“Neither do I.… I also have left M. de Witt, and, in a way, ruined myself, and I do not know why.”
“I like His Highness,” went on Mr. Bromley, still trying to honestly answer the question. “Why are you devoted to him? But every one who comes near him would serve him to the death,” again he reflected; again he added, “I do not know why.”
He glanced up at Florent’s grave face and laughed.
“I have no interest in your politics, you see, Mynheer; for me one is like another. I think M. de Witt is a great and good man, and I really know nothing about the Prince’s character or designs—but, well, I just serve him.… I would follow him anywhere.”
Florent walked up and down the chamber. He wore his dark travelling clothes, for he was impatient, since he must go, to be off at once. The place had become intolerable of late, since he was always afraid of meeting some of his old companions, or even M. de Witt himself.
Mr. Bromley rubbed his hands together. The large, princely, but bare, room was certainly both dreary and cold, scantily furnished, and ill lit by the two-branched candlesticks on the mantelshelf.
The pause was broken by the quick opening of the door.
Both the men looked round.
It was the Prince, though Florent did not instantly know him.