Groningen.  She implored him not to give over his soul to perdition by oppressing the Holy Church.  She also appealed to his family pride, which should keep him, she said, from the contamination of companionship with “base-born weavers and furriers.”  She was of opinion that to contaminate his high-born fingers with base bribes were a lower degradation.  The pension, the crowns in hand, the marquisate, the collar of the Golden Fleece, were all held before his eyes again.  He was persuaded, moreover, that the fair hand of the wealthy widow would be the crowning prize of his treason, but in this he was destined to disappointment.  The Countess was reserved for a more brilliant and a more bitter fate.  She was to espouse a man of higher rank, but more worthless character, also a traitor to the cause of freedom, to which she was herself devoted, and who was even accused of attempting her life in her old age, in order to supply her place with a younger rival.

The artful eloquence of Cornelia de Lalain did its work, and Renneberg entered into correspondence with Parma.  It is singular with how much indulgence his conduct and character were regarded both before and subsequently to his treason.  There was something attractive about the man.  In an age when many German and Netherland nobles were given to drunkenness and debauchery, and were distinguished rather for coarseness of manner and brutality of intellect than for refinement or learning, Count Renneberg, on the contrary, was an elegant and accomplished gentleman—­the Sydney of his country in all but loyalty of character.  He was a classical scholar, a votary of music and poetry, a graceful troubadour, and a valiant knight.  He was “sweet and lovely of conversation,” generous and bountiful by nature.  With so many good gifts, it was a thousand pities that the gift of truth had been denied him.  Never did treason look more amiable, but it was treason of the blackest die.  He was treacherous, in the hour of her utmost need, to the country which had trusted him.  He was treacherous to the great man who had leaned upon his truth, when all others had abandoned him.  He was treacherous from the most sordid of motives jealousy of his friend and love of place and pelf; but his subsequent remorse and his early death have cast a veil over the blackness of his crime.

While Cornelia de Lalain was in Groningen, Orange was in Holland.  Intercepted letters left no doubt of the plot, and it was agreed that the Prince, then on his way to Amsterdam, should summon the Count to an interview.  Renneberg’s trouble at the proximity of Orange could not be suppressed.  He felt that he could never look his friend in the face again.  His plans were not ripe; it was desirable to dissemble for a season longer; but how could he meet that tranquil eye which “looked quite through the deeds of men?” It was obvious to Renneberg that his deed was to be done forthwith, if he would escape discomfiture.  The Prince would soon be in Groningen, and his presence would dispel the plots which had been secretly constructed.