crooked fingers.
“Take care, sir, take care,” said Cornelius, growing quite pale.
“Care of what? Zounds! of what?” roared the jailer.
“Take care, I say, you will crush it, Master Gryphus.”
And with a rapid and almost frantic movement he snatched the jug from the hands of Gryphus, and hid it like a treasure under his arms.
But Gryphus, obstinate, like an old man, and more and more convinced that he was discovering here a conspiracy against the Prince of Orange, rushed up to his prisoner, raising his stick; seeing, however, the impassible resolution of the captive to protect his flower-pot he was convinced that Cornelius trembled much less for his head than for his jug.
He therefore tried to wrest it from him by force.
“Halloa!” said the jailer, furious, “here, you see, you are rebelling.”
“Leave me my tulip,” cried Van Baerle.
“Ah, yes, tulip,” replied the old man, “we know well the shifts of prisoners.”
“But I vow to you —- “
“Let go,” repeated Gryphus, stamping his foot, “let go, or I shall call the guard.”
“Call whoever you like, but you shall not have this flower except with my life.”
Gryphus, exasperated, plunged his finger a second time into the soil, and now he drew out the bulb, which certainly looked quite black; and whilst Van Baerle, quite happy to have saved the vessel, did not suspect that the adversary had possessed himself of its precious contents, Gryphus hurled the softened bulb with all his force on the flags, where almost immediately after it was crushed to atoms under his heavy shoe.
Van Baerle saw the work of destruction, got a glimpse of the juicy remains of his darling bulb, and, guessing the cause of the ferocious joy of Gryphus, uttered a cry of agony, which would have melted the heart even of that ruthless jailer who some years before killed Pelisson’s spider.
The idea of striking down this spiteful bully passed like lightning through the brain of the tulip-fancier. The blood rushed to his brow, and seemed like fire in his eyes, which blinded him, and he raised in his two hands the heavy jug with all the now useless earth which remained in it. One instant more, and he would have flung it on the bald head of old Gryphus.
But a cry stopped him; a cry of agony, uttered by poor Rosa, who, trembling and pale, with her arms raised to heaven, made her appearance behind the grated window, and thus interposed between her father and her friend.
Gryphus then understood the danger with which he had been threatened, and he broke out in a volley of the most terrible abuse.
“Indeed,” said Cornelius to him, “you must be a very mean and spiteful fellow to rob a poor prisoner of his only consolation, a tulip bulb.”
“For shame, my father,” Rosa chimed in, “it is indeed a crime you have committed here.”
“Ah, is that you, my little chatter-box?” the old man cried, boiling with rage and turning towards her; “don’t you meddle with what don’t concern you, but go down as quickly as possible.”
“Unfortunate me,” continued Cornelius, overwhelmed with grief.
“After all, it is but a tulip,” Gryphus resumed, as he began to be a little ashamed of himself. “You may have as many tulips as you like: I have three hundred of them in my loft.”
“To the devil with your tulips!” cried Cornelius; “you are worthy of each other: had I a hundred thousand millions of them, I would gladly give them for the one which you have just destroyed.”
“Oh, so!” Gryphus said, in a tone of triumph; “now there we have it. It was not your tulip you cared for. There was in that false bulb some witchcraft, perhaps some means of correspondence with conspirators against his Highness who has granted you your life. I always said they were wrong in not cutting your head off.”
“Father, father!” cried Rosa.
“Yes, yes! it is better as it is now,” repeated Gryphus, growing warm; “I have destroyed it, and I’ll do the same again, as often as you repeat the trick. Didn’t I tell you, my fine fellow, that I would make your life a hard one?”
“A curse on you!” Cornelius exclaimed, quite beyond himself with despair, as he gathered, with his trembling fingers, the remnants of that bulb on which he had rested so many joys and so many hopes.
“We shall plant the other to-morrow, my dear Mynheer Cornelius,” said Rosa, in a low voice, who understood the intense grief of the unfortunate tulip-fancier, and who, with the pure sacred love of her innocent heart, poured these kind words, like a drop of balm, on the bleeding wounds of Cornelius.
Chapter 18
Rosa’s Lover
Rosa had scarcely pronounced these consolatory words when a voice was heard from the staircase asking Gryphus how matters were going on.
“Do you hear, father?” said Rosa.
“What?”
“Master Jacob calls you, he is uneasy.”
“There was such a noise,” said Gryphus; “wouldn’t you have thought he would murder me, this doctor? They are always very troublesome fellows, these scholars.”
Then, pointing with his finger towards the staircase, he said to Rosa: “Just lead the way, Miss.”
After this he locked the door and called out: “I shall be with you directly, friend Jacob.”
Poor Cornelius, thus left alone with his bitter grief, muttered to himself, —
“Ah, you old hangman! it is me you have trodden under foot; you have murdered me; I shall not survive it.”
And certainly the unfortunate prisoner would have fallen ill but for the counterpoise which Providence had granted to his grief, and which was called Rosa.
In the evening she came back. Her first words announced to Cornelius that henceforth her father would make no objection to his cultivating flowers.
“And how do you know that?” the prisoner asked, with a doleful look.
“I know it because he has said so.”
“To deceive me, perhaps.”
“No, he repents.”
“Ah yes! but too late.”
“This repentance is not of himself.”
“And who put it into him?”
“If you only knew how his friend scolded him!”
“Ah, Master Jacob; he does not leave you, then, that Master Jacob?”
“At any rate, he leaves us as little as he can help.”
Saying this, she smiled in such a way that the little cloud of jealousy which had darkened the brow of Cornelius speedily vanished.
“How was it?” asked the prisoner.
“Well, being asked by his friend, my father told at supper the whole story of the tulip, or rather of the bulb, and of his own fine exploit of crushing it.”
Cornelius heaved a sigh, which might have been called a groan.
“Had you only seen Master Jacob at that moment!” continued Rosa. “I really thought he would set fire to the castle; his eyes were like two flaming torches, his hair stood on end, and he clinched his fist for a moment; I thought he would have strangled my father.”
“‘You have done that,’ he cried, ‘you have crushed the bulb?’
“‘Indeed I have.’
“‘It is infamous,’ said Master Jacob, ‘it is odious! You have committed a great crime!’
“My father was quite dumbfounded.
“‘Are you mad, too?’ he asked his friend.”
“Oh, what a worthy man is this Master Jacob!” muttered Cornelius, — “an honest soul, an excellent heart that he is.”
“The truth is, that it is impossible to treat a man more rudely than he did my father; he was really quite in despair, repeating over and over again, —
“‘Crushed, crushed the bulb! my God, my God! crushed!’
“Then, turning toward me, he asked, ‘But it was not the only one that he had?'”
“Did he ask that?” inquired Cornelius, with some anxiety.
“‘You think it was not the only one?’ said my father. ‘Very well, we shall search for the others.’
“‘You will search for the others?’ cried Jacob, taking my father by the collar; but he immediately loosed him. Then, turning towards me, he continued, asking ‘And what did that poor young man say?’
“I did not know what to answer, as you had so strictly enjoined me never to allow any one to guess the interest which you are taking in the bulb. Fortunately, my father saved me from the difficulty by chiming in, —
“‘What did he say? Didn’t he fume and fret?’
“I interrupted him, saying, ‘Was it not natural that be should be furious, you were so unjust and brutal, father?’
“‘Well, now, are you mad?’ cried my father; ‘what immense misfortune is it to crush a tulip bulb? You may buy a hundred of them in the market of Gorcum.’
