“Come in—in God’s name!”
His servant entered, in hastily snatched-up garments.
“What is the matter?” demanded Gaspard Fagel sharply, his vexation giving place to alarm.
“Mynheer, the Grand Pensionary is below,” cried the servant. “Oh, Mynheer, is it the French, and shall we all be murdered in our beds?”
“Be quiet, you fool!” M. Fagel sprang on to the floor. “Get me my dressing-gown.… M. de Witt below?” By the aid of the light that the man held he glanced at his watch on the table by his bed; it was four o’clock.
“Yes, Mynheer—he must see you at once he says.”
“Is he agitated?” asked the Secretary of the United Provinces, snatching up his slippers.
“He is the same as ever, Mynheer—but something dreadful must have happened to bring him here at this hour.”
Gaspard Fagel was of the same opinion, nothing but an affair of great moment could have brought M. de Witt to see him—and at this hour.