“In these days!—you have been successful, but I should watch this little Prince——”
“We stand firm—The Triple Alliance, the treaty of Breda—the Perpetual Edict,” quoted de Witt.
The diplomat who had framed the first had never approved of the last.
“There you went too far,” he said.
“There I secured the liberty of Holland,” answered the Grand Pensionary, still with that faint smile on his full, finely cut mouth, “and made impossible a recurrence of 1650—this Prince’s father brought his troops to the gates of Amsterdam, no man shall do that again; by abolishing the office of Stadtholder I do away with the fear of a king, and so, sir, secure my Republic.”
“Amen to that,” answered Sir William. “You have the confidence of the idealist. I love you for it, but I cannot be so sanguine—the Prince, if he is heir to nothing else, hath the name, the prestige, and that is a strange spell to work with the people.”
He looked, as he spoke, with the interest of the worldly man at a noble simplicity he admires but cannot comprehend. John de Witt was his friend, they had much in common, respected each other’s character and talents, but Sir William Temple had never ceased to marvel at John de Witt.
The Grand Pensionary was silent; a deep thoughtfulness came into his face. The Englishman watched him, smiling a little coldly.
“Do you think that I am not loved in the United Provinces?” asked de Witt suddenly.
Sir William fingered the ends of his cravat. The other did not wait for an answer so leisurely composed.