by Eugène Sue
“But my brother — my dear and good brother — what has befallen him?”
“In God’s name, spend no time with questions — depart — a few minutes more and it will be too late.”
A tremor ran over John De Witt’s frame. He wiped the perspiration from his forehead, and overpowering his emotion, bowed to Salaun Lebrenn and his son, saying to them in a firm voice: “You will have to excuse me, my friends, if I leave you. I can not remain any longer in this painful uncertainty regarding my brother’s fate. I shall hurry to the castle, where he is confined.”
“John!” broke in Monsieur Tilly, throwing himself in the way of the Grand Pensionary of Holland. “You shall not go there! By God! You shall not go to the castle — I shall tell you all—”
“They have killed him!” cried John De Witt in heartrending accents. “Unhappy me, they have killed him!”
“No,” replied Monsieur Tilly in despair; “no, I assure you, Cornelius is not dead!”
This assurance allayed the poignancy of John De Witt’s anxiety. But still staggering under the blow of his terrible apprehension, he felt his knees give way under him, and he leaned on the edge of the table, unable to articulate a word. Salaun Lebrenn and his son stood in consternation, dreading some great misfortune, and looked at Monsieur Tilly with uneasy curiosity, while Serdan said to him in a low voice: “Alas! A moment ago John De Witt felt perfectly at ease on the score of the charge against his brother. I dared not mention to him the fears that you expressed to me this morning.”
Serdan broke off as he heard John De Witt say to Tilly in a calm voice: “Pardon my weakness, my friend. There are unexpected blows that take one by surprise, and floor him. Thanks to God, my brother still lives. Speak, I listen.”
“As late as this morning I was as certain as yourself of the worthlessness of the charges preferred against Cornelius. I was in that frame of mind until I met an officer of the bourgeois militia that guards the prison, and who is of our party. From him I learned of the wild popular exasperation against yourself, your brother and the French party, who are considered accomplices in the ferocities committed by the troops of Louis XIV, and that this exasperation was assuming such a violent aspect that the tribunal, before which Cornelius was to be tried and which consists of bitter Orangemen, decided, with a view of satisfying the blind popular rage, — decided,” repeated Monsieur Tilly with a shudder, “to submit your brother to the torture, and compel him to confess his crime. The atrocious project has been carried out!”
“Good God!” cried John De Witt, raising his hands and eyes heavenward. “What frightful tidings!”
Serdan, Salaun Lebrenn and his son could not restrain a cry of indignation and horror.
“But perhaps my brother is expiring from the consequences of the torture!” exclaimed John De Witt in despair.
“Notwithstanding the sufferings he has undergone, your brother’s life is safe,” answered Tilly. “I pledge you my word.”
“The infamous wretches! To believe that the torture could wrest from a De Witt the admission of a crime which he is guiltless of!” exclaimed John De Witt in a smothered voice. “I am certain my brother underwent the ordeal of the torture with heroic serenity. Proceed, my friend, I feel strong enough to listen.”
“I have my information direct from the court registrar who witnessed the horrible scene,” continued Tilly. “Cornelius was tied down upon a table. His hands were placed by the executioner between two iron plates, held together by screws, the slightest turn downward of which would break the patient’s bones.”
“Oh!” cried Serdan, horrified. “These are shocking details!”
“Tilly,” said John De Witt in a firm voice, “conceal nothing from me. I want to know everything. Oh, my brother! Poor, dear victim!”
