CHAPTER IX
THE PAINTER OF PICTURES
After this episode Chance had little to do with the further events ofthis veracious chronicle.
Men took their destiny in their own hands and laughed at Fate and at thelinks of the chain which she had been forging so carefully and sopatiently ever since she began the business on the steps of the Stadhuisa few short hours ago.
Beresteyn and Stoutenburg walking home together in the small hours ofNew Year's morning spoke very little together at first. They strodealong side by side, each buried in his own thoughts, and only a few curtremarks passed at intervals between them.
But something lay on the minds of both--something of which each desiredto speak to the other, yet neither of them seemed willing to be thefirst to broach the absorbing topic.
It was Stoutenburg who at last broke the silence.
"A curious personality, that knave," he said carelessly after awhile,"an unscrupulous devil as daring as he is reckless of consequences Ishould say ... yet trustworthy withal ... what think you?"
"A curious personality as you say," replied Beresteyn vaguely.
"He might have been useful to us had we cared to pay forhis services ... but now 'tis too late to think of furtheraccomplices ... new men won or bought for our cause only mean morevictims for the gallows."
"You take a gloomy view of the situation," said Beresteyn sombrely.
"No! only a fatalistic one. With our secret in a woman's keeping ... andthat woman free and even anxious to impart it to one of my most bitterenemies ... I can see nought that can ward off the inevitable."
"Except...."
"Yes, of course," rejoined Stoutenburg earnestly, "if you, Nicolaes, areready to make the sacrifice which alone could save us all."
"It is a sacrifice which will involve my honour, my sister's love forme, my father's trust...."
"If you act wisely and circumspectly, my friend," retorted Stoutenburgdryly, "neither your father nor Gilda herself need ever know that youhad a share in ... in what you propose to do."
Beresteyn made no reply and he and his friend walked on in silence untilthey reached the small house close to the "Lame Cow" where Stoutenburghad his lodgings. Here they shook hands before parting and Stoutenburgheld his friend's hand in his tightly grasped for a moment or two whilehe said earnestly:
"It is only for a few days, Nicolaes, a few days during which I swear toyou that--though absent and engaged in the greatest task that any mancan undertake on this earth--I swear to you that I will keep watch overGilda and defend her honour with my life. If you will make the sacrificefor me and for our cause, Heaven and your country will reward you beyondyour dreams. With the death of the Stadtholder my power in theNetherlands will be supreme, and herewith, with my hand in yours, Isolemnly plight my troth to Gilda. She was the first woman I ever loved,and I have never ceased to love her. Now she fills my heart and souleven--at times--to the exclusion of my most ambitious hopes.Nicolaes--my friend--it is in your power to save my life as well as yourown: an you will do it, there will be no bounds to my gratitude."
And Beresteyn replied calmly:
"The sacrifice which you ask of me I will make: I will take the risk forthe sake of my country and of my faith. To-morrow at noon I will come toyour lodgings and tell you in detail all the arrangements which I shallhave made by then. I have no fear for Gilda. I believe that Heaven hasguided my thoughts and footsteps to-night for the furtherance of ourcause."
After which the two men took final leave of one another: Stoutenburg'stall lean form quickly disappeared under the doorway of the house,whilst Beresteyn walked rapidly away up the street.
* * * * *
Now it was close on ten o'clock of New Year's morning. NicolaesBeresteyn had spent several hours in tossing restlessly under the warmeiderdown and between the fine linen sheets embroidered by his sister'sdeft hands. During these hours of sleeplessness a plan had matured inhis mind which though it had finally issued from his own consciousnesshad really found its origin in the reckless brain of Willem vanStoutenburg.
