Boxtel’s return was scarcely announced, when he entered in person the drawing-room of Mynheer van Systens, followed by two men, who carried in a box their precious burden and deposited it on a table.
The Prince, on being informed, left the cabinet, passed into the drawing-room, admired the flower, and silently resumed his seat in the dark corner, where he had himself placed his chair.
Rosa, trembling, pale and terrified, expected to be invited in her turn to see the tulip.
She now heard the voice of Boxtel.
“It is he!” she exclaimed.
The Prince made her a sign to go and look through the open door into the drawing-room.
“It is my tulip,” cried Rosa, “I recognise it. Oh, my poor Cornelius!”
And saying this she burst into tears.
The Prince rose from his seat, went to the door, where he stood for some time with the full light falling upon his figure.
As Rosa’s eyes now rested upon him, she felt more than ever convinced that this was not the first time she had seen the stranger.
“Master Boxtel,” said the Prince, “come in here, if you please.”
Boxtel eagerly approached, and, finding himself face to face with William of Orange, started back.
“His Highness!” he called out.
“His Highness!” Rosa repeated in dismay.
Hearing this exclamation on his left, Boxtel turned round, and perceived Rosa.
At this sight the whole frame of the thief shook as if under the influence of a galvanic shock.
“Ah!” muttered the Prince to himself, “he is confused.”
But Boxtel, making a violent effort to control his feelings, was already himself again.
“Master Boxtel,” said William, “you seem to have discovered the secret of growing the black tulip?”
“Yes, your Highness,” answered Boxtel, in a voice which still betrayed some confusion.
It is true his agitation might have been attributable to the emotion which the man must have felt on suddenly recognising the Prince.
“But,” continued the Stadtholder, “here is a young damsel who also pretends to have found it.”
Boxtel, with a disdainful smile, shrugged his shoulders.
William watched all his movements with evident interest and curiosity.
“Then you don’t know this young girl?” said the Prince.
“No, your Highness!”
“And you, child, do you know Master Boxtel?”
“No, I don’t know Master Boxtel, but I know Master Jacob.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean to say that at Loewestein the man who here calls himself Isaac Boxtel went by the name of Master Jacob.”
“What do you say to that, Master Boxtel?”
“I say that this damsel lies, your Highness.”
“You deny, therefore, having ever been at Loewestein?”
Boxtel hesitated; the fixed and searching glance of the proud eye of the Prince prevented him from lying.
“I cannot deny having been at Loewestein, your Highness, but I deny having stolen the tulip.”
“You have stolen it, and that from my room,” cried Rosa, with indignation.
“I deny it.”
“Now listen to me. Do you deny having followed me into the garden, on the day when I prepared the border where I was to plant it? Do you deny having followed me into the garden when I pretended to plant it? Do you deny that, on that evening, you rushed after my departure to the spot where you hoped to find the bulb? Do you deny having dug in the ground with your hands—but, thank God! in vain, as it was a stratagem to discover your intentions. Say, do you deny all this?”
Boxtel did not deem it fit to answer these several charges, but, turning to the Prince, continued,—
“I have now for twenty years grown tulips at Dort. I have even acquired some reputation in this art; one of my hybrids is entered in the catalogue under the name of an illustrious personage. I have dedicated it to the King of Portugal. The truth in the matter is as I shall now tell your Highness. This damsel knew that I had produced the black tulip, and, in concert with a lover of hers in the fortress of Loewestein, she formed the plan of ruining me by appropriating to herself the prize of a hundred thousand guilders, which, with the help of your Highness’s justice, I hope to gain.”
“Yah!” cried Rosa, beyond herself with anger.
“Silence!” said the Prince.
Then, turning to Boxtel, he said,—
“And who is that prisoner to whom you allude as the lover of this young woman?”
Rosa nearly swooned, for Cornelius was designated as a dangerous prisoner, and recommended by the Prince to the especial surveillance of the jailer.
Nothing could have been more agreeable to Boxtel than this question.
“This prisoner,” he said, “is a man whose name in itself will prove to your Highness what trust you may place in his probity. He is a prisoner of state, who was once condemned to death.”
“And his name?”
Rosa hid her face in her hands with a movement of despair.
