Dumas, Alexandre – The Black Tulip

Loewestein strike nine.

The last chime was still vibrating through the air, when

Cornelius heard on the staircase the light step and the

rustle of the flowing dress of the fair Frisian maid, and

soon after a light appeared at the little grated window in

the door, on which the prisoner fixed his earnest gaze.

The shutter opened on the outside.

“Here I am,” said Rosa, out of breath from running up the

stairs, “here I am.”

“Oh, my good Rosa.”

“You are then glad to see me?”

“Can you ask? But how did you contrive to get here? tell

me.”

“Now listen to me. My father falls asleep every evening

almost immediately after his supper; I then make him lie

down, a little stupefied with his gin. Don’t say anything

about it, because, thanks to this nap, I shall be able to

come every evening and chat for an hour with you.”

“Oh, I thank you, Rosa, dear Rosa.”

Saying these words, Cornelius put his face so near the

little window that Rosa withdrew hers.

“I have brought back to you your bulbs.”

Cornelius’s heart leaped with joy. He had not yet dared to

ask Rosa what she had done with the precious treasure which

he had intrusted to her.

“Oh, you have preserved them, then?”

“Did you not give them to me as a thing which was dear to

you?”

“Yes, but as I have given them to you, it seems to me that

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Dumas, Alexandre – The Black Tulip

they belong to you.”

“They would have belonged to me after your death, but,

fortunately, you are alive now. Oh how I blessed his

Highness in my heart! If God grants to him all the happiness

that I have wished him, certainly Prince William will be the

happiest man on earth. When I looked at the Bible of your

godfather Cornelius, I was resolved to bring back to you

your bulbs, only I did not know how to accomplish it. I had,

however, already formed the plan of going to the

Stadtholder, to ask from him for my father the appointment

of jailer of Loewestein, when your housekeeper brought me

your letter. Oh, how we wept together! But your letter only

confirmed me the more in my resolution. I then left for

Leyden, and the rest you know.”

“What, my dear Rosa, you thought, even before receiving my

letter, of coming to meet me again?”

“If I thought of it,” said Rosa, allowing her love to get

the better of her bashfulness, “I thought of nothing else.”

And, saying these words, Rosa looked so exceedingly pretty,

that for the second time Cornelius placed his forehead and

lips against the wire grating; of course, we must presume

with the laudable desire to thank the young lady.

Rosa, however, drew back as before.

“In truth,” she said, with that coquetry which somehow or

other is in the heart of every young girl, “I have often

been sorry that I am not able to read, but never so much so

as when your housekeeper brought me your letter. I kept the

paper in my hands, which spoke to other people, and which

was dumb to poor stupid me.”

“So you have often regretted not being able to read,” said

Cornelius. “I should just like to know on what occasions.”

“Troth,” she said, laughing, “to read all the letters which

were written to me.”

“Oh, you received letters, Rosa?”

“By hundreds.”

“But who wrote to you?”

“Who! why, in the first place, all the students who passed

over the Buytenhof, all the officers who went to parade, all

the clerks, and even the merchants who saw me at my little

window.”

“And what did you do with all these notes, my dear Rosa?”

“Formerly,” she answered, “I got some friend to read them to

me, which was capital fun, but since a certain time — well,

what use is it to attend to all this nonsense? — since a

certain time I have burnt them.”

“Since a certain time!” exclaimed Cornelius, with a look

beaming with love and joy.

Rosa cast down her eyes, blushing. In her sweet confusion,

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