“During the preparation for the torture, the face of Cornelius was pale and impassive. One of the judges approached him: ‘Are you ready to make a confession?’ he asked your brother. ‘I have nothing to confess,’ was his answer. ‘Then you persist in denying that you plotted to assassinate the Prince of Orange?’ ‘Monsieur,’ replied Cornelius, ‘had I desired to assassinate the Prince of Orange, I would not have employed another’s arm.’ ‘Prisoner,’ rejoined the judge, ‘torture may compel you to confess what you now refuse to admit.’ ‘Monsieur, you will cut me to pieces before you can make me confess an act that I never even thought of.’ ‘Then you deny?’ ‘I deny.’ Upon a sign from the judge, the executioner gave the screws a turn; the plates drew closer together, and crushed Cornelius’s hands. His suffering was cruel, yet he remained silent, impassive. Suddenly a wild clamor from the mob that was gathered at the foot of the tower, reached your brother’s ears. ‘Death to the French party!’ ‘Death to the accomplices of Louis XIV!’ ‘Death to De Witt!’ Upon hearing these cries, the registrar informed me, your brother raised his head and turned his inspired eyes to the ceiling of the prison; his features were transfigured; they were serenely resplendent; a divine smile flitted over his lips; his moral courage dominated the agonies of the body; and, as the mob without redoubled its cries for his death, Cornelius recited in a powerful ringing voice this strophe from Horace:
“‘Neither the unjust clamor of the people, nor the angry frown of a tyrant, is able to dethrone the mind of a man upright and true to his cause.’”
“Oh! my noble brother!” cried John De Witt breaking the silence of admiration that followed the narrative of Monsieur Tilly. “Often did you make the remark — the dark iniquity of the guilty but causes the virtue of the just to shine forth with all the greater luster!”
“Yes!” continued Monsieur Tilly. “And at this very moment that beautiful sentiment is approved true. The executioners and judges were seized with respect and admiration for the grandeur of soul of Cornelius De Witt, and they gazed upon one another in a sort of stupor, as if the absurdity of the hateful process had broken its way into their vision. The judges conferred. The ignominy of submitting one of the greatest citizens of the Republic, one of the victors of Chatham and Solway, to the torture, and upon no stronger grounds than the word of a noted wretch, smote their consciences. Even paler than the patient himself, the registrar informed me, the judges ordered the torture to cease, and, addressing Cornelius in a faltering voice said to him: ‘So, then, monsieur, you insist upon making no confession?’ ‘Save me and yourselves the trouble of such questions,’ was Cornelius’s answer; ‘you have the power to proceed with the torture; my body belongs to you.’ Recoiling before the thought of repeating the barbarous act, the judges ordered the executioners to untie their victim. Your brother was taken back to his prison, where the registrar of the States announced to him a few minutes later the decree that was pronounced upon him. It is as follows:
“‘The court of Holland, having considered and examined the documents, submitted to it by the attorney general of the court, against and in accusation of Master Cornelius De Witt, former burgomaster of Dortrecht and ruart of the district of Putten, at present a prisoner of the said court, as well as examined him, his confrontations, and all that was said by himself, declares the prisoner forfeit of all his offices and dignities, banishes him from the provinces of Holland, never to return again under pain of still severer punishment, and sentences him to pay the costs of the trial.’”
“But this very decree proves the innocence of Cornelius De Witt,” cried Salaun Lebrenn. “Devoted Orangemen though the judges are, they have recoiled before their own iniquity. They did not even dare to mention the alleged crime of the prisoner. If the crime were mentioned, the death penalty would be the necessary punishment. Oh, the miserable, the infamous fellows!”
“You are correct,” replied Monsieur Tilly. “After hearing his sentence read, Cornelius De Witt said to the registrar: ‘Monsieur, if I am an assassin I deserve death; if I am innocent I should be set free, and my accuser punished. I appeal from this sentence to the Supreme Council.’ ‘If so, monsieur,’ said the registrar, ‘be kind enough to formulate your obj
ection at the foot of the decree and to sign the same.’ Cornelius De Witt cast a bitter smile upon the registrar, and raising his two hands mutilated by the torture and bandaged in blood-stained wrappages: ‘I can not write, monsieur, I shall dictate to you my objections to the sentence.’ So saying, Cornelius formulated his objection in the following terms: ‘In the face of God and of man, I must be pronounced an assassin or innocent: death or freedom.’”
“Oh!” cried John De Witt. “I shall devote all the power left to me, all my life, to seek and obtain the rehabilitation of my brother! I shall not falter in the task.”