“‘Perhaps some less precious one than that was!’ I quite incautiously replied.”
“And what did Jacob say or do at these words?” asked Cornelius.
“At these words, if I must say it, his eyes seemed to flash like lightning.”
“But,” said Cornelius, “that was not all; I am sure he said something in his turn.”
“‘So, then, my pretty Rosa,’ he said, with a voice as sweet a honey, — ‘so you think that bulb to have been a precious one?’
“I saw that I had made a blunder.
“‘What do I know?’ I said, negligently; ‘do I understand anything of tulips? I only know — as unfortunately it is our lot to live with prisoners — that for them any pastime is of value. This poor Mynheer van Baerle amused himself with this bulb. Well, I think it very cruel to take from him the only thing that he could have amused himself with.’
“‘But, first of all,’ said my father, ‘we ought to know how he has contrived to procure this bulb.’
“I turned my eyes away to avoid my father’s look; but I met those of Jacob.
“It was as if he had tried to read my thoughts at the bottom of my heart.
“Some little show of anger sometimes saves an answer. I shrugged my shoulders, turned my back, and advanced towards the door.
“But I was kept by something which I heard, although it was uttered in a very low voice only.
“Jacob said to my father, —
“‘It would not be so difficult to ascertain that.’
“‘How so?’
“‘You need only search his person: and if he has the other bulbs, we shall find them, as there usually are three suckers!'”
“Three suckers!” cried Cornelius. “Did you say that I have three?”
“The word certainly struck me just as much as it does you. I turned round. They were both of them so deeply engaged in their conversation that they did not observe my movement.
“‘But,’ said my father, ‘perhaps he has not got his bulbs about him?’
“‘Then take him down, under some pretext or other and I will search his cell in the meanwhile.'”
“Halloa, halloa!” said Cornelius. “But this Mr. Jacob of yours is a villain, it seems.”
“I am afraid he is.”
“Tell me, Rosa,” continued Cornelius, with a pensive air.
“What?”
“Did you not tell me that on the day when you prepared your borders this man followed you?”
“So he did.”
“That he glided like a shadow behind the elder trees?”
“Certainly.”
“That not one of your movements escaped him?”
“Not one, indeed.”
“Rosa,” said Cornelius, growing quite pale.
“Well?”
“It was not you he was after.”
“Who else, then?”
“It is not you that he was in love with!”
“But with whom else?”
“He was after my bulb, and is in love with my tulip!”
“You don’t say so! And yet it is very possible,” said Rosa.
“Will you make sure of it?”
“In what manner?”
“Oh, it would be very easy!”
“Tell me.”
“Go to-morrow into the garden; manage matters so that Jacob may know, as he did the first time, that you are going there, and that he may follow you. Feign to put the bulb into the ground; leave the garden, but look through the keyhole of the door and watch him.”
“Well, and what then?”
“What then? We shall do as he does.”
“Oh!” said Rosa, with a sigh, “you are very fond of your bulbs.”
“To tell the truth,” said the prisoner, sighing likewise, “since your father crushed that unfortunate bulb, I feel as if part of my own self had been paralyzed.”
“Now just hear me,” said Rosa; “will you try something else?”
“What?”
“Will you accept the proposition of my father?”
“Which proposition?”
“Did not he offer to you tulip bulbs by hundreds?”
“Indeed he did.”
“Accept two or three, and, along with them, you may grow the third sucker.”
“Yes, that would do very well,” said Cornelius, knitting his brow; “if your father were alone, but there is that Master Jacob, who watches all our ways.”
“Well, that is true; but only think! you are depriving yourself, as I can easily see, of a very great pleasure.”
She pronounced these words with a smile, which was not altogether without a tinge of irony.
Cornelius reflected for a moment; he evidently was struggling against some vehement desire.
“No!” he cried at last, with the stoicism of a Roman of old, “it would be a weakness, it would be a folly, it would be a meanness! If I thus give up the only and last resource which we possess to the uncertain chances of the bad passions of anger and envy, I should never deserve to be forgiven. No, Rosa, no; to-morrow we shall come to a conclusion as to the spot to be chosen for your tulip; you will plant it according to my instructions; and as to the third sucker,” — Cornelius here heaved a deep sigh, — “watch over it as a miser over his first or last piece of gold; as the mother over her child; as the wounded over the last drop of blood in his veins; watch over it, Rosa! Some voice within me tells me that it will be our saving, that it will be a source of good to us.”
“Be easy, Mynheer Cornelius,” said Rosa, with a sweet mixture of melancholy and gravity, “be easy; your wishes are commands to me.”
“And even,” continued Van Baerle, warming more and more with his subject, “if you should perceive that your steps are watched, and that your speech has excited the suspicion of your father and of that detestable Master Jacob, — well, Rosa, don’t hesitate for one moment to sacrifice me, who am only still living through you, — me, who have no one in the world but you; sacrifice me, — don’t come to see me any more.”
Rosa felt her heart sink within her, and her eyes were filling with tears.
“Alas!” she said.
“What is it?” asked Cornelius.
“I see one thing.”
“What do you see?”
“I see,” said she, bursting out in sobs, “I see that you love your tulips with such love as to have no more room in your heart left for other affections.”
Saying this, she fled.
Cornelius, after this, passed one of the worst nights he ever had in his life.
Rosa was vexed with him, and with good reason. Perhaps she would never return to see the prisoner, and then he would have no more news, either of Rosa or of his tulips.
We have to confess, to the disgrace of our hero and of floriculture, that of his two affections he felt most strongly inclined to regret the loss of Rosa; and when, at about three in the morning, he fell asleep overcome with fatigue, and harassed with remorse, the grand black tulip yielded precedence in his dreams to the sweet blue eyes of the fair maid of Friesland.
Chapter 19
The Maid and the Flower
But poor Rosa, in her secluded chamber, could not have known of whom or of what Cornelius was dreaming.
From what he had said she was more ready to believe that he dreamed of the black tulip than of her; and yet Rosa was mistaken.
But as there was no one to tell her so, and as the words of Cornelius’s thoughtless speech had fallen upon her heart like drops of poison, she did not dream, but she wept.
The fact was, that, as Rosa was a high-spirited creature, of no mean perception and a noble heart, she took a very clear and judicious view of her own social position, if not of her moral and physical qualities.
Cornelius was a scholar, and was wealthy, — at least he had been before the confiscation of his property; Cornelius belonged to the merchant-bourgeoisie, who were prouder of their richly emblazoned shop signs than the hereditary nobility of their heraldic bearings. Therefore, although he might find Rosa a pleasant companion for the dreary hours of his captivity, when it came to a question of bestowing his heart it was almost certain that he would bestow it upon a tulip, — that is to say, upon the proudest and noblest of flowers, rather than upon poor Rosa, the jailer’s lowly child.
Thus Rosa understood Cornelius’s preference of the tulip to herself, but was only so much the more unhappy therefor.
During the whole of this terrible night the poor girl did not close an eye, and before she rose in the morning she had come to the resolution of making her appearance at the grated window no more.
But as she knew with what ardent desire Cornelius looked forward to the news about his tulip; and as, notwithstanding her determination not to see any more a man her pity for whose fate was fast growing into love, she did not, on the other hand, wish to drive him to despair, she resolved to continue by herself the reading and writing lessons; and, fortunately, she had made sufficient progress to dispense with the help of a master when the master was not to be Cornelius.
Rosa therefore applied herself most diligently to reading poor Cornelius de Witt’s Bible, on the second fly leaf of which the last will of Cornelius van Baerle was written.
