad enough to get rid of one of them.”

“You forget that a daughter’s marriage involves expenses too heavy for a household like mine.”

“I will bear the cost of everything.”

Van Arlen was silent, and reflected. He had just been calling Prigson a dishonest man,—was he going to give him his daughter? Could he answer for such a step to his own conscience?... But it was a good match after all ... and then ... seven daughters! And the outfit! But perhaps that was only a nominal present after all ...; perhaps Prigson only meant to reckon it as cancelling the money still due to him.

“Our debt—” he began.

“Cancelled on the wedding-day.”

The prospect was, in truth, a seductive one; but how could he give his daughter to a man without a conscience? Suddenly there occurred to him a way of escape, which united in itself all possible advantages.

“Prigson, with me everything must give way to my children’s happiness; I have never forced any of them into a marriage” (in fact, the opportunity had never offered), “and I would not attempt to prevent a union which——”

Van Arlen paused—Prigson waited.

“Which may, perhaps, lead to your happiness—even your higher happiness, Prigson. The influence over you may have the power to inspire you with better feelings, with—let me speak plainly—more moral principles.”

It was an inspiration of the moment,—but Van Arlen, by this time, was quite convinced that it was his principal motive in consenting.

“Will you let us hope so, Van Arlen?”

“But——”

“Well?”

“Would not Caroline, who is nearer your own age——”

“I am convinced that Leida’s influence will act on me more powerfully,” said Prigson, humbly. “What do you think of taking a drive out to the baths now? I shall have a better chance of getting a few words with Leida than here, where there are always six more of them sitting sorrowing that the offer was not for them.”

“I do not think my daughters would take that view of each other’s happiness.”

“Come! we’re getting on!—you call it happiness, do you? Will you have a fly ordered?”

“The nearest driver is a Roman Catholic.”

“No, of course he must not drive us; that would begin to play the mischief with the moral principles at once. I’ll go and find a Calvinist cabman.”

That same evening Leida called her uncle by his first name; and in two months’ time the Van Arlens were giving a ball in honour of the engagement,—a thing they had never done before,—with Prigson’s money. Talm appeared at this festivity; and the man with the handwriting, who was accustomed to amuse his leisure hours with the clarionet (purely for the love of art, of course), also assisted—at a distance. He told his friends next morning that he had been one of the invited guests, and that Mr Talm would probably get a good piece of promotion before long, for he had been dancing all the evening with one and the same Miss Van Arlen—who, moreover, gave him her bouquet when he left!

The ball had important consequences, moreover, for five more of the Van Arlen girls; and the old man now lives on his pension, with his wife and eldest daughter. He often calls to mind his important position,—especially the time when he was entrusted with such very, very confidential business, of which no one knew anything at the time, and no one knows anything to this day.

Gerard Keller.

ROUGH DRAFT OF A NEW SET OF REGULATIONS.

For the Benefit of Servants and their Employers.

The milkman must be made to understand that it will not do to ring people out of their beds at seven in the morning, and make them catch cold at the front door.

Pianos are not to be locked by the family after using; the servants would like a little music now and then.

The master and mistress must consult the servants before subscribing to newspapers and magazines. The foolish choice that is often made in this respect is very trying to the feelings of the latter.

Another practice that cannot be too strongly reprobated, is that of carrying off books and magazines from the circulating library to people’s bedrooms before the servants have read them.

Madame and the daughters of the house should always knock properly before entering the kitchen.

When visiting the servants’ own rooms, they should always send some one up to announce them first.

When the housemaid is sent to order a cab, it by no means follows that she is to tell the cabman to drive her home by the shortest way.

If the master and mistress are medically attended by a Professor, it will not do to let the servants be treated by an ordinary doctor.

Stale bread will no longer be eaten.

When a serious misfortune is impending—e.g., a bankruptcy or the like—the servants ought always to be warned in time.

If the family have a box at the theatre or the opera, the servants should have the full use of it.

The family should not speak French at table while the maid is in the room, unless it has been previously ascertained that she understands that language.

Tips ought to be compounded for, just as much as tithes.

Uilenspiegel.

THE STORY OF A BOUQUET.

Alfred possessed two qualities common to many young men besides himself,—he was in love, and he had very little money.

His condition was therefore a sad one; but he cherished the hope that the lovely Clara would not only make a good wife, but also put an end to all his pecuniary embarrassments. So he neglected nothing that he thought might please her.

Every one knows that homage when offered in the shape of flowers is, as a rule, well pleasing to ladies. But, unhappily, the world is at present so prosaically constituted, that even the perfumed children of Flora are not to be had except for money,—and this point constituted, as we have already seen, the Achilles sinew of our enamoured here.

Day and night his thoughts were occupied with this difficulty, and, when it did not keep him awake, his sleep was filled with uncomfortable dreams.

After one of these weary nights, another bright morning had dawned,—the larks were singing, the roses were in bloom, and Alfred was busy cleaning his pipe.

In the midst of this poetic occupation, he was suddenly inspired with a practical idea. He sketched out a plan which would have done no discredit to the most finished diplomatist, and executed it with an energy worthy of a worse cause.

He had been accustomed to sell his cast-off garments to a humble citizen of much experience in retail trading; and, considering the man’s astuteness and eloquence, he had often been seized by a suspicion that he (Alfred) had not got the best of the bargain.

This must be put an end to. He broke off his commercial relations with the experienced dealer, and concluded a treaty with a nursery-gardener’s boy, to whom he presented his worn-out clothes; in return for which the boy engaged to gather him a bouquet, from time to time, late in the evening, and bring it to him with the necessary discretion.

This plan answered well enough for a time. The boy brought the flowers, and received in return, gifts of equal value,—a hat, adorned with dints like a Homeric shield; a waistcoat, wofully stained down the front; and a coat, whose collar shone like a meteor; and furthermore, a pair of shoes, on which the cobbler’s art could no further go.

On the morning of a bright summer day, the gardener’s boy, being unable to come in person, sent up by another hand a magnificent bouquet of roses, which Alfred, without loss of time, despatched to his adored Clara.

Full of joyous hope, and sure of a friendly welcome, he sped the same evening to the house of his chosen one, but found, to his great disappointment, that he was received with decided coolness.

“You sent me a note this morning,” began Clara, after an awkward pause.

“A note?” he asked, in astonishment; “I?”

“Yes, with the flowers—”

“YES, WITH THE FLOWERS—”

“Yes, I did send some flowers—roses——”

“Into which this note was stuck,” went on Clara, freezingly. “Here it is—do you deny having sent it?”

And she handed the miserable man a piece of paper, on which he read, to his consternation—

“Don’t forget the old boots you said you would give me last week.”

Uilenspiegel.

“TO HOLD UP FOR THE KISS.”

UNBIDDEN GUESTS.