The Laughing Cavalier | Page 2

had stepped out of the canvas in
London, had crossed the sea and was walking the streets of Haarlem
just as he had done then, filling them with his swagger, with his
engaging personality,
above all with his laughter. And sitting beside me in the old tavern of
the "Lame Cow," in that self-same tap-room where he was wont to
make merry, he told me the history of his life.
Since then kind friends at Haarlem have placed documents in my hands
which confirmed the story told me by the Laughing Cavalier. To them
do I tender my heartfelt and grateful thanks. But it is to the man
himself-- to the memory of him which is so alive here in Haarlem-- that
I am indebted for the true history of his life, and therefore I feel that but
little apology is needed for placing the true facts before all those who
have known him hitherto only by his picture, who have loved him only
for what they guessed.

The monograph which I now present with but few additions of minor
details, goes to prove what I myself had known long ago, namely, that
the Laughing Cavalier who sat to Frans Hal for his portrait in 1624 was
the direct ancestor of Sir Percy Blakeney, known to history as the
Scarlet Pimpernel.
EMMUSKA ORCZY
Haarlem, 1913

THE PROLOGUE
HAARLEM--MARCH 29th, 1623
The day had been spring-like---even hot; a very unusual occurrence in
Holland at this time of year.
Gilda Beresteyn had retired early to her room. She had dismissed Maria,
whose chatterings grated upon her nerves, with the promise that she
would call her later. Maria had arranged a tray of dainties on the table,
a jug of milk, some fresh white bread and a little roast meat on a plate,
for Gilda had eaten very little supper and it might happen that she
would feel hungry later on.
It would have been useless to argue with the old woman about this
matter. She considered Gilda's health to be under her own special
charge, ever since good Mevrouw Beresteyn had placed her baby girl in
Maria's strong, devoted arms ere she closed her eyes in the last long
sleep.
Gilda Berensteyn, glad to be alone, threw open the casement of the
window and peered out into the night.
The shadow of the terrible tragedy--the concluding acts of which were
being enacted day by day in the Gevangen Poort of 'S Graven Hage--
had even touched the distant city of Haarlem with its gloom. The eldest
son of John of Barneveld was awaiting final trial and inevitable

condemnation, his brother Stoutenburg was a fugitive, and their
accomplices Korenwinder, van Dyk, the redoubtable Slatius and others
were giving away under torture the details of the aborted conspiracy
against the life of Maurice of Nassau, Stadtholder of Holland,
Gelderland, Utrecht, and Overyssel, Captain and Admiral-General of
the State, Prince of Orange, and virtual ruler of Protestant and
republican Netherlands.
Traitors all of them-- would-be assassins-- the Stadtholder whom they
had planned to murder was showing them no mercy. As he had sent
John of Barneveld to the scaffold to assuage his own thirst for supreme
power and satisfy his own ambitions, so he was ready to send John of
Barneveld's sons to death and John of Barneveld's widow to sorrow and
loneliness.
The sons of John of Barneveld had planned to avenge their father's
death by the committal of a cruel and dastardly murder: fate and the
treachery of mercenary accomplices had intervened, and now
Groeneveld was on the eve of condemnation, and Stoutenburg was a
wanderer on the face of the earth with a price put upon his head.
Gilda Beresteyn could not endure the thought of it all. All the
memories of her childhoodwere linked with the Barnevelds.
Stoutenburg had been her brother Nicolaes' most intimate friend, and
had been the first man to whisper words of love in her ears, ere his
boundless devotion and his unscrupulous egoism drove him into
another more profitable marriage.
Gilda's face flamed up with shame even now at recollection of his
treachery, and the deep humiliation which she had felt when she saw
the first budding blossom of her girlish love so carelessly tossed aside
by the man whom she had trusted.
A sense of oppression weighed her spirits down to-night. It almost
seemed as if the tragedy which had encompassed the entire Barneveld
family was even now hovering over the peaceful house of Mynheer
Beresteyn, deputy burgomaster and chief civic magistrate of the town
of Haarlem. The air itself felt heavy as if with the weight of impending

doom.
The little city lay quiet and at peace; a soft breeze from the south
lightly fanned the girl's cheeks. She leaned her elbowson the
window-sill and rested