“Alas!” she muttered, when perusing again this document, which she never finished without a tear, the pearl of love, rolling from her limpid eyes on her pale cheeks — “alas! at that time I thought for one moment he loved me.”
Poor Rosa! she was mistaken. Never had the love of the prisoner been more sincere than at the time at which we are now arrived, when in the contest between the black tulip and Rosa the tulip had had to yield to her the first and foremost place in Cornelius’s heart.
But Rosa was not aware of it.
Having finished reading, she took her pen, and began with as laudable diligence the by far more difficult task of writing.
As, however, Rosa was already able to write a legible hand when Cornelius so uncautiously opened his heart, she did not despair of progressing quickly enough to write, after eight days at the latest, to the prisoner an account of his tulip.
She had not forgotten one word of the directions given to her by Cornelius, whose speeches she treasured in her heart, even when they did not take the shape of directions.
He, on his part, awoke deeper in love than ever. The tulip, indeed, was still a luminous and prominent object in his mind; but he no longer looked upon it as a treasure to which he ought to sacrifice everything, and even Rosa, but as a marvellous combination of nature and art with which he would have been happy to adorn the bosom of his beloved one.
Yet during the whole of that day he was haunted with a vague uneasiness, at the bottom of which was the fear lest Rosa should not come in the evening to pay him her usual visit. This thought took more and more hold of him, until at the approach of evening his whole mind was absorbed in it.
How his heart beat when darkness closed in! The words which he had said to Rosa on the evening before and which had so deeply afflicted her, now came back to his mind more vividly than ever, and he asked himself how he could have told his gentle comforter to sacrifice him to his tulip, — that is to say, to give up seeing him, if need be, — whereas to him the sight of Rosa had become a condition of life.
In Cornelius’s cell one heard the chimes of the clock of the fortress. It struck seven, it struck eight, it struck nine. Never did the metal voice vibrate more forcibly through the heart of any man than did the last stroke, marking the ninth hour, through the heart of Cornelius.
All was then silent again. Cornelius put his hand on his heart, to repress as it were its violent palpitation, and listened.
The noise of her footstep, the rustling of her gown on the staircase, were so familiar to his ear, that she had no sooner mounted one step than he used to say to himself, —
“Here comes Rosa.”
This evening none of those little noises broke the silence of the lobby, the clock struck nine, and a quarter; the half-hour, then a quarter to ten, and at last its deep tone announced, not only to the inmates of the fortress, but also to all the inhabitants of Loewestein, that it was ten.
This was the hour at which Rosa generally used to leave Cornelius. The hour had struck, but Rosa had not come.
Thus then his foreboding had not deceived him; Rosa, being vexed, shut herself up in her room and left him to himself.
“Alas!” he thought, “I have deserved all this. She will come no more, and she is right in staying away; in her place I should do just the same.”
Yet notwithstanding all this, Cornelius listened, waited, and hoped until midnight, then he threw himself upon the bed, with his clothes on.
It was a long and sad night for him, and the day brought no hope to the prisoner.
At eight in the morning, the door of his cell opened; but Cornelius did not even turn his head; he had heard the heavy step of Gryphus in the lobby, but this step had perfectly satisfied the prisoner that his jailer was coming alone.
Thus Cornelius did not even look at Gryphus.
And yet he would have been so glad to draw him out, and to inquire about Rosa. He even very nearly made this inquiry, strange as it would needs have appeared to her father. To tell the truth, there was in all this some selfish hope to hear from Gryphus that his daughter was ill.
Except on extraordinary occasions, Rosa never came during the day. Cornelius therefore did not really expect her as long as the day lasted. Yet his sudden starts, his listening at the door, his rapid glances at every little noise towards the grated window, showed clearly that the prisoner entertained some latent hope that Rosa would, somehow or other, break her rule.
At the second visit of Gryphus, Cornelius, contrary to all his former habits, asked the old jailer, with the most winning voice, about her health; but Gryphus contented himself with giving the laconical answer, —
“All’s well.”
At the third visit of the day, Cornelius changed his former inquiry: —
“I hope nobody is ill at Loewestein?”
“Nobody,” replied, even more laconically, the jailer, shutting the door before the nose of the prisoner.
Gryphus, being little used to this sort of civility on the part of Cornelius, began to suspect that his prisoner was about to try and bribe him.
Cornelius was now alone once more; it was seven o’clock in the evening, and the anxiety of yesterday returned with increased intensity.
But another time the hours passed away without bringing the sweet vision which lighted up, through the grated window, the cell of poor Cornelius, and which, in retiring, left light enough in his heart to last until it came back again.
Van Baerle passed the night in an agony of despair. On the following day Gryphus appeared to him even more hideous, brutal, and hateful than usual; in his mind, or rather in his heart, there had been some hope that it was the old man who prevented his daughter from coming.
In his wrath he would have strangled Gryphus, but would not this have separated him for ever from Rosa?
The evening closing in, his despair changed into melancholy, which was the more gloomy as, involuntarily, Van Baerle mixed up with it the thought of his poor tulip. It was now just that week in April which the most experienced gardeners point out as the precise time when tulips ought to be planted. He had said to Rosa, —
“I shall tell you the day when you are to put the bulb in the ground.”
He had intended to fix, at the vainly hoped for interview, the following day as the time for that momentous operation. The weather was propitious; the air, though still damp, began to be tempered by those pale rays of the April sun which, being the first, appear so congenial, although so pale. How if Rosa allowed the right moment for planting the bulb to pass by, — if, in addition to the grief of seeing her no more, he should have to deplore the misfortune of seeing his tulip fail on account of its having been planted too late, or of its not having been planted at all!
These two vexations combined might well make him leave off eating and drinking.
This was the case on the fourth day.
It was pitiful to see Cornelius, dumb with grief, and pale from utter prostration, stretch out his head through the iron bars of his window, at the risk of not being able to draw it back again, to try and get a glimpse of the garden on the left spoken of by Rosa, who had told him that its parapet overlooked the river. He hoped that perhaps he might see, in the light of the April sun, Rosa or the tulip, the two lost objects of his love.
In the evening, Gryphus took away the breakfast and dinner of Cornelius, who had scarcely touched them.
On the following day he did not touch them at all, and Gryphus carried the dishes away just as he had brought them.
Cornelius had remained in bed the whole day.
“Well,” said Gryphus, coming down from the last visit, “I think we shall soon get rid of our scholar.”
Rosa was startled.
“Nonsense!” said Jacob. “What do you mean?”
“He doesn’t drink, he doesn’t eat, he doesn’t leave his bed. He will get out of it, like Mynheer Grotius, in a chest, only the chest will be a coffin.”
Rosa grew pale as death.
“Ah!” she said to herself, “he is uneasy about his tulip.”
And, rising with a heavy heart, she returned to her chamber, where she took a pen and paper, and during the whole of that night busied herself with tracing letters.
On the following morning, when Cornelius got up to drag himself to the window, he perceived a paper which had been slipped under the door.
He pounced upon it, opened it, and read the following words, in a handwriting which he could scarcely have recognized as that of Rosa, so much had she improved during her short absence of seven days, —
“Be easy; your tulip is going on well.”
Although these few words of Rosa’s somewhat soothed the grief of Cornelius, yet he felt not the less the irony which was at the bottom of them. Rosa, then, was not ill, she was offended; she had not been forcibly prevented from coming, but had voluntarily stayed away. Thus Rosa, being at liberty, found in her own will the force not to come and see him, who was dying with grief at not having seen her.
