“At Dort,” said Boxtel.
“You lie!” cried Rosa. “Monseigneur,” she continued, whilst
turning round to the Prince, “I will tell you the true story
of these three bulbs. The first was crushed by my father in
the prisoner’s cell, and this man is quite aware of it, for
he himself wanted to get hold of it, and, being balked in
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his hope, he very nearly fell out with my father, who had
been the cause of his disappointment. The second bulb,
planted by me, has produced the black tulip, and the third
and last” — saying this, she drew it from her bosom —
“here it is, in the very same paper in which it was wrapped
up together with the two others. When about to be led to the
scaffold, Cornelius van Baerle gave me all the three. Take
it, Monseigneur, take it.”
And Rosa, unfolding the paper, offered the bulb to the
Prince, who took it from her hands and examined it.
“But, Monseigneur, this young woman may have stolen the
bulb, as she did the tulip,” Boxtel said, with a faltering
voice, and evidently alarmed at the attention with which the
Prince examined the bulb; and even more at the movements of
Rosa, who was reading some lines written on the paper which
remained in her hands.
Her eyes suddenly lighted up; she read, with breathless
anxiety, the mysterious paper over and over again; and at
last, uttering a cry, held it out to the Prince and said,
“Read, Monseigneur, for Heaven’s sake, read!”
William handed the third bulb to Van Systens, took the
paper, and read.
No sooner had he looked at it than he began to stagger; his
hand trembled, and very nearly let the paper fall to the
ground; and the expression of pain and compassion in his
features was really frightful to see.
It was that fly-leaf, taken from the Bible, which Cornelius
de Witt had sent to Dort by Craeke, the servant of his
brother John, to request Van Baerle to burn the
correspondence of the Grand Pensionary with the Marquis de
Louvois.
This request, as the reader may remember, was couched in the
following terms: —
“My Dear Godson, —
“Burn the parcel which I have intrusted to you. Burn it
without looking at it, and without opening it, so that its
contents may for ever remain unknown to yourself. Secrets of
this description are death to those with whom they are
deposited. Burn it, and you will have saved John and
Cornelius de Witt.
“Farewell, and love me.
Cornelius de Witt.
“August 20, 1672.”
This slip of paper offered the proofs both of Van Baerle’s
innocence and of his claim to the property of the tulip.
Rosa and the Stadtholder exchanged one look only.
That of Rosa was meant to express, “Here, you see yourself.”
That of the Stadtholder signified, “Be quiet, and wait.”
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The Prince wiped the cold sweat from his forehead, and
slowly folded up the paper, whilst his thoughts were
wandering in that labyrinth without a goal and without a
guide, which is called remorse and shame for the past.
Soon, however, raising his head with an effort, he said, in
his usual voice, —
“Go, Mr. Boxtel; justice shall be done, I promise you.”
Then, turning to the President, he added, —
“You, my dear Mynheer van Systens, take charge of this young
woman and of the tulip. Good-bye.”
All bowed, and the Prince left, among the deafening cheers
of the crowd outside.
Boxtel returned to his inn, rather puzzled and uneasy,
tormented by misgivings about that paper which William had
received from the hand of Rosa, and which his Highness had
read, folded up, and so carefully put in his pocket. What
was the meaning of all this?
Rosa went up to the tulip, tenderly kissed its leaves and,
with a heart full of happiness and confidence in the ways of
God, broke out in the words, —
“Thou knowest best for what end Thou madest my good
Cornelius teach me to read.”
Chapter 28
The Hymn of the Flowers