At this solemn moment, and whilst the cheers still resounded, a carriage
was driving along the road on the outskirts of the green on which the
scene occurred; it pursued its way slowly, on account of the flocks
of children who were pushed out of the avenue by the crowd of men and
women.
This carriage, covered with dust, and creaking on its axles, the result
of a long journey, enclosed the unfortunate Van Baerle, who was just
beginning to get a glimpse through the open window of the scene which we
have tried--with poor success, no doubt--to present to the eyes of the
reader.
The crowd and the noise and the display of artificial and natural
magnificence were as dazzling to the prisoner as a ray of light flashing
suddenly into his dungeon.
Notwithstanding the little readiness which his companion had shown in
answering his questions concerning his fate, he ventured once more to
ask the meaning of all this bustle, which at first sight seemed to be
utterly disconnected with his own affairs.
“What is all this, pray, Mynheer Lieutenant?” he asked of his conductor.
“As you may see, sir,” replied the officer, “it is a feast.”
“Ah, a feast,” said Cornelius, in the sad tone of indifference of a man
to whom no joy remains in this world.
Then, after some moments, silence, during which the carriage had
proceeded a few yards, he asked once more,--
“The feast of the patron saint of Haarlem? as I see so many flowers.”
“It is, indeed, a feast in which flowers play a principal part.”
“Oh, the sweet scents! oh, the beautiful colours!” cried Cornelius.
“Stop, that the gentleman may see,” said the officer, with that frank
kindliness which is peculiar to military men, to the soldier who was
acting as postilion.
“Oh, thank you, Sir, for your kindness,” replied Van Baerle, in a
melancholy tone; “the joy of others pains me; please spare me this
pang.”
“Just as you wish. Drive on! I ordered the driver to stop because
I thought it would please you, as you are said to love flowers, and
especially that the feast of which is celebrated to-day.”
“And what flower is that?”
“The tulip.”
“The tulip!” cried Van Baerle, “is to-day the feast of tulips?”
“Yes, sir; but as this spectacle displeases you, let us drive on.”
The officer was about to give the order to proceed, but Cornelius
stopped him, a painful thought having struck him. He asked, with
faltering voice,--
“Is the prize given to-day, sir?”
“Yes, the prize for the black tulip.”
Cornelius’s cheek flushed, his whole frame trembled, and the cold sweat
stood on his brow.
“Alas! sir,” he said, “all these good people will be as unfortunate
as myself, for they will not see the solemnity which they have come to
witness, or at least they will see it incompletely.”
“What is it you mean to say?”
“I mean to say,” replied Cornelius, throwing himself back in the
carriage, “that the black tulip will not be found, except by one whom I
know.”
“In this case,” said the officer, “the person whom you know has found
it, for the thing which the whole of Haarlem is looking at at this
moment is neither more nor less than the black tulip.”
“The black tulip!” replied Van Baerle, thrusting half his body out of
the carriage window. “Where is it? where is it?”
“Down there on the throne,--don’t you see?”
“I do see it.”
“Come along, sir,” said the officer. “Now we must drive off.”
“Oh, have pity, have mercy, sir!” said Van Baerle, “don’t take me away!
Let me look once more! Is what I see down there the black tulip? Quite
black? Is it possible? Oh, sir, have you seen it? It must have specks,
it must be imperfect, it must only be dyed black. Ah! if I were there,
I should see it at once. Let me alight, let me see it close, I beg of
you.”
“Are you mad, Sir? How could I allow such a thing?”
“I implore you.”
“But you forget that you are a prisoner.”
“It is true I am a prisoner, but I am a man of honour, and I promise you
on my word that I will not run away, I will not attempt to escape,--only
let me see the flower.”
“But my orders, Sir, my orders.” And the officer again made the driver a
sign to proceed.
Cornelius stopped him once more.
“Oh, be forbearing, be generous! my whole life depends upon your pity.
Alas! perhaps it will not be much longer. You don’t know, sir, what I
suffer. You don’t know the struggle going on in my heart and mind. For
after all,” Cornelius cried in despair, “if this were my tulip, if it
were the one which has been stolen from Rosa! Oh, I must alight, sir! I
must see the flower! You may kill me afterwards if you like, but I will
see it, I must see it.”
“Be quiet, unfortunate man, and come quickly back into the carriage, for
here is the escort of his Highness the Stadtholder, and if the Prince
observed any disturbance, or heard any noise, it would be ruin to me, as
well as to you.”
Van Baerle, more afraid for his companion than himself, threw himself
back into the carriage, but he could only keep quiet for half a minute,
and the first twenty horsemen had scarcely passed when he again leaned
out of the carriage window, gesticulating imploringly towards the
Stadtholder at the very moment when he passed.
William, impassible and quiet as usual, was proceeding to the green to
fulfil his duty as chairman. He held in his hand the roll of parchment,
which, on this festive day, had become his baton.
Seeing the man gesticulate with imploring mien, and perhaps also
recognising the officer who accompanied him, his Highness ordered his
carriage to stop.
In an instant his snorting steeds stood still, at a distance of about
six yards from the carriage in which Van Baerle was caged.
“What is this?” the Prince asked the officer, who at the first order
of the Stadtholder had jumped out of the carriage, and was respectfully
approaching him.
“Monseigneur,” he cried, “this is the prisoner of state whom I have
fetched from Loewestein, and whom I have brought to Haarlem according to
your Highness’s command.”
“What does he want?”
“He entreats for permission to stop here for minute.”
“To see the black tulip, Monseigneur,” said Van Baerle, clasping his
hands, “and when I have seen it, when I have seen what I desire to know,
I am quite ready to die, if die I must; but in dying I shall bless your
Highness’s mercy for having allowed me to witness the glorification of
my work.”
It was, indeed, a curious spectacle to see these two men at the windows
of their several carriages; the one surrounded by his guards, and all
powerful, the other a prisoner and miserable; the one going to mount a
throne, the other believing himself to be on his way to the scaffold.
William, looking with his cold glance on Cornelius, listened to his
anxious and urgent request.
Then addressing himself to the officer, he said,--
“Is this person the mutinous prisoner who has attempted to kill his
jailer at Loewestein?”
Cornelius heaved a sigh and hung his head. His good-tempered honest face
turned pale and red at the same instant. These words of the all-powerful
Prince, who by some secret messenger unavailable to other mortals had
already been apprised of his crime, seemed to him to forebode not only
his doom, but also the refusal of his last request.
He did not try to make a struggle, or to defend himself; and he
presented to the Prince the affecting spectacle of despairing innocence,
like that of a child,--a spectacle which was fully understood and felt
by the great mind and the great heart of him who observed it.
“Allow the prisoner to alight, and let him see the black tulip; it is
well worth being seen once.”
“Thank you, Monseigneur, thank you,” said Cornelius, nearly swooning
with joy, and staggering on the steps of his carriage; had not the
officer supported him, our poor friend would have made his thanks to his
Highness prostrate on his knees with his forehead in the dust.
After having granted this permission, the Prince proceeded on his way
over the green amidst the most enthusiastic acclamations.
He soon arrived at the platform, and the thunder of cannon shook the
air.