Cornelius had paper and a pencil which Rosa had brought to him. He guessed that she expected an answer, but that she would not come before the evening to fetch it. He therefore wrote on a piece of paper, similar to that which he had received, —
“It was not my anxiety about the tulip that has made me ill, but the grief at not seeing you.”
After Gryphus had made his last visit of the day, and darkness had set in, he slipped the paper under the door, and listened with the most intense attention, but he neither heard Rosa’s footsteps nor the rustling of her gown.
He only heard a voice as feeble as a breath, and gentle like a caress, which whispered through the grated little window in the door the word, —
“To-morrow!”
Now to-morrow was the eighth day. For eight days Cornelius and Rosa had not seen each other.
Chapter 20
The Events which took place during those Eight Days
On the following evening, at the usual hour, Van Baerle heard some one scratch at the grated little window, just as Rosa had been in the habit of doing in the heyday of their friendship.
Cornelius being, as may easily be imagined, not far off from the door, perceived Rosa, who at last was waiting again for him with her lamp in her hand.
Seeing him so sad and pale, she was startled, and said, —
“You are ill, Mynheer Cornelius?”
“Yes, I am,” he answered, as indeed he was suffering in mind and in body.
“I saw that you did not eat,” said Rosa; “my father told me that you remained in bed all day. I then wrote to calm your uneasiness concerning the fate of the most precious object of your anxiety.”
“And I,” said Cornelius, “I have answered. Seeing your return, my dear Rosa, I thought you had received my letter.”
“It is true; I have received it.”
“You cannot this time excuse yourself with not being able to read. Not only do you read very fluently, but also you have made marvellous progress in writing.”
“Indeed, I have not only received, but also read your note. Accordingly I am come to see whether there might not be some remedy to restore you to health.”
“Restore me to health?” cried Cornelius; “but have you any good news to communicate to me?”
Saying this, the poor prisoner looked at Rosa, his eyes sparkling with hope.
Whether she did not, or would not, understand this look, Rosa answered gravely, —
“I have only to speak to you about your tulip, which, as I well know, is the object uppermost in your mind.”
Rosa pronounced those few words in a freezing tone, which cut deeply into the heart of Cornelius. He did not suspect what lay hidden under this appearance of indifference with which the poor girl affected to speak of her rival, the black tulip.
“Oh!” muttered Cornelius, “again! again! Have I not told you, Rosa, that I thought but of you? that it was you alone whom I regretted, you whom I missed, you whose absence I felt more than the loss of liberty and of life itself?”
Rosa smiled with a melancholy air.
“Ah!” she said, “your tulip has been in such danger.”
Cornelius trembled involuntarily, and showed himself clearly to be caught in the trap, if ever the remark was meant as such.
“Danger!” he cried, quite alarmed; “what danger?”
Rosa looked at him with gentle compassion; she felt that what she wished was beyond the power of this man, and that he must be taken as he was, with his little foible.
“Yes,” she said, “you have guessed the truth; that suitor and amorous swain, Jacob, did not come on my account.”
“And what did he come for?” Cornelius anxiously asked.
“He came for the sake of the tulip.”
“Alas!” said Cornelius, growing even paler at this piece of information than he had been when Rosa, a fortnight before, had told him that Jacob was coming for her sake.
Rosa saw this alarm, and Cornelius guessed, from the expression of her face, in what direction her thoughts were running.
“Oh, pardon me, Rosa!” he said, “I know you, and I am well aware of the kindness and sincerity of your heart. To you God has given the thought and strength for defending yourself; but to my poor tulip, when it is in danger, God has given nothing of the sort.”
Rosa, without replying to this excuse of the prisoner, continued, —
“From the moment when I first knew that you were uneasy on account of the man who followed me, and in whom I had recognized Jacob, I was even more uneasy myself. On the day, therefore, after that on which I saw you last, and on which you said — “
Cornelius interrupted her.
“Once more, pardon me, Rosa!” he cried. “I was wrong in saying to you what I said. I have asked your pardon for that unfortunate speech before. I ask it again: shall I always ask it in vain?”
“On the following day,” Rosa continued, “remembering what you had told me about the stratagem which I was to employ to ascertain whether that odious man was after the tulip, or after me —- “
“Yes, yes, odious. Tell me,” he said, “do you hate that man?”
“I do hate him,” said Rosa, “as he is the cause of all the unhappiness I have suffered these eight days.”
“You, too, have been unhappy, Rosa? I thank you a thousand times for this kind confession.”
“Well, on the day after that unfortunate one, I went down into the garden and proceeded towards the border where I was to plant your tulip, looking round all the while to see whether I was again followed as I was last time.”
“And then?” Cornelius asked.
“And then the same shadow glided between the gate and the wall, and once more disappeared behind the elder-trees.”
“You feigned not to see him, didn’t you?” Cornelius asked, remembering all the details of the advice which he had given to Rosa.
“Yes, and I stooped over the border, in which I dug with a spade, as if I was going to put the bulb in.”
“And he, — what did he do during all this time?”
“I saw his eyes glisten through the branches of the tree like those of a tiger.”
“There you see, there you see!” cried Cornelius.
“Then, after having finished my make-believe work, I retired.”
“But only behind the garden door, I dare say, so that you might see through the keyhole what he was going to do when you had left?”
“He waited for a moment, very likely to make sure of my not coming back, after which he sneaked forth from his hiding-place, and approached the border by a long round-about; at last, having reached his goal, that is to say, the spot where the ground was newly turned, he stopped with a careless air, looking about in all directions, and scanning every corner of the garden, every window of the neighbouring houses, and even the sky; after which, thinking himself quite alone, quite isolated, and out of everybody’s sight, he pounced upon the border, plunged both his hands into the soft soil, took a handful of the mould, which he gently frittered between his fingers to see whether the bulb was in it, and repeated the same thing twice or three times, until at last he perceived that he was outwitted. Then, keeping down the agitation which was raging in his breast, he took up the rake, smoothed the ground, so as to leave it on his retiring in the same state as he had found it, and, quite abashed and rueful, walked back to the door, affecting the unconcerned air of an ordinary visitor of the garden.”
“Oh, the wretch!” muttered Cornelius, wiping the cold sweat from his brow. “Oh, the wretch! I guessed his intentions. But the bulb, Rosa; what have you done with it? It is already rather late to plant it.”
“The bulb? It has been in the ground for these six days.”
“Where? and how?” cried Cornelius. “Good Heaven, what imprudence! What is it? In what sort of soil is it? It what aspect? Good or bad? Is there no risk of having it filched by that detestable Jacob?”
“There is no danger of its being stolen,” said Rosa, “unless Jacob will force the door of my chamber.”
“Oh! then it is with you in your bedroom?” said Cornelius, somewhat relieved. “But in what soil? in what vessel? You don’t let it grow, I hope, in water like those good ladies of Haarlem and Dort, who imagine that water could replace the earth?”
“You may make yourself comfortable on that score,” said Rosa, smiling; “your bulb is not growing in water.”
“I breathe again.”
“It is in a good, sound stone pot, just about the size of the jug in which you had planted yours. The soil is composed of three parts of common mould, taken from the best spot of the garden, and one of the sweepings of the road. I have heard you and that detestable Jacob, as you call him, so often talk about what is the soil best fitted for growing tulips, that I know it as well as the first gardener of Haarlem.”
“And now what is the aspect, Rosa?”