“His name is Cornelius van Baerle,” said Boxtel, “and he is godson of that villain Cornelius de Witt.”
The Prince gave a start, his generally quiet eye flashed, and a death-like paleness spread over his impassible features.
He went up to Rosa, and with his finger, gave her a sign to remove her hands from her face.
Rosa obeyed, as if under mesmeric influence, without having seen the sign.
“It was, then to follow this man that you came to me at Leyden to solicit for the transfer of your father?”
Rosa hung down her head, and, nearly choking, said,—
“Yes, your Highness.”
“Go on,” said the Prince to Boxtel.
“I have nothing more to say,” Isaac continued. “Your Highness knows all. But there is one thing which I did not intend to say, because I did not wish to make this girl blush for her ingratitude. I came to Loewestein because I had business there. On this occasion I made the acquaintance of old Gryphus, and, falling in love with his daughter, made an offer of marriage to her; and, not being rich, I committed the imprudence of mentioning to them my prospect of gaining a hundred thousand guilders, in proof of which I showed to them the black tulip. Her lover having himself made a show at Dort of cultivating tulips to hide his political intrigues, they now plotted together for my ruin. On the eve of the day when the flower was expected to open, the tulip was taken away by this young woman. She carried it to her room, from which I had the good luck to recover it at the very moment when she had the impudence to despatch a messenger to announce to the members of the Horticultural Society that she had produced the grand black tulip. But she did not stop there. There is no doubt that, during the few hours which she kept the flower in her room, she showed it to some persons whom she may now call as witnesses. But, fortunately, your Highness has now been warned against this impostor and her witnesses.”
“Oh, my God, my God! what infamous falsehoods!” said Rosa, bursting into tears, and throwing herself at the feet of the Stadtholder, who, although thinking her guilty, felt pity for her dreadful agony.
“You have done very wrong, my child,” he said, “and your lover shall be punished for having thus badly advised you. For you are so young, and have such an honest look, that I am inclined to believe the mischief to have been his doing, and not yours.”
“Monseigneur! Monseigneur!” cried Rosa, “Cornelius is not guilty.”
William started.
“Not guilty of having advised you? that’s what you want to say, is it not?”
“What I wish to say, your Highness, is that Cornelius is as little guilty of the second crime imputed to him as he was of the first.”
“Of the first? And do you know what was his first crime? Do you know of what he was accused and convicted? Of having, as an accomplice of Cornelius de Witt, concealed the correspondence of the Grand Pensionary and the Marquis de Louvois.”
“Well, sir, he was ignorant of this correspondence being deposited with him; completely ignorant. I am as certain as of my life, that, if it were not so, he would have told me; for how could that pure mind have harboured a secret without revealing it to me? No, no, your Highness, I repeat it, and even at the risk of incurring your displeasure, Cornelius is no more guilty of the first crime than of the second; and of the second no more than of the first. Oh, would to Heaven that you knew my Cornelius; Monseigneur!”
“He is a De Witt!” cried Boxtel. “His Highness knows only too much of him, having once granted him his life.”
“Silence!” said the Prince; “all these affairs of state, as I have already said, are completely out of the province of the Horticultural Society of Haarlem.”
Then, knitting his brow, he added,—
“As to the tulip, make yourself easy, Master Boxtel, you shall have justice done to you.”
Boxtel bowed with a heart full of joy, and received the congratulations of the President.
“You, my child,” William of Orange continued, “you were going to commit a crime. I will not punish you; but the real evil-doer shall pay the penalty for both. A man of his name may be a conspirator, and even a traitor, but he ought not to be a thief.”
“A thief!” cried Rosa. “Cornelius a thief? Pray, your Highness, do not say such a word, it would kill him, if he knew it. If theft there has been, I swear to you, Sir, no one else but this man has committed it.”
“Prove it,” Boxtel coolly remarked.
“I shall prove it. With God’s help I shall.”
Then, turning towards Boxtel, she asked,—
“The tulip is yours?”
“It is.”
“How many bulbs were there of it?”
Boxtel hesitated for a moment, but after a short consideration he came to the conclusion that she would not ask this question if there were none besides the two bulbs of which he had known already. He therefore answered,—
“Three.”
“What has become of these bulbs?”
