Whilst the events we have described in our last chapter were
taking place, the unfortunate Van Baerle, forgotten in his
cell in the fortress of Loewestein, suffered at the hands of
Gryphus all that a prisoner can suffer when his jailer has
formed the determination of playing the part of hangman.
Gryphus, not having received any tidings of Rosa or of
Jacob, persuaded himself that all that had happened was the
devil’s work, and that Dr. Cornelius van Baerle had been
sent on earth by Satan.
The result of it was, that, one fine morning, the third
after the disappearance of Jacob and Rosa, he went up to the
cell of Cornelius in even a greater rage than usual.
The latter, leaning with his elbows on the window-sill and
supporting his head with his two hands, whilst his eyes
wandered over the distant hazy horizon where the windmills
of Dort were turning their sails, was breathing the fresh
air, in order to be able to keep down his tears and to
fortify himself in his philosophy.
The pigeons were still there, but hope was not there; there
was no future to look forward to.
Page 155
Dumas, Alexandre – The Black Tulip
Alas! Rosa, being watched, was no longer able to come. Could
she not write? and if so, could she convey her letters to
him?
No, no. He had seen during the two preceding days too much
fury and malignity in the eyes of old Gryphus to expect that
his vigilance would relax, even for one moment. Moreover,
had not she to suffer even worse torments than those of
seclusion and separation? Did this brutal, blaspheming,
drunken bully take revenge on his daughter, like the
ruthless fathers of the Greek drama? And when the Genievre
had heated his brain, would it not give to his arm, which
had been only too well set by Cornelius, even double force?
The idea that Rosa might perhaps be ill-treated nearly drove
Cornelius mad.
He then felt his own powerlessness. He asked himself whether
God was just in inflicting so much tribulation on two
innocent creatures. And certainly in these moments he began
to doubt the wisdom of Providence. It is one of the curses
of misfortune that it thus begets doubt.
Van Baerle had proposed to write to Rosa, but where was she?
He also would have wished to write to the Hague to be
beforehand with Gryphus, who, he had no doubt, would by
denouncing him do his best to bring new storms on his head.
But how should he write? Gryphus had taken the paper and
pencil from him, and even if he had both, he could hardly
expect Gryphus to despatch his letter.
Then Cornelius revolved in his mind all those stratagems
resorted to by unfortunate prisoners.
He had thought of an attempt to escape, a thing which never
entered his head whilst he could see Rosa every day; but the
more he thought of it, the more clearly he saw the
impracticability of such an attempt. He was one of those
choice spirits who abhor everything that is common, and who
often lose a good chance through not taking the way of the
vulgar, that high road of mediocrity which leads to
everything.
“How is it possible,” said Cornelius to himself, “that I
should escape from Loewestein, as Grotius has done the same
thing before me? Has not every precaution been taken since?
Are not the windows barred? Are not the doors of double and
even of treble strength, and the sentinels ten times more
watchful? And have not I, besides all this, an Argus so much
the more dangerous as he has the keen eyes of hatred?
Finally, is there not one fact which takes away all my
spirit, I mean Rosa’s absence? But suppose I should waste
ten years of my life in making a file to file off my bars,
or in braiding cords to let myself down from the window, or
in sticking wings on my shoulders to fly, like Daedalus? But
luck is against me now. The file would get dull, the rope
would break, or my wings would melt in the sun; I should