“Do you now understand,” asked Tilly, “why I consider that you would be lost, without profit to your brother, if you were now to be seen at the prison? The agents of the Prince of Orange quickly spread among the mob the news of Cornelius’s banishment, and stirred up the popular rage at his not having been put to death. These moves have raised the popular exasperation to a still higher pitch, and incited the mob’s cravings for vengeance. The crowd has threatened to tear down the gates of the prison in order to take your brother and do him to death. The registrar having hastened to notify me of these events, I ordered The Hague cavalry to the spot. It is now drawn up before the castle. Our horsemen are not Orangemen, as you know; the prison will not be broken in so long as they are allowed to remain on guard. You see, you may feel at ease, for the present, on the fate of Cornelius. I conjure you, my friend, renounce the purpose of proceeding to the prison. You are known by the whole city. To cross its streets at this moment of ferment, is uselessly to challenge the greatest risk. Think of your own dear family.”
“John,” added Serdan, “we join Tilly in urging you to flee as soon as possible. Who knows but that your own house may be invaded at one moment or another by that senselessly furious mob, as your father’s house was invaded in Dortrecht!”
“Preserve yourself for your brother’s sake, Monsieur De Witt,” put in Salaun Lebrenn. “Leave The Hague.”
“Live for this people which is more blind than it is ungrateful. Maybe the day will come when it will implore you to save the Republic!” said Nominoë with tears in his eyes, as he saw John De Witt receive the urgings of his friends with a silent impatience that betrayed his inner resolution to go to his brother.
Monsieur Tilly made a last effort, crying: “Is it your purpose to risk your own life, as well as that of Cornelius, by proceeding to the prison?” And answering an impatient wafture of John De Witt’s hand, he added: “It is horrible, but it is a fact — the first blood that a mob sheds throws it into a savage intoxication. So far from being allayed by your death, the hatred of those furious men will then become so unbridled that it will be impossible any longer to restrain them. They will then force the prison gates and slaughter your brother!”
“Enough! Enough, my friend!” said John De Witt with a shudder, and almost overcome by the insistence of his friends. He seemed to hesitate in his first determination, when he saw Madam De Witt step into the apartment.
“My friend,” said she to her husband handing him a note that she held in her hand, “one of the grenadiers of the prison has just brought you this letter from our brother Cornelius. It is urgent, says the man. He is waiting for your answer. He says there is considerable commotion in The Hague, and that, should you wish to proceed to the castle, he offers to lead you through the closed Borlek Alley, and thence to Vivier Alley, of which he has the key. But he says you must not delay.”
John De Witt hastened to take the note, ran his eyes over it, and cried: “My brother writes to me that he wishes to see me immediately.”
“It is a trap!” exclaimed Serdan. “You seem to forget that Cornelius is not in a condition to write! Crime and treachery!”
“Why should he not be in a condition to write?” asked Madam De Witt, ignorant of the circumstance that her brother-in-law’s hands were crushed.
An embarrassing silence followed upon Madam De Witt’s question, a silence which Monsieur Tilly broke:
“Madam, your brother is suffering with an abscess on his thumb. It would be difficult for him to hold a pen.”
“Mary, my cloak, my sword, my gloves; quick, I pray you,” said John De Witt to his wife.
Madam De Witt left in quest of the articles demanded by her husband. No sooner had she withdrawn than Tilly, Serdan, Salaun Lebrenn and his son cried in alarm: “Give up the thought! Do not go to the castle! You will be marching to your death!”
“The letter is a forgery!” added Serdan. “They are laying a snare for you, and the jailer is in the plot!”
“First of all, hear what Cornelius writes to me,” said John De Witt to his friends, and he read:
“Dear brother, I am obliged to help myself with a stranger’s hand to write to you. I urge you earnestly, come to me to the castle without delay. Your presence is indispensable. One of the jailers is devoted to me. He will lead you by a circuitous route, where you are not likely to meet anyone. Come, come.”
“Treachery!” repeated Serdan. “I tell you once more, their purpose is to lead you into a trap, an ambush!”
“Cornelius has heard from his prison the clamor of the people for his life, and for yours,” added Monsieur Tilly. “There is even fear that the maddened mob may succeed in breaking into the prison, and do you suppose that your brother would call you to his side at such a moment? No, no! There is treachery in all this!”
