You worship a certain beauty, you think of nothing but her.
Then you are condemned to death, and whilst walking to the
scaffold, you devote to her your last sigh; and now you
expect poor me to sacrifice to you all my dreams and my
happiness.”
“But who is the beauty you are talking of, Rosa?” said
Cornelius, trying in vain to remember a woman to whom Rosa
might possibly be alluding.
“The dark beauty with a slender waist, small feet, and a
noble head; in short, I am speaking of your flower.”
Cornelius smiled.
“That is an imaginary lady love, at all events; whereas,
without counting that amorous Jacob, you by your own account
are surrounded with all sorts of swains eager to make love
to you. Do you remember Rosa, what you told me of the
students, officers, and clerks of the Hague? Are there no
clerks, officers, or students at Loewestein?”
“Indeed there are, and lots of them.”
“Who write letters?”
“They do write.”
“And now, as you know how to read —- ”
Here Cornelius heaved a sigh at the thought, that, poor
captive as he was, to him alone Rosa owed the faculty of
reading the love-letters which she received.
“As to that,” said Rosa, “I think that in reading the notes
addressed to me, and passing the different swains in review
who send them to me, I am only following your instructions.”
“How so? My instructions?”
“Indeed, your instructions, sir,” said Rosa, sighing in her
turn; “have you forgotten the will written by your hand on
the Bible of Cornelius de Witt? I have not forgotten it; for
now, as I know how to read, I read it every day over and
over again. In that will you bid me to love and marry a
handsome young man of twenty-six or eight years. I am on the
look-out for that young man, and as the whole of my day is
taken up with your tulip, you must needs leave me the
evenings to find him.”
“But, Rosa, the will was made in the expectation of death,
and, thanks to Heaven, I am still alive.”
“Well, then, I shall not be after the handsome young man,
and I shall come to see you.”
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“That’s it, Rosa, come! come!”
“Under one condition.”
“Granted beforehand!”
“That the black tulip shall not be mentioned for the next
three days.”
“It shall never be mentioned any more, if you wish it,
Rosa.”
“No, no,” the damsel said, laughing, “I will not ask for
impossibilities.”
And, saying this, she brought her fresh cheek, as if
unconsciously, so near the iron grating, that Cornelius was
able to touch it with his lips.
Rosa uttered a little scream, which, however, was full of
love, and disappeared.
Chapter 21
The Second Bulb
The night was a happy one, and the whole of the next day
happier still.
During the last few days, the prison had been heavy, dark,
and lowering, as it were, with all its weight on the
unfortunate captive. Its walls were black, its air chilling,
the iron bars seemed to exclude every ray of light.
But when Cornelius awoke next morning, a beam of the morning
sun was playing about those iron bars; pigeons were hovering
about with outspread wings, whilst others were lovingly
cooing on the roof or near the still closed window.
Cornelius ran to that window and opened it; it seemed to him
as if new life, and joy, and liberty itself were entering
with this sunbeam into his cell, which, so dreary of late,
was now cheered and irradiated by the light of love.
When Gryphus, therefore, came to see his prisoner in the
morning, he no longer found him morose and lying in bed, but
standing at the window, and singing a little ditty.
“Halloa!” exclaimed the jailer.
“How are you this morning?” asked Cornelius.
Gryphus looked at him with a scowl.
“And how is the dog, and Master Jacob, and our pretty Rosa?”
Gryphus ground his teeth, saying. —
“Here is your breakfast.”
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“Thank you, friend Cerberus,” said the prisoner; “you are