They were received by Mynheer Van Ghent, the Prince’s governor, in a fine but gloomy chamber with a painted ceiling.
Half the Palace, considered now the property of the State, was locked up, and the Prince allowed but the use of one wing. To Florent the room had an air of mournful splendour—built for a palace and used as a prison—there was a sense of sombre dreariness over the whole building; the furniture was scant and plain, there were no pictures on the walls, and the bookcases, plain and austere, held volumes of a severe look and character, mostly on mathematics or tactics.
A gloomy place for a young man to live in, watched by enemies; a dreary place for a Prince to be brought up in, surrounded by cold faces, by suspicion, distrust, and enmity; a cheerless habitation for the heir to a ruined House, friendless, early orphaned, and forced to guard his every word and look.
M. de Witt’s policy might be that of conciliation and concession; he might hold out his hand sincerely, and with his heart in it, but it was not easy to imagine life as very pleasant for the young Prince in these stern environments.
Mynheer Van Ghent talked a little with the Grand Pensionary. Florent had heard that the Prince hated his governor; it was common knowledge that he had fallen ill of chagrin when forced to part with his former tutor, his uncle Mynheer de Zuylestein. Florent therefore observed Mynheer Van Ghent closely, and found in him nothing displeasing, but rather a kind of melancholy austerity and a gentle demeanour.
He stood a little apart from him and his master, and could not hear what the two were saying; their voices were low and guarded. He wondered where the Prince was; if he would see him; if he would, possibly, be able to convey Pomponne’s letter.…
The heavy door at the end of the room, which was not far from him, opened quietly; a young man stepped into the apartment and closed the door after him.
Florent was startled, taken aback, confused. The young man regarded him out of a pair of remarkable eyes, gave him a slow, mournful, unsmiling glance, and seemed to hesitate.
Florent was not sure. The youth was plainly, even shabbily dressed, and looked too grave and tall for seventeen.
But de Witt turned and held out his hand.