The Black Tulip, Alexandre Dumas [most recommended books .TXT] 📗

the Hague if they simplified for him the government of the Seven Provinces by destroying even the least germ of conspiracy against his authority.

This argument capped all the others, and, in order so much the more effectually to destroy the germ of conspiracy, sentence of death was unanimously pronounced against Cornelius van Baerle, as being arraigned, and convicted, for having, under the innocent appearance of a tulip-fancier, participated in the detestable intrigues and abominable plots of the brothers De Witt against Dutch nationality and in their secret relations with their French enemy.

A supplementary clause was tacked to the sentence, to the effect that “the aforesaid Cornelius van Baerle should be led from the prison of the Buytenhof to the scaffold in the yard of the same name, where the public executioner would cut off his head.”

As this deliberation was a most serious affair, it lasted a full half-hour, during which the prisoner was remanded to his cell.

There the Recorder of the States came to read the sentence to him.

Master Gryphus was detained in bed by the fever caused by the fracture of his arm. His keys passed into the hands of one of his assistants. Behind this turnkey, who introduced the Recorder, Rosa, the fair Frisian maid, had slipped into the recess of the door, with a handkerchief to her mouth to stifle her sobs.

Cornelius listened to the sentence with an expression rather of surprise than sadness.

After the sentence was read, the Recorder asked him whether he had anything to answer.

“Indeed, I have not,” he replied. “Only I confess that, among all the causes of death against which a cautious man may guard, I should never have supposed this to be comprised.”

On this answer, the Recorder saluted Van Baerle with all that consideration which such functionaries generally bestow upon great criminals of every sort.

But whilst he was about to withdraw, Cornelius asked, “By the bye, Mr. Recorder, what day is the thing—you know what I mean—to take place?”

“Why, to-day,” answered the Recorder, a little surprised by the self-possession of the condemned man.

A sob was heard behind the door, and Cornelius turned round to look from whom it came; but Rosa, who had foreseen this movement, had fallen back.

“And,” continued Cornelius, “what hour is appointed?”

“Twelve o’clock, sir.”

“Indeed,” said Cornelius, “I think I heard the clock strike ten about twenty minutes ago; I have not much time to spare.”

“Indeed you have not, if you wish to make your peace with God,” said the Recorder, bowing to the ground. “You may ask for any clergyman you please.”

Saying these words he went out backwards, and the assistant turnkey was going to follow him, and to lock the door of Cornelius’s cell, when a white and trembling arm interposed between him and the heavy door.

Cornelius saw nothing but the golden brocade cap, tipped with lace, such as the Frisian girls wore; he heard nothing but some one whispering into the ear of the turnkey. But the latter put his heavy keys into the white hand which was stretched out to receive them, and, descending some steps, sat down on the staircase which was thus guarded above by himself, and below by the dog. The head-dress turned round, and Cornelius beheld the face of Rosa, blanched with grief, and her beautiful eyes streaming with tears.

She went up to Cornelius, crossing her arms on her heaving breast.

“Oh, sir, sir!” she said, but sobs choked her utterance.

“My good girl,” Cornelius replied with emotion, “what do you wish? I may tell you that my time on earth is short.”

“I come to ask a favour of you,” said Rosa, extending her arms partly towards him and partly towards heaven.

“Don’t weep so, Rosa,” said the prisoner, “for your tears go much more to my heart than my approaching fate, and you know, the less guilty a prisoner is, the more it is his duty to die calmly, and even joyfully, as he dies a martyr. Come, there’s a dear, don’t cry any more, and tell me what you want, my pretty Rosa.”

She fell on her knees. “Forgive my father,” she said.

“Your father, your father!” said Cornelius, astonished.

“Yes, he has been so harsh to you; but it is his nature, he is so to every one, and you are not the only one whom he has bullied.”

“He is punished, my dear Rosa, more than punished, by the accident that has befallen him, and I forgive him.”

“I thank you, sir,” said Rosa. “And now tell me—oh, tell me—can I do anything for you?”

“You can dry your beautiful eyes, my dear child,” answered Cornelius, with a good-tempered smile.

“But what can I do for you,—for you I mean?”

“A man who has only one hour longer to live must be a great Sybarite still to want anything, my dear Rosa.”

“The clergyman whom they have proposed to you?”

“I have worshipped God all my life, I have worshipped Him in His works, and praised Him in His decrees. I am at peace with Him and do not wish for a clergyman. The last thought which occupies my mind, however has reference to the glory of the Almighty, and, indeed, my dear, I should ask you to help me in carrying out this last thought.”

“Oh, Mynheer Cornelius, speak, speak!” exclaimed Rosa, still bathed in tears.

“Give me your hand, and promise me not to laugh, my dear child.”

“Laugh,” exclaimed Rosa, frantic with grief, “laugh at this moment! do you not see my tears?”

“Rosa, you are no stranger to me. I have not seen much of you, but that little is enough to make me appreciate your character. I have never seen a woman more fair or more pure than you are, and if from this moment I take no more notice of you, forgive me; it is only because, on leaving this world, I do not wish to have any further regret.”

Rosa felt a shudder creeping over her frame, for, whilst the prisoner pronounced these words, the belfry clock of the Buytenhof struck eleven.

Cornelius understood her. “Yes, yes, let us make haste,” he said, “you are right, Rosa.”

Then, taking the paper with the three suckers from his breast, where he had again put it, since he had no longer any fear of being searched, he said: “My dear girl, I have been very fond of flowers. That was at a time when I did not know that there was anything else to be loved. Don’t blush, Rosa, nor turn away; and even if I were making you a declaration of love, alas! poor dear, it would be of no more consequence. Down there