The sun sets behind the flat, misty horizon in a dun and blood-coloured vapour; the camp-fires of the French, which may be seen from the towers of Amsterdam, spring up in the low meadows.
Other lights, softer, more delicate, appear in the windows of the castle.
A ball is to be given in the great rooms looking on to the ramparts.
The sentries keeping watch hear the music of the contre danse falling through the silent air.
M. de Rochfort is expected with his cavalry regiments—has been expected all day. He does not come; the King is a little vexed.
He has become of late impatient if every hour does not bring a fresh triumph.…
My lord Monmouth steps the minuet as well as he wrestles or runs; he dances till the moon sets.
There is much talk of the coming conquest, of the balls to be held in the Orange Saloon, and in the winter on the ice—a novelty!
His Majesty will return to Saint Germains after his entry into the Hague; but he will come back in the winter for these new festivities.
Tales are told of the wealth of Amsterdam. Her meanest streets make the proudest walks of London and of Paris appear paltry; her houses are like palaces.