“Oh! what has become of them? Well, one has failed; the second has produced the black tulip.”
“And the third?”
“The third!”
“The third,—where is it?”
“I have it at home,” said Boxtel, quite confused.
“At home? Where? At Loewestein, or at Dort?”
“At Dort,” said Boxtel.
“You lie!” cried Rosa. “Monseigneur,” she continued, whilst turning round to the Prince, “I will tell you the true story of these three bulbs. The first was crushed by my father in the prisoner’s cell, and this man is quite aware of it, for he himself wanted to get hold of it, and, being balked in his hope, he very nearly fell out with my father, who had been the cause of his disappointment. The second bulb, planted by me, has produced the black tulip, and the third and last”—saying this, she drew it from her bosom—“here it is, in the very same paper in which it was wrapped up together with the two others. When about to be led to the scaffold, Cornelius van Baerle gave me all the three. Take it, Monseigneur, take it.”
And Rosa, unfolding the paper, offered the bulb to the Prince, who took it from her hands and examined it.
“But, Monseigneur, this young woman may have stolen the bulb, as she did the tulip,” Boxtel said, with a faltering voice, and evidently alarmed at the attention with which the Prince examined the bulb; and even more at the movements of Rosa, who was reading some lines written on the paper which remained in her hands.
Her eyes suddenly lighted up; she read, with breathless anxiety, the mysterious paper over and over again; and at last, uttering a cry, held it out to the Prince and said, “Read, Monseigneur, for Heaven’s sake, read!”
William handed the third bulb to Van Systens, took the paper, and read.
No sooner had he looked at it than he began to stagger; his hand trembled, and very nearly let the paper fall to the ground; and the expression of pain and compassion in his features was really frightful to see.
It was that fly-leaf, taken from the Bible, which Cornelius de Witt had sent to Dort by Craeke, the servant of his brother John, to request Van Baerle to burn the correspondence of the Grand Pensionary with the Marquis de Louvois.
This request, as the reader may remember, was couched in the following terms:—
“My Dear Godson,—
“Burn the parcel which I have intrusted to you. Burn it without looking at it, and without opening it, so that its contents may for ever remain unknown to yourself. Secrets of this description are death to those with whom they are deposited. Burn it, and you will have saved John and Cornelius de Witt.
“Farewell, and love me.
“Cornelius de Witt.
“August 20, 1672.”
This slip of paper offered the proofs both of Van Baerle’s innocence and of his claim to the property of the tulip.
Rosa and the Stadtholder exchanged one look only.
That of Rosa was meant to express, “Here, you see yourself.”
That of the Stadtholder signified, “Be quiet, and wait.”
The Prince wiped the cold sweat from his forehead, and slowly folded up the paper, whilst his thoughts were wandering in that labyrinth without a goal and without a guide, which is called remorse and shame for the past.
Soon, however, raising his head with an effort, he said, in his usual voice,—
“Go, Mr. Boxtel; justice shall be done, I promise you.”
Then, turning to the President, he added,—
“You, my dear Mynheer van Systens, take charge of this young woman and of the tulip. Good-bye.”
All bowed, and the Prince left, among the deafening cheers of the crowd outside.
Boxtel returned to his inn, rather puzzled and uneasy, tormented by misgivings about that paper which William had received from the hand of Rosa, and which his Highness had read, folded up, and so carefully put in his pocket. What was the meaning of all this?
Rosa went up to the tulip, tenderly kissed its leaves and, with a heart full of happiness and confidence in the ways of God, broke out in the words,—
“Thou knowest best for what end Thou madest my good Cornelius teach me to read.”
Whilst the events we have described in our last chapter were taking place, the unfortunate Van Baerle, forgotten in his cell in the fortress of Loewestein, suffered at the hands of Gryphus all that a prisoner can suffer when his jailer has formed the determination of playing the part of hangman.
Gryphus, not having received any tidings of Rosa or of Jacob, persuaded himself that all that had happened was the devil’s work, and that Dr. Cornelius van Baerle had been sent on earth by Satan.
The result of it was, that, one fine morning, the third after the disappearance of Jacob and Rosa, he went up to the cell of Cornelius in even a greater rage than usual.