“At present it has the sun all day long, — that is to say when the sun shines. But when it once peeps out of the ground, I shall do as you have done here, dear Mynheer Cornelius: I shall put it out of my window on the eastern side from eight in the morning until eleven and in my window towards the west from three to five in the afternoon.”
“That’s it! that’s it!” cried Cornelius; “and you are a perfect gardener, my pretty Rosa. But I am afraid the nursing of my tulip will take up all your time.”
“Yes, it will,” said Rosa; “but never mind. Your tulip is my daughter. I shall devote to it the same time as I should to a child of mine, if I were a mother. Only by becoming its mother,” Rosa added, smilingly, “can I cease to be its rival.”
“My kind and pretty Rosa!” muttered Cornelius casting on her a glance in which there was much more of the lover than of the gardener, and which afforded Rosa some consolation.
Then, after a silence of some moments, during which Cornelius had grasped through the openings of the grating for the receding hand of Rosa, he said, —
“Do you mean to say that the bulb has now been in the ground for six days?”
“Yes, six days, Mynheer Cornelius,” she answered.
“And it does not yet show leaf”
“No, but I think it will to-morrow.”
“Well, then, to-morrow you will bring me news about it, and about yourself, won’t you, Rosa? I care very much for the daughter, as you called it just now, but I care even much more for the mother.”
“To-morrow?” said Rosa, looking at Cornelius askance. “I don’t know whether I shall be able to come to-morrow.”
“Good heavens!” said Cornelius, “why can’t you come to-morrow?”
“Mynheer Cornelius, I have lots of things to do.”
“And I have only one,” muttered Cornelius.
“Yes,” said Rosa, “to love your tulip.”
“To love you, Rosa.”
Rosa shook her head, after which followed a pause.
“Well,” — Cornelius at last broke the silence, — “well, Rosa, everything changes in the realm of nature; the flowers of spring are succeeded by other flowers; and the bees, which so tenderly caressed the violets and the wall-flowers, will flutter with just as much love about the honey-suckles, the rose, the jessamine, and the carnation.”
“What does all this mean?” asked Rosa.
“You have abandoned me, Miss Rosa, to seek your pleasure elsewhere. You have done well, and I will not complain. What claim have I to your fidelity?”
“My fidelity!” Rosa exclaimed, with her eyes full of tears, and without caring any longer to hide from Cornelius this dew of pearls dropping on her cheeks, “my fidelity! have I not been faithful to you?”
“Do you call it faithful to desert me, and to leave me here to die?”
“But, Mynheer Cornelius,” said Rosa, “am I not doing everything for you that could give you pleasure? have I not devoted myself to your tulip?”
“You are bitter, Rosa, you reproach me with the only unalloyed pleasure which I have had in this world.”
“I reproach you with nothing, Mynheer Cornelius, except, perhaps, with the intense grief which I felt when people came to tell me at the Buytenhof that you were about to be put to death.”
“You are displeased, Rosa, my sweet girl, with my loving flowers.”
“I am not displeased with your loving them, Mynheer Cornelius, only it makes me sad to think that you love them better than you do me.”
“Oh, my dear, dear Rosa! look how my hands tremble; look at my pale cheek, hear how my heart beats. It is for you, my love, not for the black tulip. Destroy the bulb, destroy the germ of that flower, extinguish the gentle light of that innocent and delightful dream, to which I have accustomed myself; but love me, Rosa, love me; for I feel deeply that I love but you.”
“Yes, after the black tulip,” sighed Rosa, who at last no longer coyly withdrew her warm hands from the grating, as Cornelius most affectionately kissed them.
“Above and before everything in this world, Rosa.”
“May I believe you?”
“As you believe in your own existence.”
“Well, then, be it so; but loving me does not bind you too much.”
“Unfortunately, it does not bind me more than I am bound; but it binds you, Rosa, you.”
“To what?”
“First of all, not to marry.”
She smiled.
“That’s your way,” she said; “you are tyrants all of you. You worship a certain beauty, you think of nothing but her. Then you are condemned to death, and whilst walking to the scaffold, you devote to her your last sigh; and now you expect poor me to sacrifice to you all my dreams and my happiness.”
“But who is the beauty you are talking of, Rosa?” said Cornelius, trying in vain to remember a woman to whom Rosa might possibly be alluding.
“The dark beauty with a slender waist, small feet, and a noble head; in short, I am speaking of your flower.”
Cornelius smiled.
“That is an imaginary lady love, at all events; whereas, without counting that amorous Jacob, you by your own account are surrounded with all sorts of swains eager to make love to you. Do you remember Rosa, what you told me of the students, officers, and clerks of the Hague? Are there no clerks, officers, or students at Loewestein?”
“Indeed there are, and lots of them.”
“Who write letters?”
“They do write.”
“And now, as you know how to read —- “
Here Cornelius heaved a sigh at the thought, that, poor captive as he was, to him alone Rosa owed the faculty of reading the love-letters which she received.
“As to that,” said Rosa, “I think that in reading the notes addressed to me, and passing the different swains in review who send them to me, I am only following your instructions.”
“How so? My instructions?”
“Indeed, your instructions, sir,” said Rosa, sighing in her turn; “have you forgotten the will written by your hand on the Bible of Cornelius de Witt? I have not forgotten it; for now, as I know how to read, I read it every day over and over again. In that will you bid me to love and marry a handsome young man of twenty-six or eight years. I am on the look-out for that young man, and as the whole of my day is taken up with your tulip, you must needs leave me the evenings to find him.”
“But, Rosa, the will was made in the expectation of death, and, thanks to Heaven, I am still alive.”
“Well, then, I shall not be after the handsome young man, and I shall come to see you.”
“That’s it, Rosa, come! come!”
“Under one condition.”
“Granted beforehand!”
“That the black tulip shall not be mentioned for the next three days.”
“It shall never be mentioned any more, if you wish it, Rosa.”
“No, no,” the damsel said, laughing, “I will not ask for impossibilities.”
And, saying this, she brought her fresh cheek, as if unconsciously, so near the iron grating, that Cornelius was able to touch it with his lips.
Rosa uttered a little scream, which, however, was full of love, and disappeared.
Chapter 21
The Second Bulb
The night was a happy one, and the whole of the next day happier still.
During the last few days, the prison had been heavy, dark, and lowering, as it were, with all its weight on the unfortunate captive. Its walls were black, its air chilling, the iron bars seemed to exclude every ray of light.
But when Cornelius awoke next morning, a beam of the morning sun was playing about those iron bars; pigeons were hovering about with outspread wings, whilst others were lovingly cooing on the roof or near the still closed window.
Cornelius ran to that window and opened it; it seemed to him as if new life, and joy, and liberty itself were entering with this sunbeam into his cell, which, so dreary of late, was now cheered and irradiated by the light of love.
When Gryphus, therefore, came to see his prisoner in the morning, he no longer found him morose and lying in bed, but standing at the window, and singing a little ditty.
“Halloa!” exclaimed the jailer.
“How are you this morning?” asked Cornelius.
Gryphus looked at him with a scowl.
“And how is the dog, and Master Jacob, and our pretty Rosa?”
Gryphus ground his teeth, saying. —
“Here is your breakfast.”
“Thank you, friend Cerberus,” said the prisoner; “you are just in time; I am very hungry.”
“Oh! you are hungry, are you?” said Gryphus.
“And why not?” asked Van Baerle.
“The conspiracy seems to thrive,” remarked Gryphus.
“What conspiracy?”
