y's government
should be employed to bring about his marriage with the lady. The treaty,
however, which Renneberg had made with Quislain le Bailly was not
immediately carried out. Early in February, 1580, his sister and evil
genius, Cornelia Lalain, wife of Baron Monceau, made him a visit at
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