“Of William of Orange.”
“He hath good cause,” answered St. Croix. He picked up his hat with the fine buckle, his satin-lined cloak. “I think if His Highness once gave the signal the whole country would be in arms. There is a strange revulsion of feeling against this ideal republic, is there not?”
Florent was taciturn again. He raised one of the brass candlesticks.
“The stairs are very dark,” he said, and opened the door. He made no show of friendliness or hospitality, no attempt to draw the Frenchman. He wanted to be alone. “When shall I see you again?” he asked.
St. Croix hitched up his sword-belt.
“Better not meet here again, nor at the house of M. le Marquis where I stay.… There is a small tavern kept by a Frenchman near the Nieuwe Kerk—the Nieuwe Doelen he calls it—we may meet there—say Wednesday evening—six of the clock.”
Florent came out on to the landing with his visitor and held the candle so that a flickering radiance was cast down the sombre stairway.
“I will come if I can,” he answered slowly.
“Au revoir,” said St. Croix, and added some laughing commonplace for the benefit of any maid-servant who might be in hearing.
Florent waited with the light until the gay feather and mantle had disappeared round the bend of the stairs, then he returned to his room and took up the letter left by St. Croix. It was sealed in three places with the Marquis de Pomponne’s signet, and addressed formally to: “His Highness William Henry, Prince of Orange Nassau,” etc., as if the scribe had enjoyed writing out the fine titles.