Florent leant forward cautiously. The brothers had halted close to the window. The Grand Pensionary’s back was towards him, but he could see the fine, rugged face of the Ruard, frowning now, and shaded by the great black beaver he wore.
“I have his assurance of loyalty,” said John de Witt. “I do not think he is of a nature to be false … he is quiet——”
“Take care he be not as cunning as he is quiet.”
“I have no right to think it,” answered the Grand Pensionary.
There was impatience in his brother’s reply.
“You have always been too just … the time has gone past for concessions.…”
They moved on slowly; Van Mander could hear their footsteps on the gravel but not what they said.
He had had his dismissal for the day; probably M. de Witt thought he had already gone. He locked his desk and put on his hat and cloak, then softly shut the window.
Before he left the building he went upstairs to M. de Witt’s private cabinet to return some papers he had copied for M. Van den Bosch, the head secretary, who, in company with the two confidential clerks, M. Bacherus and M. Van Ouvenaller, always sat there.
Van Mander returned to the hall with a dislike of these busy, quiet, dry men so intent on serving their master—machines he called them, what could they ever hope to rise to?—and they had all the secrets of M. de Witt in their hands.