Dumas, Alexandre – The Black Tulip

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.

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“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

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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