The Black Tulip, Alexandre Dumas [portable ebook reader .txt] 📗

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 in the yard, there is an instrument of steel, which in sixty minutes will put an end to my boldness. Well, Rosa, I loved flowers dearly, and I have found, or at least I believe so, the secret of the great black tulip, which it has been considered impossible to grow, and for which, as you know, or may not know, a prize of a hundred thousand guilders has been offered by the Horticultural Society of Haarlem. These hundred thousand guilders⁠—and Heaven knows I do not regret them⁠—these hundred thousand guilders I have here in this paper, for they are won by the three bulbs wrapped up in it, which you may take, Rosa, as I make you a present of them.”

“Mynheer Cornelius!”

“Yes, yes, Rosa, you may take them; you are not wronging anyone, my child. I am alone in this world; my parents are dead; I never had a sister or a brother. I have never had a thought of loving anyone with what is called love, and if anyone has loved me, I have not known it. However, you see well, Rosa, that I am abandoned by everybody, as in this sad hour you alone are with me in my prison, consoling and assisting me.”

“But, sir, a hundred thousand guilders!”

“Well, let us talk seriously, my dear child: those hundred thousand guilders will be a nice marriage portion, with your pretty face; you shall have them, Rosa, dear Rosa, and I ask nothing in return but your promise that you will marry a fine young man, whom you love, and who will love you, as dearly as I loved my flowers. Don’t interrupt me, Rosa dear, I have only a few minutes more.”

The poor girl was nearly choking with her sobs.

Cornelius took her by the hand.

“Listen to me,” he continued: “I’ll tell you how to manage it. Go to Dort and ask Butruysheim, my gardener, for soil from my border number six, fill a deep box with it, and plant in it these three bulbs. They will flower next May, that is to say, in seven months; and, when you see the flower forming on the stem, be careful at night to protect them from the wind, and by day to screen them from the sun. They will flower black, I am quite sure of it. You are then to apprise the President of the Haarlem Society. He will cause the color of the flower to be proved before a committee and these hundred thousand guilders will be paid to you.”

Rosa heaved a deep sigh.

“And now,” continued Cornelius⁠—wiping away a tear which was glistening in his eye, and which was shed much more for that marvellous black tulip which he was not to see than for the life which he was about to lose⁠—“I have no wish left, except that the tulip should be called Rosa Barlœnsis, that is to say, that its name should combine yours and mine; and as, of course, you do not understand Latin, and might therefore forget this name, try to get for me pencil and paper, that I may write it down for you.”

Rosa sobbed afresh, and handed to him a book, bound in shagreen, which bore the initials C. W.

“What is this?” asked the prisoner.

“Alas!” replied Rosa, “it is the Bible of your poor godfather, Cornelius de Witt. From it he derived strength to endure the torture, and to bear his sentence without flinching. I found it in this cell, after the death of the martyr, and have preserved it as a relic. Today I brought it to you, for it seemed to me that this book must possess in itself a divine power. Write in it what you have to write, Mynheer