Monsieur Heinsius sat in the little room at the Binnenhof, which had belonged to the Grand Pensionnaries of Holland ever since the Republic had been formed. The furniture and the tall clock in the corner were unchanged since the time of the great John de Witt; the window looked on the Vyverberg, where the swans were floating on the grey, shining, and placid water. It was a day in late March, the year 1702, and the clock of the Groote Kerk had just struck four.
There was a pause in M. Heinsius's strenuous work; for the moment he had nothing to do, and he was very glad of the rare leisure. He had not been in good health for some time, and to-day felt feverish and heavy in his limbs; he winced at the effort of giving instructions to his secretaries, putting up his papers, and going home, so remained, half dozing in his chair, looking at the peaceful surface of the lake, and the still bare trees, and neat brick houses beyond.
Before him, on his old black polished bureau, lay the last letter from the King-Stadtholder, which had given him great pleasure, for alarming reports had been current in The Hague as to the health of His Majesty since his accident at Hampton Court; but in this he said not one word of his illness. The last words were—"I am infinitely concerned to learn that your health is not yet quite established. May God be pleased to grant you a speedy recovery. I am unalterably your good friend, William."
True, the letter was dated the 20th of February, and had been delayed in the coming, and M. Heinsius knew that there might be other news in the packets that were held up in the North Sea by the spring storms; but he believed that the King would not so have written had he been in any danger.
Then an extraordinary thing happened to M. Heinsius. He was leaning back in his chair, weary and exhausted, his head aching with a little fever, and a kind of lassitude on his senses, when something caused him to move his head sharply and look through the open door into the next chamber, where two of his secretaries usually worked.
They were, however, now absent in the Assembly, and M. Heinsius believed himself alone in the two rooms; he was therefore surprised to see a young man standing in this outer chamber looking out at the Vyverberg and The Hague with an arrested air of intense interest.
M. Heinsius moved round in his chair, but felt no desire to speak. Both the rooms were full of early sunshine and absolutely silent. M. Heinsius observed the stranger with a sensation of vague wonder.
He was very young—little more than a boy—but of a very grave, still carriage; he wore a violet coat, a black sash, a plain sword, and a cravat of Frisian needlework; his clothes were of the fashion of thirty years ago—of the time of John de Witt.
He was very slender and slight; his hair, which was long, thick, and heavily curling, of a deep chestnut colour, fell either side a thin hawk face that M. Heinsius could only imperfectly see; he wore one jewel, and that was the colour of the Garter.
M. Heinsius neither spoke nor moved. Presently the youth turned and came towards the Grand Pensionary's cabinet, walking stiffly, and holding his hat under his arm. M. Heinsius noticed the old-fashioned rosettes on his square-toed shoes.