Florette now knew what her son had experienced in life, what had moved his heart, his soul, and could not contradict him, when he told her that power was the highest prize of existence.

The Eletto’s ambitious mind could not be satisfied with little Aalst.  The mutineers had been outlawed by an edict from Brussels, but the king had nothing to do with this measure; the shameful proclamation was only intended to stop the wailing of the Netherlanders.  They would have to pay dearly for it!  There was a great scheme in view.

The Antwerp of those days was called “as rich as the Indies;” the project under consideration was the possibility of manoeuvring this abode of wealth into the hands of the mutineers; the whole Spanish army in the Netherlands being about to follow the example of the regiments in Aalst.

The mother was the friend and counsellor of the son.  At every step he took he heard her opinion, and often yielded his own in its favor.  This interest in the direction of great events occupied the sibyl’s versatile mind.  When, on many occasions, pros and tons were equal in weight, she brought out the cards, and this oracle generally turned the scale.

No high aim, no desire to accomplish good and great things in wider spheres, influenced the thoughts and actions of this couple.

What cared they, that the weal and woe of thousands depended on their decision?  The deadly weapon in their bands was to them only a valuable utensil in which they delighted, and with which fruits were plucked from the trees.

Ulrich now saw the fulfilment of Don Juan’s words, that power was an arable field; for there were many full ears in Aalst for them both to harvest.

Florette still nursed, with maternal care, the soldier’s orphan which she had taken to her son’s house; the child, born on a bed of straw—­was now clothed in dainty linen, laces and other beautiful finery.  It was necessary to her, for she occupied herself with the helpless little creature when, during the long morning hours of Ulrich’s absence, sorrowful thought troubled her too deeply.

Ulrich often remained absent a long time, far longer than the service required.  What was he doing?  Visiting a sweetheart?  Why not?  She only marvelled that the fair women did not come from far and near to see the handsome man.

Yes, the Eletto had found an old love.  Art, which he had sullenly forsaken.  News had reached his ears, that an artist had fallen in the defence of the city.  He went to the dead man’s house to see his works, and how did he find the painter’s dwelling!  Windows, furniture were shattered, the broken doors of the cupboards hung into the rooms on their bent hinges.  The widow and her children were lying in the studio on a heap of straw.  This touched his heart, and he gave alms with an open hand to the sorrowing woman.  A few pictures of the saints, which the Spaniards had spared, hung on the walls; the easel, paints and brushes had been left untouched.