The latter, leaning with his elbows on the window-sill and supporting his head with his two hands, whilst his eyes wandered over the distant hazy horizon where the windmills of Dort were turning their sails, was breathing the fresh air, in order to be able to keep down his tears and to fortify himself in his philosophy.
The pigeons were still there, but hope was not there; there was no future to look forward to.
Alas! Rosa, being watched, was no longer able to come. Could she not write? and if so, could she convey her letters to him?
No, no. He had seen during the two preceding days too much fury and malignity in the eyes of old Gryphus to expect that his vigilance would relax, even for one moment. Moreover, had not she to suffer even worse torments than those of seclusion and separation? Did this brutal, blaspheming, drunken bully take revenge on his daughter, like the ruthless fathers of the Greek drama? And when the Genièvre had heated his brain, would it not give to his arm, which had been only too well set by Cornelius, even double force?
The idea that Rosa might perhaps be ill-treated nearly drove Cornelius mad.
He then felt his own powerlessness. He asked himself whether God was just in inflicting so much tribulation on two innocent creatures. And certainly in these moments he began to doubt the wisdom of Providence. It is one of the curses of misfortune that it thus begets doubt.
Van Baerle had proposed to write to Rosa, but where was she?
He also would have wished to write to the Hague to be beforehand with Gryphus, who, he had no doubt, would by denouncing him do his best to bring new storms on his head.
But how should he write? Gryphus had taken the paper and pencil from him, and even if he had both, he could hardly expect Gryphus to despatch his letter.
Then Cornelius revolved in his mind all those stratagems resorted to by unfortunate prisoners.
He had thought of an attempt to escape, a thing which never entered his head whilst he could see Rosa every day; but the more he thought of it, the more clearly he saw the impracticability of such an attempt. He was one of those choice spirits who abhor everything that is common, and who often lose a good chance through not taking the way of the vulgar, that high road of mediocrity which leads to everything.
“How is it possible,” said Cornelius to himself, “that I should escape from Loewestein, as Grotius has done the same thing before me? Has not every precaution been taken since? Are not the windows barred? Are not the doors of double and even of treble strength, and the sentinels ten times more watchful? And have not I, besides all this, an Argus so much the more dangerous as he has the keen eyes of hatred? Finally, is there not one fact which takes away all my spirit, I mean Rosa’s absence? But suppose I should waste ten years of my life in making a file to file off my bars, or in braiding cords to let myself down from the window, or in sticking wings on my shoulders to fly, like Dædalus? But luck is against me now. The file would get dull, the rope would break, or my wings would melt in the sun; I should surely kill myself, I should be picked up maimed and crippled; I should be labelled, and put on exhibition in the museum at the Hague between the blood-stained doublet of William the Taciturn and the female walrus captured at Stavesen, and the only result of my enterprise will have been to procure me a place among the curiosities of Holland.
“But no; and it is much better so. Some fine day Gryphus will commit some atrocity. I am losing my patience, since I have lost the joy and company of Rosa, and especially since I have lost my tulip. Undoubtedly, some day or other Gryphus will attack me in a manner painful to my self-respect, or to my love, or even threaten my personal safety. I don’t know how it is, but since my imprisonment I feel a strange and almost irresistible pugnacity. Well, I shall get at the throat of that old villain, and strangle him.”
Cornelius at these words stopped for a moment, biting his lips and staring out before him; then, eagerly returning to an idea which seemed to possess a strange fascination for him, he continued,—
“Well, and once having strangled him, why should I not take his keys from him, why not go down the stairs as if I had done the most virtuous action, why not go and fetch Rosa from her room, why not tell her all, and jump from her window into the Waal? I am expert enough as a swimmer to save both of us. Rosa,—but, oh Heaven, Gryphus is her father! Whatever may be her affection for me, she will never approve of my having strangled her father, brutal and malicious as he has been.
“I shall have to enter into an argument with her; and in the midst of my speech some wretched turnkey who has found Gryphus with the death-rattle in his throat, or perhaps actually dead, will come along and put his hand on my shoulder. Then I shall see the Buytenhof again, and the gleam of that infernal sword,—which will not stop half-way a second time, but will make acquaintance with the nape of my neck.
“It will not do, Cornelius, my fine fellow,—it is a bad plan. But, then, what is to become of me, and how shall I find Rosa again?”
