Dumas, Alexandre – The Black Tulip

sweet, and again full of interest to the prisoner.

Rosa, as we have seen, had returned to him one of the

suckers.

Every evening she brought to him, handful by handful, a

quantity of soil from that part of the garden which he had

found to be the best, and which, indeed, was excellent.

A large jug, which Cornelius had skilfully broken, did

service as a flower-pot. He half filled it, and mixed the

earth of the garden with a small portion of dried river mud,

a mixture which formed an excellent soil.

Then, at the beginning of April, he planted his first sucker

in that jug.

Not a day passed on which Rosa did not come to have her chat

with Cornelius.

The tulips, concerning whose cultivation Rosa was taught all

the mysteries of the art, formed the principal topic of the

conversation; but, interesting as the subject was, people

cannot always talk about tulips.

They therefore began to chat also about other things, and

the tulip-fancier found out to his great astonishment what a

vast range of subjects a conversation may comprise.

Only Rosa had made it a habit to keep her pretty face

invariably six inches distant from the grating, having

perhaps become distrustful of herself.

There was one thing especially which gave Cornelius almost

as much anxiety as his bulbs — a subject to which he always

returned — the dependence of Rosa on her father.

Indeed, Van Baerle’s happiness depended on the whim of this

man. He might one day find Loewestein dull, or the air of

the place unhealthy, or the gin bad, and leave the fortress,

and take his daughter with him, when Cornelius and Rosa

would again be separated.

“Of what use would the carrier pigeons then be?” said

Cornelius to Rosa, “as you, my dear girl, would not be able

to read what I should write to you, nor to write to me your

thoughts in return.”

“Well,” answered Rosa, who in her heart was as much afraid

of a separation as Cornelius himself, “we have one hour

every evening, let us make good use of it.”

“I don’t think we make such a bad use of it as it is.”

“Let us employ it even better,” said Rosa, smiling. “Teach

me to read and write. I shall make the best of your lessons,

believe me; and, in this way, we shall never be separated

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Dumas, Alexandre – The Black Tulip

any more, except by our own will.”

“Oh, then, we have an eternity before us,” said Cornelius.

Rosa smiled, and quietly shrugged her shoulders.

“Will you remain for ever in prison?” she said, “and after

having granted you your life, will not his Highness also

grant you your liberty? And will you not then recover your

fortune, and be a rich man, and then, when you are driving

in your own coach, riding your own horse, will you still

look at poor Rosa, the daughter of a jailer, scarcely better

than a hangman?”

Cornelius tried to contradict her, and certainly he would

have done so with all his heart, and with all the sincerity

of a soul full of love.

She, however, smilingly interrupted him, saying, “How is

your tulip going on?”

To speak to Cornelius of his tulip was an expedient resorted

to by her to make him forget everything, even Rosa herself.

“Very well, indeed,” he said, “the coat is growing black,

the sprouting has commenced, the veins of the bulb are

swelling, in eight days hence, and perhaps sooner, we may

distinguish the first buds of the leaves protruding. And

yours Rosa?”

“Oh, I have done things on a large scale, and according to

your directions.”

“Now, let me hear, Rosa, what you have done,” said

Cornelius, with as tender an anxiety as he had lately shown

to herself.

“Well,” she said, smiling, for in her own heart she could

not help studying this double love of the prisoner for

herself and for the black tulip, “I have done things on a

large scale; I have prepared a bed as you described it to

me, on a clear spot, far from trees and walls, in a soil