The Black Tulip

“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.”

“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.”

“Thank you, friend Cerberus,” said the prisoner; “you are just in time; I am very hungry.”

“Oh! you are hungry, are you?” said Gryphus.

“And why not?” asked Van Baerle.

“The conspiracy seems to thrive,” remarked Gryphus.

“What conspiracy?”

“Very well, I know what I know, Master Scholar; just be quiet, we shall be on our guard.”

“Be on your guard, friend Gryphus; be on your guard as long as you please; my conspiracy, as well as my person, is entirely at your service.”

“We’ll see that at noon.”

Saying this, Gryphus went out.

“At noon?” repeated Cornelius; “what does that mean? Well, let us wait until the clock strikes twelve, and we shall see.”

It was very easy for Cornelius to wait for twelve at midday, as he was already waiting for nine at night.

It struck twelve, and there were heard on the staircase not only the steps of Gryphus, but also those of three or four soldiers, who were coming up with him.

The door opened. Gryphus entered, led his men in, and shut the door after them.

“There, now search!”

They searched not only the pockets of Cornelius, but even his person; yet they found nothing.

They then searched the sheets, the mattress, and the straw mattress of his bed; and again they found nothing.

Now, Cornelius rejoiced that he had not taken the third sucker under his own care. Gryphus would have been sure to ferret it out in the search, and would then have treated it as he did the first.

And certainly never did prisoner look with greater complacency at a search made in his cell than Cornelius.

Gryphus retired with the pencil and the two or three leaves of white paper which Rosa had given to Van Baerle, this was the only trophy brought back from the expedition.

At six Gryphus came back again, but alone; Cornelius tried to propitiate him, but Gryphus growled, showed a large tooth like a tusk, which he had in the corner of his mouth, and went out backwards, like a man who is afraid of being attacked from behind.

Cornelius burst out laughing, to which Gryphus answered through the grating, —

“Let him laugh that wins.”

The winner that day was Cornelius; Rosa came at nine.

She was without a lantern. She needed no longer a light, as she could now read. Moreover, the light might betray her, as Jacob was dogging her steps more than ever. And lastly, the light would have shown her blushes.

Of what did the young people speak that evening? Of those matters of which lovers speak at the house doors in France, or from a balcony into the street in Spain, or down from a terrace into a garden in the East.

They spoke of those things which give wings to the hours; they spoke of everything except the black tulip.

At last, when the clock struck ten, they parted as usual.

Cornelius was happy, as thoroughly happy as a tulip-fancier would be to whom one has not spoken of his tulip.