Such were the cogitations of Cornelius three days after the sad scene of separation from Rosa, at the moment when we find him standing at the window.
And at that very moment Gryphus entered.
He held in his hand a huge stick, his eyes glistening with spiteful thoughts, a malignant smile played round his lips, and the whole of his carriage, and even all his movements, betokened bad and malicious intentions.
Cornelius heard him enter, and guessed that it was he, but did not turn round, as he knew well that Rosa was not coming after him.
There is nothing more galling to angry people than the coolness of those on whom they wish to vent their spleen.
The expense being once incurred, one does not like to lose it; one’s passion is roused, and one’s blood boiling, so it would be labour lost not to have at least a nice little row.
Gryphus, therefore, on seeing that Cornelius did not stir, tried to attract his attention by a loud—
“Umph, umph!”
Cornelius was humming between his teeth the “Hymn of Flowers,”—a sad but very charming song,—
“We are the daughters of the secret fire Of the fire which runs through the veins of the earth; We are the daughters of Aurora and of the dew; We are the daughters of the air; We are the daughters of the water; But we are, above all, the daughters of heaven.”
This song, the placid melancholy of which was still heightened by its calm and sweet melody, exasperated Gryphus.
He struck his stick on the stone pavement of the cell, and called out,—
“Halloa! my warbling gentleman, don’t you hear me?”
Cornelius turned round, merely saying, “Good morning,” and then began his song again:—
“Men defile us and kill us while loving us, We hang to the earth by a thread; This thread is our root, that is to say, our life, But we raise on high our arms towards heaven.”
“Ah, you accursed sorcerer! you are making game of me, I believe,” roared Gryphus.
Cornelius continued:—
“For heaven is our home, Our true home, as from thence comes our soul, As thither our soul returns,—Our soul, that is to say, our perfume.”
Gryphus went up to the prisoner and said,—
“But you don’t see that I have taken means to get you under, and to force you to confess your crimes.”
“Are you mad, my dear Master Gryphus?” asked Cornelius.
And, as he now for the first time observed the frenzied features, the flashing eyes, and foaming mouth of the old jailer, he said,—
“Bless the man, he is more than mad, he is furious.”
Gryphus flourished his stick above his head, but Van Baerle moved not, and remained standing with his arms akimbo.
“It seems your intention to threaten me, Master Gryphus.”
“Yes, indeed, I threaten you,” cried the jailer.
“And with what?”
“First of all, look at what I have in my hand.”
“I think that’s a stick,” said Cornelius calmly, “but I don’t suppose you will threaten me with that.”
“Oh, you don’t suppose! why not?”
“Because any jailer who strikes a prisoner is liable to two penalties,—the first laid down in Article 9 of the regulations at Loewestein:—
“‘Any jailer, inspector, or turnkey who lays hands upon any prisoner of State will be dismissed.’”
“Yes, who lays hands,” said Gryphus, mad with rage, “but there is not a word about a stick in the regulation.”
“And the second,” continued Cornelius, “which is not written in the regulation, but which is to be found elsewhere:—
“‘Whosoever takes up the stick will be thrashed by the stick.’”
Gryphus, growing more and more exasperated by the calm and sententious tone of Cornelius, brandished his cudgel, but at the moment when he raised it Cornelius rushed at him, snatched it from his hands, and put it under his own arm.
Gryphus fairly bellowed with rage.
“Hush, hush, my good man,” said Cornelius, “don’t do anything to lose your place.”
“Ah, you sorcerer! I’ll pinch you worse,” roared Gryphus.
“I wish you may.”
“Don’t you see my hand is empty?”
“Yes, I see it, and I am glad of it.”
“You know that it is not generally so when I come upstairs in the morning.”
“It’s true, you generally bring me the worst soup, and the most miserable rations one can imagine. But that’s not a punishment to me; I eat only bread, and the worse the bread is to your taste, the better it is to mine.”
“How so?”
“Oh, it’s a very simple thing.”
“Well, tell it me,” said Gryphus.
“Very willingly. I know that in giving me bad bread you think you do me harm.”
“Certainly; I don’t give it you to please you, you brigand.”
