William of Orange turned his head. There was a look about his brow and mouth as if he controlled incessant pain, but neither that nor the expression of gravity that made him appear old for his years could destroy the charm of his youth. His eyes fixed on Florent.
“Thank you, Mynheer,” he said, and put out his small, aristocratic hand.
Florent thrilled as their fingers touched. The Prince slipped the handkerchief into his pocket and passed on.
Now that it was done Florent marvelled that he had had the temerity to venture it. The Prince, though he must have known that it was not his handkerchief, and have felt at once the packet inside the cambric, gave not the slightest sign of discomposure. It was perfectly done; Florent saw in it the training of one brought up amid spies and enemies—but he had risked something in taking this youth’s prudence so for granted.
The Prince did not look at the secretary again, but passed into the next chamber with M. de Witt.
As he closed the door he gave a sharp glance at the Grand Pensionary, then crossed to a little table by the window and seated himself there.
They were in a small room, lit by a fire that burnt pleasantly between the andirons on the blue-tiled hearth. The walls were hung with stamped leather; in one corner stood a globe, and beside it a desk covered with maps and plans.
M. de Witt took the chair by the fireplace and turned so that he faced the Prince. His sad, tender eyes were fixed with an almost yearning expression on the graceful figure of the young man who, half leaning against the desk, sat waiting, in an expressionless, quiet attitude.
The Grand Pensionary loosened his heavy cloak.
“We will have no lesson to-day, Highness,” he said. “I have to speak of practical politics—and am here to talk gravely with you.”