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

then enabled to follow with her finger the letters and syllables, which she was to spell for Cornelius, who with a straw pointed out the letters to his attentive pupil through the holes of the grating.

The light of the lamp illuminated the rich complexion of Rosa, her blue liquid eyes, and her golden hair under her headdress of gold brocade, with her fingers held up, and showing in the blood, as it flowed downwards in the veins that pale pink hue which shines before the light owing to the living transparency of the flesh tint.

Rosa’s intellect rapidly developed itself under the animating influence of Cornelius, and when the difficulties seemed too arduous, the sympathy of two loving hearts seemed to smooth them away.

And Rosa, after having returned to her room, repeated in her solitude the reading lessons, and at the same time recalled all the delight which she had felt whilst receiving them.

One evening she came half an hour later than usual. This was too extraordinary an instance not to call forth at once Cornelius’s inquiries after its cause.

“Oh! do not be angry with me,” she said, “it is not my fault. My father has renewed an acquaintance with an old crony who used to visit him at the Hague, and to ask him to let him see the prison. He is a good sort of fellow, fond of his bottle, tells funny stories, and moreover is very free with his money, so as always to be ready to stand a treat.”

“You don’t know anything further of him?” asked Cornelius, surprised.

“No,” she answered; “it’s only for about a fortnight that my father has taken such a fancy to this friend who is so assiduous in visiting him.”

“Ah, so,” said Cornelius, shaking his head uneasily as every new incident seemed to him to forebode some catastrophe; “very likely some spy, one of those who are sent into jails to watch both prisoners and their keepers.”

“I don’t believe that,” said Rosa, smiling; “if that worthy person is spying after anyone, it is certainly not after my father.”

“After whom, then?”

“Me, for instance.”

“You?”

“Why not?” said Rosa, smiling.

“Ah, that’s true,” Cornelius observed, with a sigh. “You will not always have suitors in vain; this man may become your husband.”

“I don’t say anything to the contrary.”

“What cause have you to entertain such a happy prospect?”

“Rather say, this fear, Mynheer Cornelius.”

“Thank you, Rosa, you are right; well, I will say then, this fear?”

“I have only this reason⁠—”

“Tell me, I am anxious to hear.”

“This man came several times before to the Buytenhof, at the Hague. I remember now, it was just about the time when you were confined there. When I left, he left too; when I came here, he came after me. At the Hague his pretext was that he wanted to see you.”

“See me?”

“Yes, it must have undoubtedly been only a pretext for now, when he could plead the same reason, as you are my father’s prisoner again, he does not care any longer for you; quite the contrary⁠—I heard him say to my father only yesterday that he did not know you.”

“Go on, Rosa, pray do, that I may guess who that man is, and what he wants.”

“Are you quite sure, Mynheer Cornelius, that none of your friends can interest himself for you?”

“I have no friends, Rosa; I have only my old nurse, whom you know, and who knows you. Alas, poor Sue! she would come herself, and use no roundabout ways. She would at once say to your father, or to you, ‘My good sir, or my good miss, my child is here; see how grieved I am; let me see him only for one hour, and I’ll pray for you as long as I live.’ No, no,” continued Cornelius; “with the exception of my poor old Sue, I have no friends in this world.”

“Then I come back to what I thought before; and the more so as last evening at sunset, whilst I was arranging the border where I am to plant your bulb, I saw a shadow gliding between the alder trees and the aspens. I did not appear to see him, but it was this man. He concealed himself and saw me digging the ground, and certainly it was me whom he followed, and me whom he was spying after. I could not move my rake, or touch one atom of soil, without his noticing it.”

“Oh, yes, yes, he is in love with you,” said Cornelius. “Is he young? Is he handsome?”

Saying this he looked anxiously at Rosa, eagerly waiting for her answer.

“Young? handsome?” cried Rosa, bursting into a laugh. “He is hideous to look at; crooked, nearly fifty years of age, and never dares to look me in the face, or to speak, except in an undertone.”

“And his name?”

“Jacob Gisels.”

“I don’t know him.”

“Then you see that, at all events, he does not come after you.”

“At any rate, if he loves you, Rosa, which is very likely, as to see you is to love you, at least you don’t love him.”

“To be sure I don’t.”

“Then you wish me to keep my mind easy?”

“I should certainly ask you to do so.”

“Well, then, now as you begin to know how to read you will read all that I write to you of the pangs of jealousy and of absence, won’t you, Rosa?”

“I shall read it, if you write with good big letters.”

Then, as the turn which the conversation took began to make Rosa uneasy, she asked⁠—

“By the by, how is your tulip going on?”

“Oh, Rosa, only imagine my joy, this morning I looked at it in the sun, and after having moved the soil aside which covers the bulb, I saw the first sprouting of the leaves. This small germ has caused me a much greater emotion than the order of his Highness which turned aside the sword already raised at the Buytenhof.”

“You hope, then?” said Rosa, smiling.

“Yes, yes, I hope.”

“And I, in my turn, when shall I plant my bulb?”

“Oh, the first