Beresteyn now saw himself as the saviour of his friends and of theirpatriotic cause. He felt that in order to carry out the plan which hefirmly believed that he himself had conceived, he was making a noblesacrifice for his country and for his faith, and he was proud to thinkthat it lay in his power to offer the sacrifice. That this samesacrifice would have his own sister for victim, he cared seemingly verylittle. He was one of those men in whose hearts political aims outweighevery tender emotion, and he firmly believed that Gilda would be richlyrewarded by the fulfilment of that solemn promise made by Stoutenburg.
Exquisite visions of satisfied ambition, of triumph and of glory chasedaway sleep: he saw his friend as supreme ruler of the State, with powersgreater than the Princes of Orange had ever wielded: he saw Gilda--hissister--grateful to him for the part which he had played in re-unitingher to the man whom she had always loved, she too supreme in power asthe proud wife of the new Stadtholder. And he saw himself as the LordHigh Advocate of the Netherlands standing in the very shoes of that sameJohn of Barneveld whose death he would have helped to avenge.
These and other thoughts had stirred Nicolaes Beresteyn's fancy while helay awake during these the first hours of the New Year, and it wasduring those self-same hours that a nameless stranger whom his compeerscalled Diogenes had tramped up and down the snow-covered streets ofHaarlem trying to keep himself warm.
I am very sorry to have to put it on record that during that time heswore more than once at his own softheartedness which had caused him togive up his hard but sheltered paillasse to a pair of Papists who werenothing to him and whom probably he would never see again.
"I begin to agree with that bloated puff-ball Pythagoras," he museddejectedly once, when an icy wind, blowing straight from the North Sea,drove the falling snow into his boots, and under his collar, and up hissleeves, and nearly froze the marrow in his bones, "it is but sorrypleasure to play at being a gentleman. And I had not many hours of iteither," he added ruefully.
Even the most leaden-footed hours do come to an end however. At one halfafter six Diogenes turned his steps toward the Peuselaarsteeg wheredwelt his friend Frans Hals, the painter of pictures. FortunatelyMevrouw Hals was in a fairly good temper, the last portrait group of theofficers of St. Joris' Shooting Guild had just been paid for, and therewas practically a new commission to paint yet another group of thesegentlemen.
And Mynheer van Zeller the deputy bailiff had brought the fancy picturetoo, for which that knave Diogenes had sat last year, so Mevrouw Halswas willing to provide the young man with a savoury and hot breakfast ifhe were willing once again to allow Frans to make a picture of hispleasant face.
Mevrouw Hals being in rare good humour, the breakfast was bothsubstantial and savoury. Diogenes, who was starved with cold as well aswith hunger, did great honour to all that was laid before him: he ateheartily while recounting his adventures of the past night to hisfriend.
"All that trouble for a Papist wench," said the painter ascontemptuously as Pythagoras himself would have done, "and maybe aSpaniard too."
"Good-looking girl," quoth Diogenes dryly, "and would make you a goodmodel, Frans. For a few kreutzers she'd be glad enough to do it."
"I'll have none of these vixens inside my house," interposed MevrouwHals decisively, "and don't you teach Frans any of your loose ways, myman."
Diogenes made no reply, he only winked at his friend. No doubt hethought that Hals no longer needed teaching.
The two men repaired to the studio, a huge bare room littered withcanvases, but void of furniture, save for an earthenware stove in whichfortunately a cheerful fire was blazing, a big easel roughly fashionedof deal, a platform for the model to stand on, and two or threerush-bottomed chairs: there was also a ramshackle dowry chest, blackwith age, which mayhap had once held the piles of homemade linen broughtas a dowry by the first Mevrouw Hals: now it seemed to contain aheterogeneous collect
ion of gaudy rags, together with a few finearticles of attire, richly embroidered relics of more prosperous days.
The artist went straight up to the chest and from out the litter heselected a bundle of clothes which he handed over to his friend.
"Slip into them as quickly as you can, old compeer," he said, "myfingers are itching to get to work."
And while he fixed the commenced picture on the easel and set out hispalette, Diogenes threw off his shabby clothes and donned the gorgeousdoubtlet and sash which the painter had given him.