Florent had an instant and haunting picture of the Prince: his cloth-of-gold suit and black jet embroidered waistcoat glimmered into points of light in the glow of the candle he held; a little diamond brooch in the lace at his throat sent out long changing rays of blue and green; he looked colourless and ill; his eyes were heavy lidded and shadowed underneath, the curls on his forehead disordered and damp; he breathed with noticeable labour, as if utterly exhausted.
“Is Your Highness not taking any repose to-night?” asked Florent timidly.
William turned towards the door.
“‘Annibal erit brevi ad portas,’” he said, with a slight smile.
Florent stood mute.
“If you will you can help me,” added the Prince. “I have still somewhat to do—will you come upstairs?”
Van Mander blushed violently. He did not say anything, but William’s keen glance seemed satisfied with his expression and demeanour.
“I do not wish to wake M. Bentinck,” continued the Prince; “we have still an hour,” he pulled out his watch.
Florent extinguished his candles and took that the Prince held, preceding him with it up the wide, dark stairs.