“Well, then, I, who am a sorcerer, as you know, change your bad into excellent bread, which I relish more than the best cake; and then I have the double pleasure of eating something that gratifies my palate, and of doing something that puts you in a rage.”
Gryphus answered with a growl.
“Oh! you confess, then, that you are a sorcerer.”
“Indeed, I am one. I don’t say it before all the world, because they might burn me for it, but as we are alone, I don’t mind telling you.”
“Well, well, well,” answered Gryphus. “But if a sorcerer can change black bread into white, won’t he die of hunger if he has no bread at all?”
“What’s that?” said Cornelius.
“Consequently, I shall not bring you any bread at all, and we shall see how it will be after eight days.”
Cornelius grew pale.
“And,” continued Gryphus, “we’ll begin this very day. As you are such a clever sorcerer, why, you had better change the furniture of your room into bread; as to myself, I shall pocket the eighteen sous which are paid to me for your board.”
“But that’s murder,” cried Cornelius, carried away by the first impulse of the very natural terror with which this horrible mode of death inspired him.
“Well,” Gryphus went on, in his jeering way, “as you are a sorcerer, you will live, notwithstanding.”
Cornelius put on a smiling face again, and said,—
“Have you not seen me make the pigeons come here from Dort?”
“Well?” said Gryphus.
“Well, a pigeon is a very dainty morsel, and a man who eats one every day would not starve, I think.”
“And how about the fire?” said Gryphus.
“Fire! but you know that I’m in league with the devil. Do you think the devil will leave me without fire? Why, fire is his proper element.”
“A man, however healthy his appetite may be, would not eat a pigeon every day. Wagers have been laid to do so, and those who made them gave them up.”
“Well, but when I am tired of pigeons, I shall make the fish of the Waal and of the Meuse come up to me.”
Gryphus opened his large eyes, quite bewildered.
“I am rather fond of fish,” continued Cornelius; “you never let me have any. Well, I shall turn your starving me to advantage, and regale myself with fish.”
Gryphus nearly fainted with anger and with fright, but he soon rallied, and said, putting his hand in his pocket,—
“Well, as you force me to it,” and with these words he drew forth a clasp-knife and opened it.
“Halloa! a knife?” said Cornelius, preparing to defend himself with his stick.
The two remained silent for some minutes, Gryphus on the offensive, and Van Baerle on the defensive.
Then, as the situation might be prolonged to an indefinite length, Cornelius, anxious to know something more of the causes which had so fiercely exasperated his jailer, spoke first by putting the question,—
“Well, what do you want, after all?”
“I’ll tell you what I want,” answered Gryphus; “I want you to restore to me my daughter Rosa.”
“Your daughter?” cried Van Baerle.
“Yes, my daughter Rosa, whom you have taken from me by your devilish magic. Now, will you tell me where she is?”
And the attitude of Gryphus became more and more threatening.
“Rosa is not at Loewestein?” cried Cornelius.
“You know well she is not. Once more, will you restore her to me?”
“I see,” said Cornelius, “this is a trap you are laying for me.”
“Now, for the last time, will you tell me where my daughter is?”
“Guess it, you rogue, if you don’t know it.”
“Only wait, only wait,” growled Gryphus, white with rage, and with quivering lips, as his brain began to turn. “Ah, you will not tell me anything? Well, I’ll unlock your teeth!”
He advanced a step towards Cornelius, and said, showing him the weapon which he held in his hands,—
“Do you see this knife? Well, I have killed more than fifty black cocks with it, and I vow I’ll kill their master, the devil, as well as them.”
“But, you blockhead,” said Cornelius, “will you really kill me?”
“I shall open your heart to see in it the place where you hide my daughter.”
Saying this, Gryphus in his frenzy rushed towards Cornelius, who had barely time to retreat behind his table to avoid the first thrust; but as Gryphus continued, with horrid threats, to brandish his huge knife, and as, although out of the reach of his weapon, yet, as long as it remained in the madman’s hand, the ruffian might fling it at him, Cornelius lost no time, and availing himself of the stick, which he held tight under his arm, dealt the jailer a vigorous blow on the wrist of that hand which held the knife.
The knife fell to the ground, and Cornelius put his foot on it.
