Several members of the Assembly advanced to greet him. He had to put a strain on himself and speak to them graciously, but when he came to M. de Montbas it seemed that his control would fail him.
This man had been in his father’s employ, had deserted him for the republican party. He had been one of those who held the gates of Amsterdam against the late Stadtholder, one of those who had spoken most hotly against him.
Later M. de Montbas had made overtures to the widowed Princess; they had been haughtily spurned, though Amalia of Solms remained inclined to encourage a person of so much influence.
To complete the bitter hatred in which William held him, de Montbas was a man of wealth and abilities, and now in possession of those offices that were his birthright—the birthright of the heir of Nassau.
As de Montbas approached him the Prince perceptibly drew back, and his pallor disappeared under a slow blush.
He straightened himself, pressed his handkerchief to his lips, and eyed the Count with an expression of scorn and dislike not to be concealed nor mistaken.
No one there could guess what throbbing rage filled his proud soul that he had to stand thus, swordless, before his father’s enemies—a show for those who were both his inferiors and his masters; but all could see the sudden expression that sprang into his eyes, and all were startled.
M. de Montbas, ill at ease, made a mistake. He resorted to a courtesy not untouched by cringing; it was the one thing above all others to rouse William’s fiercest scorn.
“I am glad to have this opportunity of paying my duty to Your Highness,” he said, and bowed like a courtier.
William smiled bitterly.