Dumas, Alexandre – The Black Tulip

possession of the pigeons of her master’s envious neighbour.

In the course of their wanderings, these pigeons with others

visited the Hague, Loewestein, and Rotterdam, seeking

variety, doubtless, in the flavour of their wheat or

hempseed.

Chance, or rather God, for we can see the hand of God in

everything, had willed that Cornelius van Baerle should

happen to hit upon one of these very pigeons.

Therefore, if the envious wretch had not left Dort to follow

his rival to the Hague in the first place, and then to

Gorcum or to Loewestein, — for the two places are separated

only by the confluence of the Waal and the Meuse, — Van

Baerle’s letter would have fallen into his hands and not the

nurse’s: in which event the poor prisoner, like the raven of

the Roman cobbler, would have thrown away his time, his

trouble, and, instead of having to relate the series of

exciting events which are about to flow from beneath our pen

like the varied hues of a many coloured tapestry, we should

have naught to describe but a weary waste of days, dull and

melancholy and gloomy as night’s dark mantle.

The note, as we have said, had reached Van Baerle’s nurse.

And also it came to pass, that one evening in the beginning

of February, just when the stars were beginning to twinkle,

Cornelius heard on the staircase of the little turret a

voice which thrilled through him.

He put his hand on his heart, and listened.

It was the sweet harmonious voice of Rosa.

Let us confess it, Cornelius was not so stupefied with

surprise, or so beyond himself with joy, as he would have

been but for the pigeon, which, in answer to his letter, had

brought back hope to him under her empty wing; and, knowing

Rosa, he expected, if the note had ever reached her, to hear

of her whom he loved, and also of his three darling bulbs.

He rose, listened once more, and bent forward towards the

door.

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Dumas, Alexandre – The Black Tulip

Yes, they were indeed the accents which had fallen so

sweetly on his heart at the Hague.

The question now was, whether Rosa, who had made the journey

from the Hague to Loewestein, and who — Cornelius did not

understand how — had succeeded even in penetrating into the

prison, would also be fortunate enough in penetrating to the

prisoner himself.

Whilst Cornelius, debating this point within himself, was

building all sorts of castles in the air, and was struggling

between hope and fear, the shutter of the grating in the

door opened, and Rosa, beaming with joy, and beautiful in

her pretty national costume — but still more beautiful from

the grief which for the last five months had blanched her

cheeks — pressed her little face against the wire grating

of the window, saying to him, —

“Oh, sir, sir! here I am!”

Cornelius stretched out his arms, and, looking to heaven,

uttered a cry of joy, —

“Oh, Rosa, Rosa!”

“Hush! let us speak low: my father follows on my heels,”

said the girl.

“Your father?”

“Yes, he is in the courtyard at the bottom of the staircase,

receiving the instructions of the Governor; he will

presently come up.”

“The instructions of the Governor?”

“Listen to me, I’ll try to tell you all in a few words. The

Stadtholder has a country-house, one league distant from

Leyden, properly speaking a kind of large dairy, and my

aunt, who was his nurse, has the management of it. As soon

as I received your letter, which, alas! I could not read

myself, but which your housekeeper read to me, I hastened to

my aunt; there I remained until the Prince should come to

the dairy; and when he came, I asked him as a favour to

allow my father to exchange his post at the prison of the

Hague with the jailer of the fortress of Loewestein. The

Prince could not have suspected my object; had he known it,

he would have refused my request, but as it is he granted

it.”

“And so you are here?”

“As you see.”

“And thus I shall see you every day?”