William leant back in his chair; he was still smiling; his graceful, youthful figure, his small handsome head, his rich attire of black velvet with rose-coloured points—all gave him the appearance of the useless grandee many believed him to be. But Granvelle was not so deceived; he knew that the young cavalier smiling at him was as astute, as experienced, as able, as wise, as prudent as himself, and that he was the most dangerous of the many dangerous men in the Netherlands.
"There is much abroad displeasing to the servants of His Majesty," he answered. "I think there are perilous times ahead."
"If the grandees persist in what is near disloyalty, yes," admitted Granvelle, and he too smiled.
"Disloyalty?" said William lightly, and raising his fine brows. "It is a matter of terms. Our remonstrances have been given to the Regent out of regard to our loyalty."
"I know something of your regards, Highness," replied the Cardinal, thinking of the information he had received that morning.
William instantly took his meaning.
"Had we not wished Your Eminence to know of our proceedings, we should scarcely have disclosed them to Baron Barlaymont."
The Cardinal's fine face hardened; he set down the peach he was handling, and took his chin in his fingers. In the young grandee's manner was a hint of that insolence the Burgundian priest had had to endure from the lesser nobles like Brederode and De la Marck—the insolence of the great towards the upstart who had been born a commoner.
"Your Eminence," continued William delicately, "would be wise to retire from the Netherlands."
"You came to tell me that?" asked Granvelle, almost surprised into anger.