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

night, without any doubt, our tulip will be in flower.”

“And will it flower black?”

“Black as jet.”

“Without a speck of any other colour.”

“Without one speck.”

“Good Heavens! my dear Rosa, I have been dreaming all night, in the first place of you,” (Rosa made a sign of incredulity,) “and then of what we must do.”

“Well?”

“Well, and I will tell you now what I have decided on. The tulip once being in flower, and it being quite certain that it is perfectly black, you must find a messenger.”

“If it is no more than that, I have a messenger quite ready.”

“Is he safe?”

“One for whom I will answer⁠—he is one of my lovers.”

“I hope not Jacob.”

“No, be quiet, it is the ferryman of Loewestein, a smart young man of twenty-five.”

“By Jove!”

“Be quiet,” said Rosa, smiling, “he is still under age, as you have yourself fixed it from twenty-six to twenty-eight.”

“In fine, do you think you may rely on this young man?”

“As on myself; he would throw himself into the Waal or the Meuse if I bade him.”

“Well, Rosa, this lad may be at Haarlem in ten hours; you will give me paper and pencil, and, perhaps better still, pen and ink, and I will write, or rather, on second thoughts, you will, for if I did, being a poor prisoner, people might, like your father, see a conspiracy in it. You will write to the President of the Horticultural Society, and I am sure he will come.”

“But if he tarries?”

“Well, let us suppose that he tarries one day, or even two; but it is impossible. A tulip-fancier like him will not tarry one hour, not one minute, not one second, to set out to see the eighth wonder of the world. But, as I said, if he tarried one or even two days, the tulip will still be in its full splendour. The flower once being seen by the President, and the protocol being drawn up, all is in order; you will only keep a duplicate of the protocol, and entrust the tulip to him. Ah! if we had been able to carry it ourselves, Rosa, it would never have left my hands but to pass into yours; but this is a dream, which we must not entertain,” continued Cornelius with a sigh, “the eyes of strangers will see it flower to the last. And above all, Rosa, before the President has seen it, let it not be seen by anyone. Alas! if anyone saw the black tulip, it would be stolen.”

“Oh!”

“Did you not tell me yourself of what you apprehended from your lover Jacob? People will steal one guilder, why not a hundred thousand?”

“I shall watch; be quiet.”

“But if it opened whilst you were here?”

“The whimsical little thing would indeed be quite capable of playing such a trick,” said Rosa.

“And if on your return you find it open?”

“Well?”

“Oh, Rosa, whenever it opens, remember that not a moment must be lost in apprising the President.”

“And in apprising you. Yes, I understand.”

Rosa sighed, yet without any bitter feeling, but rather like a woman who begins to understand a foible, and to accustom herself to it.

“I return to your tulip, Mynheer van Baerle, and as soon as it opens I will give you news, which being done the messenger will set out immediately.”

“Rosa, Rosa, I don’t know to what wonder under the sun I shall compare you.”

“Compare me to the black tulip, and I promise you I shall feel very much flattered. Good night, then, till we meet again, Mynheer Cornelius.”

“Oh, say ‘Good night, my friend.’ ”

“Good night, my friend,” said Rosa, a little consoled.

“Say, ‘My very dear friend.’ ”

“Oh, my friend⁠—”

“Very dear friend, I entreat you, say ‘very dear,’ Rosa, very dear.”

“Very dear, yes, very dear,” said Rosa, with a beating heart, beyond herself with happiness.

“And now that you have said ‘very dear,’ dear Rosa, say also ‘most happy’: say ‘happier and more blessed than ever man was under the sun.’ I only lack one thing, Rosa.”

“And that is?”

“Your cheek⁠—your fresh cheek, your soft, rosy cheek. Oh, Rosa, give it me of your own free will, and not by chance. Ah!”

The prisoner’s prayer ended in a sigh of ecstasy; his lips met those of the maiden⁠—not by chance, nor by stratagem, but as Saint-Preux’s was to meet the lips of Julie a hundred years later.

Rosa made her escape.

Cornelius stood with his heart upon his lips, and his face glued to the wicket in the door.

He was fairly choking with happiness and joy. He opened his window, and gazed long, with swelling heart, at the cloudless vault of heaven, and the moon, which shone like silver upon the twofold stream flowing from far beyond the hills. He filled his lungs with the pure, sweet air, while his brain dwelt upon thoughts of happiness, and his heart overflowed with gratitude and religious fervour.

“Oh Thou art always watching from on high, my God,” he cried, half prostrate, his glowing eyes fixed upon the stars: “forgive me that I almost doubted Thy existence during these latter days, for Thou didst hide Thy face behind the clouds, and wert for a moment lost to my sight, O Thou merciful God, Thou pitying Father everlasting! But today, this evening, and tonight, again I see Thee in all Thy wondrous glory in the mirror of Thy heavenly abode, and more clearly still in the mirror of my grateful heart.”

He was well again, the poor invalid; the wretched captive was free once more.

During part of the night Cornelius, with his heart full of joy and delight, remained at his window, gazing at the stars, and listening for every sound.

Then casting a glance from time to time towards the lobby⁠—

“Down there,” he said, “is Rosa, watching like myself, and waiting from minute to minute; down there, under Rosa’s eyes, is the mysterious flower, which lives, which expands, which opens, perhaps Rosa holds in this moment the stem of the tulip between her delicate fingers. Touch it gently, Rosa. Perhaps she touches with her lips its expanding