“Very well, I know what I know, Master Scholar; just be quiet, we shall be on our guard.”
“Be on your guard, friend Gryphus; be on your guard as long as you please; my conspiracy, as well as my person, is entirely at your service.”
“We’ll see that at noon.”
Saying this, Gryphus went out.
“At noon?” repeated Cornelius; “what does that mean? Well, let us wait until the clock strikes twelve, and we shall see.”
It was very easy for Cornelius to wait for twelve at midday, as he was already waiting for nine at night.
It struck twelve, and there were heard on the staircase not only the steps of Gryphus, but also those of three or four soldiers, who were coming up with him.
The door opened. Gryphus entered, led his men in, and shut the door after them.
“There, now search!”
They searched not only the pockets of Cornelius, but even his person; yet they found nothing.
They then searched the sheets, the mattress, and the straw mattress of his bed; and again they found nothing.
Now, Cornelius rejoiced that he had not taken the third sucker under his own care. Gryphus would have been sure to ferret it out in the search, and would then have treated it as he did the first.
And certainly never did prisoner look with greater complacency at a search made in his cell than Cornelius.
Gryphus retired with the pencil and the two or three leaves of white paper which Rosa had given to Van Baerle, this was the only trophy brought back from the expedition.
At six Gryphus came back again, but alone; Cornelius tried to propitiate him, but Gryphus growled, showed a large tooth like a tusk, which he had in the corner of his mouth, and went out backwards, like a man who is afraid of being attacked from behind.
Cornelius burst out laughing, to which Gryphus answered through the grating, —
“Let him laugh that wins.”
The winner that day was Cornelius; Rosa came at nine.
She was without a lantern. She needed no longer a light, as she could now read. Moreover, the light might betray her, as Jacob was dogging her steps more than ever. And lastly, the light would have shown her blushes.
Of what did the young people speak that evening? Of those matters of which lovers speak at the house doors in France, or from a balcony into the street in Spain, or down from a terrace into a garden in the East.
They spoke of those things which give wings to the hours; they spoke of everything except the black tulip.
At last, when the clock struck ten, they parted as usual.
Cornelius was happy, as thoroughly happy as a tulip-fancier would be to whom one has not spoken of his tulip.
He found Rosa pretty, good, graceful, and charming.
But why did Rosa object to the tulip being spoken of?
This was indeed a great defect in Rosa.
Cornelius confessed to himself, sighing, that woman was not perfect.
Part of the night he thought of this imperfection; that is to say, so long as he was awake he thought of Rosa.
After having fallen asleep, he dreamed of her.
But the Rosa of his dreams was by far more perfect than the Rosa of real life. Not only did the Rosa of his dreams speak of the tulip, but also brought to him a black one in a china vase.
Cornelius then awoke, trembling with joy, and muttering, —
“Rosa, Rosa, I love you.”
And as it was already day, he thought it right not to fall asleep again, and he continued following up the line of thought in which his mind was engaged when he awoke.
Ah! if Rosa had only conversed about the tulip, Cornelius would have preferred her to Queen Semiramis, to Queen Cleopatra, to Queen Elizabeth, to Queen Anne of Austria; that is to say, to the greatest or most beautiful queens whom the world has seen.
But Rosa had forbidden it under pain of not returning; Rosa had forbidden the least mention of the tulip for three days. That meant seventy-two hours given to the lover to be sure; but it was seventy-two hours stolen from the horticulturist.
There was one consolation: of the seventy-two hours during which Rosa would not allow the tulip to be mentioned, thirty-six had passed already; and the remaining thirty-six would pass quickly enough: eighteen with waiting for the evening’s interview, and eighteen with rejoicing in its remembrance.
Rosa came at the same hour, and Cornelius submitted most heroically to the pangs which the compulsory silence concerning the tulip gave him.
His fair visitor, however, was well aware that, to command on the one point, people must yield on another; she therefore no longer drew back her hands from the grating, and even allowed Cornelius tenderly to kiss her beautiful golden tresses.
Poor girl! she had no idea that these playful little lovers’ tricks were much more dangerous than speaking of the tulip was; but she became aware of the fact as she returned with a beating heart, with glowing cheeks, dry lips, and moist eyes.
And on the following evening, after the first exchange of salutations, she retired a step, looking at him with a glance, the expression of which would have rejoiced his heart could he but have seen it.
“Well,” she said, “she is up.”
“She is up! Who? What?” asked Cornelius, who did not venture on a belief that Rosa would, of her own accord, have abridged the term of his probation.
“She? Well, my daughter, the tulip,” said Rosa.
“What!” cried Cornelius, “you give me permission, then?”
“I do,” said Rosa, with the tone of an affectionate mother who grants a pleasure to her child.
“Ah, Rosa!” said Cornelius, putting his lips to the grating with the hope of touching a cheek, a hand, a forehead, — anything, in short.
He touched something much better, — two warm and half open lips.
Rosa uttered a slight scream.
Cornelius understood that he must make haste to continue the conversation. He guessed that this unexpected kiss had frightened Rosa.
“Is it growing up straight?”
“Straight as a rocket,” said Rosa.
“How high?”
“At least two inches.”
“Oh, Rosa, take good care of it, and we shall soon see it grow quickly.”
“Can I take more care of it?” said she. “Indeed, I think of nothing else but the tulip.”
“Of nothing else, Rosa? Why, now I shall grow jealous in my turn.”
“Oh, you know that to think of the tulip is to think of you; I never lose sight of it. I see it from my bed, on awaking it is the first object that meets my eyes, and on falling asleep the last on which they rest. During the day I sit and work by its side, for I have never left my chamber since I put it there.”
“You are right Rosa, it is your dowry, you know.”
“Yes, and with it I may marry a young man of twenty-six or twenty-eight years, whom I shall be in love with.”
“Don’t talk in that way, you naughty girl.”
That evening Cornelius was one of the happiest of men. Rosa allowed him to press her hand in his, and to keep it as long as he would, besides which he might talk of his tulip as much as he liked.
From that hour every day marked some progress in the growth of the tulip and in the affection of the two young people.
At one time it was that the leaves had expanded, and at another that the flower itself had formed.
Great was the joy of Cornelius at this news, and his questions succeeded one another with a rapidity which gave proof of their importance.
“Formed!” exclaimed Cornelius, “is it really formed?”
“It is,” repeated Rosa.
Cornelius trembled with joy, so much so that he was obliged to hold by the grating.
“Good heavens!” he exclaimed.
Then, turning again to Rosa, he continued his questions.
“Is the oval regular? the cylinder full? and are the points very green?”
“The oval is almost one inch long, and tapers like a needle, the cylinder swells at the sides, and the points are ready to open.”
Two days after Rosa announced that they were open.
“Open, Rosa!” cried Cornelius. “Is the involucrum open? but then one may see and already distinguish —- “
Here the prisoner paused, anxiously taking breath.
“Yes,” answered Rosa, “one may already distinguish a thread of different colour, as thin as a hair.”
“And its colour?” asked Cornelius, trembling.
“Oh,” answered Rosa, “it is very dark!”
“Brown?”
“Darker than that.”
“Darker, my good Rosa, darker? Thank you. Dark as —- “
“Dark as the ink with which I wrote to you.”
Cornelius uttered a cry of mad joy.
Then, suddenly stopping and clasping his hands, he said, —
“Oh, there is not an angel in heaven that may be compared to you, Rosa!”
“Indeed!” said Rosa, smiling at his enthusiasm.