“But suppose this letter was truly dictated by my brother!” cried John De Witt, interrupting Tilly. “Suppose that, finding himself about to die as the result of his torture, he wishes to die in my arms! Suppose he awaits my presence as a supreme consolation! Should I hesitate before a sacred duty? No, never!”
As John De Witt was uttering these last words Madam De Witt re-entered accompanied by her two daughters, Agnes and Mary, one thirteen, the other fifteen years of age. They brought their father’s cloak and sword. Their candid and smiling faces presented so painful a contrast to the dangers that threatened their father, that the witnesses of the scene felt their hearts wrung.
“Father,” said Mary, handing John De Witt his cloak, and helping him to put it on, “since you are going to see our dear uncle in that horrid prison, that I am sure he will soon be free to leave, tell him for me that, although he was away from us, we always had him in mind.”
“But, better still, father,” added Agnes gaily, giving her father his sword, “bring us our dear uncle back soon. And while we wait for his return give him this kiss for me—”
“And this one from me,” said Mary, embracing and kissing her father.
With a superhuman effort John De Witt controlled and concealed his afflicted thoughts, tenderly answered the caresses of his daughters by covering their young foreheads with kisses, and addressing his wife, said: “Adieu, my faithful friend; brave companion in evil days, adieu! I hope shortly to bring you better tidings of my brother,” and he left abruptly, followed by Monsieur Tilly, Salaun Lebrenn, his son and Monsieur Serdan.
“The die is cast!” said Tilly to his friends in a low voice while John De Witt descended the stairs of his house. “Follow him! Guard him! My horse is waiting for me near by; I shall rejoin my company. We shall defend the prison with all our might.”
“Rely upon us,” answered Serdan; “all that three resolute men can do shall be done by us. May we be able to save John De Witt, and, with him, the Republic.”
CHAPTER VII.
MOB-VERDICT.
IN THE NEAR vicinity of the palace, where the States General of the Republic of the Seven Provinces held their sessions, rose a vast edifice blackened by years and pierced with narrow, iron-barred windows. This ancient castle now did the services of a place of detention. Its principal façade, pierced with an ogive gate that was led up to by a few stairs, was separated from Buytenhoff Square by a closed iron-barred gate, before which, on this particular day, stood drawn up the cavalry troop of Monsieur Tilly. Up to that moment the troopers had, thanks to their coolness and the closeness
of their ranks, prevented the mob that crowded the square from forcing the iron gate of the prison in which Cornelius De Witt lay. The tumultuous gathering that at first had been emitting furious howls and threats of death against the French party, now crowded in silence around several citizens of The Hague who, mounted upon posts, or standing upon the stairs, or upon carts, read aloud and commented on to the gaping mob letters recently received from the provinces that the armies of Louis XIV had invaded. Among the more fiery of the orators a rich goldsmith of The Hague was prominent. His name was Henry Weroeff, who until recently was one of the most active members of the French party. Accordingly, when he jumped upon an unhitched wagon and announced that he wanted to speak, his voice was drowned under a volley of hoots. Weroeff held a letter in his hand, and motioned for silence while he shouted:
“My friends, deceived and misled like so many others, I belonged up to now to the French party — but I have come to apologize for my error, and to declare in the face of heaven and of man that the brothers De Witt, the heads of the party, deserve public execration. Either as accomplices, or the dupes of Louis XIV, they are responsible for the horrible deeds that the armies of that King are now committing in our provinces. Listen to this letter, which I received this morning from a relative who lives in Bodegrave:
“My dear friend, I write to you in haste. I owe my life to a miraculous accident. Our two burgs of Swamerdam and Bodegrave, each consisting of over six hundred houses, have just been reduced to ashes by the army of the King of France. Only one house is left standing — by the merest accident. The soldiers were especially bent upon destroying the Protestant churches. Not one escaped. The school houses and the City Hall, where the court met, were set on fire. In order to carry out their detestable work, the soldiers furnished themselves in Utrecht with torches of readily combustible material. This is a sight that I saw — a father, mother and children were locked up in their house, and then the place was forthwith set on fire. Those who sought to escape the flames were massacred by the soldiers and transfixed with pikes—”