Then, as Gryphus seemed bent upon engaging in a struggle which the pain in his wrist, and shame for having allowed himself to be disarmed, would have made desperate, Cornelius took a decisive step, belaboring his jailer with the most heroic self-possession, and selecting the exact spot for every blow of the terrible cudgel.
It was not long before Gryphus begged for mercy. But before begging for mercy, he had lustily roared for help, and his cries had roused all the functionaries of the prison. Two turnkeys, an inspector, and three or four guards, made their appearance all at once, and found Cornelius still using the stick, with the knife under his foot.
At the sight of these witnesses, who could not know all the circumstances which had provoked and might justify his offence, Cornelius felt that he was irretrievably lost.
In fact, appearances were sadly against him.
In one moment Cornelius was disarmed, and Gryphus raised and supported; and, bellowing with rage and pain, he was able to count on his back and shoulders the bruises which were beginning to swell like the hills dotting the slopes of a mountain ridge.
A protocol of the violence practiced by the prisoner against his jailer was immediately drawn up, and as it was made on the depositions of Gryphus, it certainly could not be said to be too tame; the prisoner being charged with neither more nor less than with an attempt to murder, for a long time premeditated, with open rebellion.
Whilst the charge was made out against Cornelius, Gryphus, whose presence was no longer necessary after having made his depositions, was taken down by his turnkeys to his lodge, groaning and covered with bruises.
During this time, the guards who had seized Cornelius busied themselves in charitably informing their prisoner of the usages and customs of Loewestein, which however he knew as well as they did. The regulations had been read to him at the moment of his entering the prison, and certain articles in them remained fixed in his memory.
Among other things they told him that this regulation had been carried out to its full extent in the case of a prisoner named Mathias, who in 1668, that is to say, five years before, had committed a much less violent act of rebellion than that of which Cornelius was guilty. He had found his soup too hot, and thrown it at the head of the chief turnkey, who in consequence of this ablution had been put to the inconvenience of having his skin come off as he wiped his face.
Mathias was taken within twelve hours from his cell, then led to the jailer’s lodge, where he was registered as leaving Loewestein, then taken to the Esplanade, from which there is a very fine prospect over a wide expanse of country. There they fettered his hands, bandaged his eyes, and let him say his prayers.
Hereupon he was invited to go down on his knees, and the guards of Loewestein, twelve in number, at a sign from a sergeant, very cleverly lodged a musket-ball each in his body.
In consequence of this proceeding, Mathias incontinently did then and there die.
Cornelius listened with the greatest attention to this delightful recital, and then said,—
“Ah! ah! within twelve hours, you say?”
“Yes, the twelfth hour had not even struck, if I remember right,” said the guard who had told him the story.
“Thank you,” said Cornelius.
The guard still had the smile on his face with which he accompanied and as it were accentuated his tale, when footsteps and a jingling of spurs were heard ascending the stair-case.
The guards fell back to allow an officer to pass, who entered the cell of Cornelius at the moment when the clerk of Loewestein was still making out his report.
“Is this No. 11?” he asked.
“Yes, Captain,” answered a non-commissioned officer.
“Then this is the cell of the prisoner Cornelius van Baerle?”
“Exactly, Captain.”
“Where is the prisoner?”
“Here I am, sir,” answered Cornelius, growing rather pale, notwithstanding all his courage.
“You are Dr. Cornelius van Baerle?” asked he, this time addressing the prisoner himself.
“Yes, sir.”
“Then follow me.”
“Oh! oh!” said Cornelius, whose heart felt oppressed by the first dread of death. “What quick work they make here in the fortress of Loewestein. And the rascal talked to me of twelve hours!”
“Ah! what did I tell you?” whispered the communicative guard in the ear of the culprit.
“A lie.”
“How so?”
“You promised me twelve hours.”
“Ah, yes, but here comes to you an aide-de-camp of his Highness, even one of his most intimate companions Van Deken. Zounds! they did not grant such an honour to poor Mathias.”
“Come, come!” said Cornelius, drawing a long breath. “Come, I’ll show to these people that an honest burgher, godson of Cornelius de Witt, can without flinching receive as many musket-balls as that Mathias.”
Saying this, he passed proudly before the clerk, who, being interrupted in his work, ventured to say to the officer,—
“But, Captain van Deken, the protocol is not yet finished.”