“Rosa, you have worked with such ardour, — you have done so much for me! Rosa, my tulip is about to flower, and it will flower black! Rosa, Rosa, you are the most perfect being on earth!”
“After the tulip, though.”
“Ah! be quiet, you malicious little creature, be quiet! For shame! Do not spoil my pleasure. But tell me, Rosa, — as the tulip is so far advanced, it will flower in two or three days, at the latest?”
“To-morrow, or the day after.”
“Ah! and I shall not see it,” cried Cornelius, starting back, “I shall not kiss it, as a wonderful work of the Almighty, as I kiss your hand and your cheek, Rosa, when by chance they are near the grating.”
Rosa drew near, not by accident, but intentionally, and Cornelius kissed her tenderly.
“Faith, I shall cull it, if you wish it.”
“Oh, no, no, Rosa! when it is open, place it carefully in the shade, and immediately send a message to Haarlem, to the President of the Horticultural Society, that the grand black tulip is in flower. I know well it is far to Haarlem, but with money you will find a messenger. Have you any money, Rosa?”
Rosa smiled.
“Oh, yes!” she said.
“Enough?” said Cornelius.
“I have three hundred guilders.”
“Oh, if you have three hundred guilders, you must not send a messenger, Rosa, but you must go to Haarlem yourself.”
“But what in the meantime is to become of the flower?”
“Oh, the flower! you must take it with you. You understand that you must not separate from it for an instant.”
“But whilst I am not separating from it, I am separating from you, Mynheer Cornelius.”
“Ah! that’s true, my sweet Rosa. Oh, my God! how wicked men are! What have I done to offend them, and why have they deprived me of my liberty? You are right, Rosa, I cannot live without you. Well, you will send some one to Haarlem, — that’s settled; really, the matter is wonderful enough for the President to put himself to some trouble. He will come himself to Loewestein to see the tulip.”
Then, suddenly checking himself, he said, with a faltering voice, —
“Rosa, Rosa, if after all it should not flower black!”
“Oh, surely, surely, you will know to-morrow, or the day after.”
“And to wait until evening to know it, Rosa! I shall die with impatience. Could we not agree about a signal?”
“I shall do better than that.”
“What will you do?”
“If it opens at night, I shall come and tell you myself. If it is day, I shall pass your door, and slip you a note either under the door, or through the grating, during the time between my father’s first and second inspection.”
“Yes, Rosa, let it be so. One word of yours, announcing this news to me, will be a double happiness.”
“There, ten o’clock strikes,” said Rosa, “I must now leave you.”
“Yes, yes,” said Cornelius, “go, Rosa, go!”
Rosa withdrew, almost melancholy, for Cornelius had all but sent her away.
It is true that he did so in order that she might watch over his black tulip.
Chapter 22
The Opening of the Flower
The night passed away very sweetly for Cornelius, although in great agitation. Every instant he fancied he heard the gentle voice of Rosa calling him. He then started up, went to the door, and looked through the grating, but no one was behind it, and the lobby was empty.
Rosa, no doubt, would be watching too, but, happier than he, she watched over the tulip; she had before her eyes that noble flower, that wonder of wonders. which not only was unknown, but was not even thought possible until then.
What would the world say when it heard that the black tulip was found, that it existed and that it was the prisoner Van Baerle who had found it?
How Cornelius would have spurned the offer of his liberty in exchange for his tulip!
Day came, without any news; the tulip was not yet in flower.
The day passed as the night. Night came, and with it Rosa, joyous and cheerful as a bird.
“Well?” asked Cornelius.
“Well, all is going on prosperously. This night, without any doubt, our tulip will be in flower.”
“And will it flower black?”
“Black as jet.”
“Without a speck of any other colour.”
“Without one speck.”
“Good Heavens! my dear Rosa, I have been dreaming all night, in the first place of you,” (Rosa made a sign of incredulity,) “and then of what we must do.”
“Well?”
“Well, and I will tell you now what I have decided on. The tulip once being in flower, and it being quite certain that it is perfectly black, you must find a messenger.”
“If it is no more than that, I have a messenger quite ready.”
“Is he safe?”
“One for whom I will answer, — he is one of my lovers.”
“I hope not Jacob.”
“No, be quiet, it is the ferryman of Loewestein, a smart young man of twenty-five.”
“By Jove!”
“Be quiet,” said Rosa, smiling, “he is still under age, as you have yourself fixed it from twenty-six to twenty-eight.”
“In fine, do you think you may rely on this young man?”
“As on myself; he would throw himself into the Waal or the Meuse if I bade him.”
“Well, Rosa, this lad may be at Haarlem in ten hours; you will give me paper and pencil, and, perhaps better still, pen and ink, and I will write, or rather, on second thoughts, you will, for if I did, being a poor prisoner, people might, like your father, see a conspiracy in it. You will write to the President of the Horticultural Society, and I am sure he will come.”
“But if he tarries?”
“Well, let us suppose that he tarries one day, or even two; but it is impossible. A tulip-fancier like him will not tarry one hour, not one minute, not one second, to set out to see the eighth wonder of the world. But, as I said, if he tarried one or even two days, the tulip will still be in its full splendour. The flower once being seen by the President, and the protocol being drawn up, all is in order; you will only keep a duplicate of the protocol, and intrust the tulip to him. Ah! if we had been able to carry it ourselves, Rosa, it would never have left my hands but to pass into yours; but this is a dream, which we must not entertain,” continued Cornelius with a sigh, “the eyes of strangers will see it flower to the last. And above all, Rosa, before the President has seen it, let it not be seen by any one. Alas! if any one saw the black tulip, it would be stolen.”
“Oh!”
“Did you not tell me yourself of what you apprehended from your lover Jacob? People will steal one guilder, why not a hundred thousand?”
“I shall watch; be quiet.”
“But if it opened whilst you were here?”
“The whimsical little thing would indeed be quite capable of playing such a trick,” said Rosa.
“And if on your return you find it open?”
“Well?”
“Oh, Rosa, whenever it opens, remember that not a moment must be lost in apprising the President.”
“And in apprising you. Yes, I understand.”
Rosa sighed, yet without any bitter feeling, but rather like a woman who begins to understand a foible, and to accustom herself to it.
“I return to your tulip, Mynheer van Baerle, and as soon as it opens I will give you news, which being done the messenger will set out immediately.”
“Rosa, Rosa, I don’t know to what wonder under the sun I shall compare you.”
“Compare me to the black tulip, and I promise you I shall feel very much flattered. Good night, then, till we meet again, Mynheer Cornelius.”
“Oh, say ‘Good night, my friend.'”
“Good night, my friend,” said Rosa, a little consoled.
“Say, ‘My very dear friend.'”
“Oh, my friend — “
“Very dear friend, I entreat you, say ‘very dear,’ Rosa, very dear.”
“Very dear, yes, very dear,” said Rosa, with a beating heart, beyond herself with happiness.
“And now that you have said ‘very dear,’ dear Rosa, say also ‘most happy’: say ‘happier and more blessed than ever man was under the sun.’ I only lack one thing, Rosa.”
“And that is?”
“Your cheek, — your fresh cheek, your soft, rosy cheek. Oh, Rosa, give it me of your own free will, and not by chance. Ah!”
The prisoner’s prayer ended in a sigh of ecstasy; his lips met those of the maiden, — not by chance, nor by stratagem, but as Saint-Preux’s was to meet the lips of Julie a hundred years later.
Rosa made her escape.
