“Do not talk of the States, Madame, nor of the Republic,” he said, with a disdainful accent; “the first are not in my way, and the second is only a name. It is M. de Witt—always and only M. de Witt.”
“He is but a servant of the Government——”
“He is the Government,” retorted William, “and the one man who upholds it. Has he the suffrage of the country?—or even of the Assembly?—but they agree with him and obey him because they are not strong enough to resist. I tell you, Madame, it is that one man.”
“You dislike him,” sighed the Princess, as if she found it a matter for regret.
“Dislike him!” repeated William, with a peculiar intonation. “He hath kept me out of my birthright all my life; he, and he alone, prevents me from regaining it now. He—a burgher’s son!”
The passion he put into these last words startled his grandmother. She gazed at him mutely, opening and shutting her fan in her lap.
The Prince advanced across the room, twisting his handkerchief in his fingers.
“It becomes almost more than I can endure,” he said, breathing hard. “The other day I had to bring myself to speak him fair, and he must put his hand on my shoulder—and say he pitied me—and understood—understood—me!”
“He is a good man,” said the Princess, “and of a noble intelligence. I think that he desires to do his duty by you.”
The Prince was looking, not at her, but at the portrait of his father, whose dark eyes seemed to hold a melancholy yet fiery expression.