“It is not worth while finishing it,” answered the officer.
“All right,” replied the clerk, philosophically putting up his paper and pen into a greasy and well-worn writing-case.
“It was written,” thought poor Cornelius, “that I should not in this world give my name either to a child to a flower, or to a book,—the three things by which a man’s memory is perpetuated.”
Repressing his melancholy thoughts, he followed the officer with a resolute heart, and carrying his head erect.
Cornelius counted the steps which led to the Esplanade, regretting that he had not asked the guard how many there were of them, which the man, in his official complaisance, would not have failed to tell him.
What the poor prisoner was most afraid of during this walk, which he considered as leading him to the end of the journey of life, was to see Gryphus and not to see Rosa. What savage satisfaction would glisten in the eyes of the father, and what sorrow dim those of the daughter!
How Gryphus would glory in his punishment! Punishment? Rather savage vengeance for an eminently righteous deed, which Cornelius had the satisfaction of having performed as a bounden duty.
But Rosa, poor girl! must he die without a glimpse of her, without an opportunity to give her one last kiss, or even to say one last word of farewell?
And, worst of all, must he die without any intelligence of the black tulip, and regain his consciousness in heaven with no idea in what direction he should look to find it?
In truth, to restrain his tears at such a crisis the poor wretch’s heart must have been encased in more of the aes triplex—“the triple brass”—than Horace bestows upon the sailor who first visited the terrifying Acroceraunian shoals.
In vain did Cornelius look to the right and to the left; he saw no sign either of Rosa or Gryphus.
On reaching the Esplanade, he bravely looked about for the guards who were to be his executioners, and in reality saw a dozen soldiers assembled. But they were not standing in line, or carrying muskets, but talking together so gayly that Cornelius felt almost shocked.
All at once, Gryphus, limping, staggering, and supporting himself on a crooked stick, came forth from the jailer’s lodge; his old eyes, gray as those of a cat, were lit up by a gleam in which all his hatred was concentrated. He then began to pour forth such a torrent of disgusting imprecations against Cornelius, that the latter, addressing the officer, said,—
“I do not think it very becoming sir, that I should be thus insulted by this man, especially at a moment like this.”
“Well! hear me,” said the officer, laughing, “it is quite natural that this worthy fellow should bear you a grudge,—you seem to have given it him very soundly.”
“But, sir, it was only in self-defence.”
“Never mind,” said the Captain, shrugging his shoulders like a true philosopher, “let him talk; what does it matter to you now?”
The cold sweat stood on the brow of Cornelius at this answer, which he looked upon somewhat in the light of brutal irony, especially as coming from an officer of whom he had heard it said that he was attached to the person of the Prince.
The unfortunate tulip-fancier then felt that he had no more resources, and no more friends, and resigned himself to his fate.
“God’s will be done,” he muttered, bowing his head; then, turning towards the officer, who seemed complacently to wait until he had finished his meditations he asked,—
“Please, sir, tell me now, where am I to go?”
The officer pointed to a carriage, drawn by four horses, which reminded him very strongly of that which, under similar circumstances, had before attracted his attention at Buytenhof.
“Enter,” said the officer.
“Ah!” muttered Cornelius to himself, “it seems they are not going to treat me to the honours of the Esplanade.”
He uttered these words loud enough for the chatty guard, who was at his heels, to overhear him.
That kind soul very likely thought it his duty to give Cornelius some new information; for, approaching the door of the carriage, whilst the officer, with one foot on the step, was still giving some orders, he whispered to Van Baerle,—
“Condémned prisoners have sometimes been taken to their own town to be made an example of, and have then been executed before the door of their own house. It’s all according to circumstances.”
Cornelius thanked him by signs, and then said to himself,—
“Well, here is a fellow who never misses giving consolation whenever an opportunity presents itself. In truth, my friend, I’m very much obliged to you. Goodbye.”
The carriage drove away.
“Ah! you villain, you brigand,” roared Gryphus, clinching his fists at the victim who was escaping from his clutches, “is it not a shame that this fellow gets off without having restored my daughter to me?”
“If they take me to Dort,” thought Cornelius, “I shall see, in passing my house, whether my poor borders have been much spoiled.”