Not long after the peace was concluded and the treaty s]o;ned bv Philip the Fair and Philip of Flanders, Robert de Bethune, with his two brothers William and Guy, and all the captive knights, were set at liberty, and returned to Flanders. The people, however, were not content with the articles of the treaty, and called it the "Treaty of Unrighteousness"; but their dissatisfaction had no further consequence at the time.
Robert de Bethune was received on his return to Flanders with surpassing magnificence, and publicly recognized as Count. He lived seventeen years after his liberation, upheld the honor and the renown of Flanders, and fell asleep in the Lord on the 18th of September, 1322.
THE END
FATE
LIFE OF COUPERUS
FROM Louis Marie Anne Couperus, now aged but forty-three, his masterpiece is yet to be expected. This is the opinion of several critics, among them Edmund Gosse, who, like his colleagues, thinks very highly of "Fate." The publication of this, his first novel, drew down upon Couperus the displeasure of Holland's religious papers; one of them alleged that the book in question was responsible for a young man's suicide, while others clamored for the institution of a national Index Expurgatorius, so that all such pernicious literature might be safely disposed of. *'Eline Vere," a much longer story, was published a year later, namely, in 1892, and "Ecstasy" was brought out about the same time. In 1894 appeared "Majesty," which through its serial publication in the principal Dutch review, "De Nieuwe Gids," substantially improved the fortunes of that magazine. Curiously enough, the well-known French author Jules Lemaitre coincidently wrote a novel on a similar theme, naming it "Kings." "Majesty" was followed by a double sequel, "Universal Peace" and "Primo Cartello," and in 1901 "Little Aims" was put into print.
Couperus's first literary endeavors did not, however, take the form of prose. His virgin volume, so to speak, was a collection of poems entitled "Orchids," presented to the Dutch public when the author was twenty-four years old. The fervent tone and glowing Oriental imagery of these verses one may partly attribute to the young man's early residence in the East Indies, at Batavia, where his father occupied an official post under the Dutch Government. It is said that the author of "Fate," who was born at The Hague on the loth of June, 1863, is of Scottish ancestry, his surname being really a Latinized form of "Cowper."
FATE
CHAPTER I
His hands in his pockets, and the collar of his fur coat turned up, Frank was making his way one evening, through squalls of snow, along the deserted length of Adelaide Road. As he approached the villa where he lived—White-Rose Cottage, it was called—sunk, buried, wrapped in white snow, like a nest in cotton wool, he was aware of some one coming to meet him from Primrose Hill. He looked steadily in the man's face, since he evidently intended to address him, doubting as to what his purpose might be this lonely, snowy night, and he was greatly surprised when he heard said in Dutch:
"Pardon the intrusion. Are you not Mr. Westhove?"
, "Yes," replied Frank Westhove. "Who are you? What do you want?"
"I am Robert van Maeren. You may perhaps remember—"
"What! you, Bertie?" cried Frank. "How came you here in London?"
And in his amazement there rose up before him, through the driving snow, a vision of his youth; a pleasing picture of boyish friendship, of something young and warm.
"Not altogether by chance," said the other, whose voice had taken a somewhat more confident tone at the sound of the familiar "Bertie." "I knew that you lived here, and I have been to your door three times; but you had not come in. Your maid said that you were expected at home this evening, so I made so bold as to wait here for you." And again his voice lost its firmness and assumed the imploring accent of a beggar.
"Is your business so urgent, then?" asked Frank in surprise.
"Yes. I want—perhaps you could help me. I know no one here—"
"Where are you living?"
"Nowhere. I only arrived here early this morning, and I have—I have no money."
He was shivering from standing in the cold during this short dialogue, and seemed to shrink into himself, almost fawning, like a cowed dog.
"Come in with me," said Frank, greatly astonished, but full of sympathy and of the affectionate reminiscences of his boyhood. "Come and spend the night with me."
"Oh, gladly!" was the reply, eager and tremulous, as if he feared that the heaven-inspired words might be retracted.
They went together a few steps further; then Frank took a key out of his pocket, the key of White-Rose Cottage. He opened the door; a hexagonal Moorish lantern was burning low, and shed a soft light in the hall.
"Go in," said Frank. And he locked the door and bolted it behind them. It was half-past twelve.
The maid had not yet gone to bed.
"That gentleman called here a little while ago, two or three times," she murmured, with a look of suspicion at Bertie. "And I have seen him hanging about all the evening, as if he was on the watch. I was frightened, do you know; it is so lonely in these parts."
Frank shook his head reassuringly.
"Make the fire up as quickly as possible, Annie. Is