Cornelius stood with his heart upon his lips, and his face glued to the wicket in the door.
He was fairly choking with happiness and joy. He opened his window, and gazed long, with swelling heart, at the cloudless vault of heaven, and the moon, which shone like silver upon the two-fold stream flowing from far beyond the hills. He filled his lungs with the pure, sweet air, while his brain dwelt upon thoughts of happiness, and his heart overflowed with gratitude and religious fervour.
“Oh Thou art always watching from on high, my God,” he cried, half prostrate, his glowing eyes fixed upon the stars: “forgive me that I almost doubted Thy existence during these latter days, for Thou didst hide Thy face behind the clouds, and wert for a moment lost to my sight, O Thou merciful God, Thou pitying Father everlasting! But to-day, this evening, and to-night, again I see Thee in all Thy wondrous glory in the mirror of Thy heavenly abode, and more clearly still in the mirror of my grateful heart.”
He was well again, the poor invalid; the wretched captive was free once more.
During part of the night Cornelius, with his heart full of joy and delight, remained at his window, gazing at the stars, and listening for every sound.
Then casting a glance from time to time towards the lobby, —
“Down there,” he said, “is Rosa, watching like myself, and waiting from minute to minute; down there, under Rosa’s eyes, is the mysterious flower, which lives, which expands, which opens, perhaps Rosa holds in this moment the stem of the tulip between her delicate fingers. Touch it gently, Rosa. Perhaps she touches with her lips its expanding chalice. Touch it cautiously, Rosa, your lips are burning. Yes, perhaps at this moment the two objects of my dearest love caress each other under the eye of Heaven.”
At this moment, a star blazed in the southern sky, and shot through the whole horizon, falling down, as it were, on the fortress of Loewestein.
Cornelius felt a thrill run through his frame.
“Ah!” he said, “here is Heaven sending a soul to my flower.”
And as if he had guessed correctly, nearly at that very moment the prisoner heard in the lobby a step light as that of a sylph, and the rustling of a gown, and a well-known voice, which said to him, —
“Cornelius, my friend, my very dear friend, and very happy friend, come, come quickly.”
Cornelius darted with one spring from the window to the door, his lips met those of Rosa, who told him, with a kiss, —
“It is open, it is black, here it is.”
“How! here it is?” exclaimed Cornelius.
“Yes, yes, we ought indeed to run some little risk to give a great joy; here it is, take it.”
And with one hand she raised to the level of the grating a dark lantern, which she had lit in the meanwhile, whilst with the other she held to the same height the miraculous tulip.
Cornelius uttered a cry, and was nearly fainting.
“Oh!” muttered he, “my God, my God, Thou dost reward me for my innocence and my captivity, as Thou hast allowed two such flowers to grow at the grated window of my prison!”
The tulip was beautiful, splendid, magnificent; its stem was more than eighteen inches high; it rose from out of four green leaves, which were as smooth and straight as iron lance-heads; the whole of the flower was as black and shining as jet.
“Rosa,” said Cornelius, almost gasping, “Rosa, there is not one moment to lose in writing the letter.”
“It is written, my dearest Cornelius,” said Rosa.
“Is it, indeed?”
“Whilst the tulip opened I wrote it myself, for I did not wish to lose a moment. Here is the letter, and tell me whether you approve of it.”
Cornelius took the letter, and read, in a handwriting which was much improved even since the last little note he had received from Rosa, as follows: —
“Mynheer President, — The black tulip is about to open, perhaps in ten minutes. As soon as it is open, I shall send a messenger to you, with the request that you will come and fetch it in person from the fortress at Loewestein. I am the daughter of the jailer, Gryphus, almost as much of a captive as the prisoners of my father. I cannot, therefore, bring to you this wonderful flower. This is the reason why I beg you to come and fetch it yourself.
“It is my wish that it should be called Rosa Barlaensis.
“It has opened; it is perfectly black; come, Mynheer President, come.
“I have the honour to be your humble servant,
“Rosa Gryphus.
“That’s it, dear Rosa, that’s it. Your letter is admirable! I could not have written it with such beautiful simplicity. You will give to the committee all the information that will be required of you. They will then know how the tulip has been grown, how much care and anxiety, and how many sleepless nights, it has cost. But for the present not a minute must be lost. The messenger! the messenger!”
“What’s the name of the President?”
“Give me the letter, I will direct it. Oh, he is very well known: it is Mynheer van Systens, the burgomaster of Haarlem; give it to me, Rosa, give it to me.”
And with a trembling hand Cornelius wrote the address, —
“To Mynheer Peter van Systens, Burgomaster, and President of the Horticultural Society of Haarlem.”
“And now, Rosa, go, go,” said Cornelius, “and let us implore the protection of God, who has so kindly watched over us until now.”
Chapter 23
The Rival
And in fact the poor young people were in great need of protection.
They had never been so near the destruction of their hopes as at this moment, when they thought themselves certain of their fulfilment.
The reader cannot but have recognized in Jacob our old friend, or rather enemy, Isaac Boxtel, and has guessed, no doubt, that this worthy had followed from the Buytenhof to Loewestein the object of his love and the object of his hatred, — the black tulip and Cornelius van Baerle.
What no one but a tulip-fancier, and an envious tulip-fancier, could have discovered, — the existence of the bulbs and the endeavours of the prisoner, — jealousy had enabled Boxtel, if not to discover, at least to guess.
We have seen him, more successful under the name of Jacob than under that of Isaac, gain the friendship of Gryphus, which for several months he cultivated by means of the best Genievre ever distilled from the Texel to Antwerp, and he lulled the suspicion of the jealous turnkey by holding out to him the flattering prospect of his designing to marry Rosa.
Besides thus offering a bait to the ambition of the father, he managed, at the same time, to interest his zeal as a jailer, picturing to him in the blackest colours the learned prisoner whom Gryphus had in his keeping, and who, as the sham Jacob had it, was in league with Satan, to the detriment of his Highness the Prince of Orange.
At first he had also made some way with Rosa; not, indeed, in her affections, but inasmuch as, by talking to her of marriage and of love, he had evaded all the suspicions which he might otherwise have excited.
We have seen how his imprudence in following Rosa into the garden had unmasked him in the eyes of the young damsel, and how the instinctive fears of Cornelius had put the two lovers on their guard against him.
The reader will remember that the first cause of uneasiness was given to the prisoner by the rage of Jacob when Gryphus crushed the first bulb. In that moment Boxtel’s exasperation was the more fierce, as, though suspecting that Cornelius possessed a second bulb, he by no means felt sure of it.
From that moment he began to dodge the steps of Rosa, not only following her to the garden, but also to the lobbies.
Only as this time he followed her in the night, and bare-footed, he was neither seen nor heard except once, when Rosa thought she saw something like a shadow on the staircase.
Her discovery, however, was made too late, as Boxtel had heard from the mouth of the prisoner himself that a second bulb existed.
Taken in by the stratagem of Rosa, who had feigned to put it in the ground, and entertaining no doubt that this little farce had been played in order to force him to betray himself, he redoubled his precaution, and employed every means suggested by his crafty nature to watch the others without being watched himself.
He saw Rosa conveying a large flower-pot of white earthenware from her father’s kitchen to her bedroom. He saw Rosa washing in pails of water her pretty little hands, begrimed as they were with the mould which she had handled, to give her tulip the best soil possible.
And at last he hired, just opposite Rosa’s window, a little attic, distant enough not to allow him to be recognized with the naked eye, but sufficiently near to enable him, with the