“Ugh! this mist of yours,” shivered the Frenchman suddenly glancing about the room. “Nothing will keep it out—how much of it do you have?”
“I am new to the Hague, but there is plenty of it, until we get the frosts—then too, sometimes.”
St. Croix made a wry face.
“I would the Holy Virgin had placed my talents elsewhere. Here there is nothing wherewith to amuse one’s self save the contemplation of Dutch virtue and the effort to avoid rheumatism. How do you endure it, my friend?”
“By being Dutch,” answered Florent, gazing at him steadily. “You speak very plainly to me—I am Dutch.”
St. Croix laughed.
“You think me overbold. But I tell you this, my master is more powerful in the Seven Provinces than any Dutchman—as you are ambitious you had best not offend him.”
So, they threatened—they felt themselves strong enough for that.
“I have my own interests at heart,” commented Florent dryly, after a pause. “I see that the Orange party is the one to serve.… I shall serve it, knowing quite well, M. St. Croix, that it is another name for France.”
The Frenchman blinked his fair eyes.