“Can there be a doubt of it?” smiled St. Croix.
There was no answer from Florent. He laid down his pipe and sat still, considering.
Rumours, whispers, hints were taking at last tangible form: this young prisoner, pupil of M. de Witt, was to be the instrument to deliver the country into the rapacious hands of France. Well, there was little cause to wonder; indeed he had almost guessed it. The Prince had, as St. Croix said, little cause to love either M. de Witt or his Republic.
He raised his grey eyes and looked into the Frenchman’s face—
“These are strange things to say to a Dutchman and a servant of M. de Witt.”
St. Croix answered quickly—
“But you serve success.”
At these words, that he did not recall having ever uttered to this man, Florent was again silent. It was perfectly true; he was at the beginning of his career and ambitious; he had no desire to follow a falling cause. The Republic was no more to him than the Prince, he told himself; and there was no reason that he should not, out of the crisis that threatened, earn a place and distinction for himself.
St. Croix observed him closely. He was not afraid of having said too much, for he had read his man, some years before, in Guelders.