_ It was about midnight when poor Van Baerle was locked up in the prison
of the Buytenhof.
What Rosa foresaw had come to pass. On finding the cell of Cornelius
de Witt empty, the wrath of the people ran very high, and had Gryphus
fallen into the hands of those madmen he would certainly have had to pay
with his life for the prisoner.
But this fury had vented itself most fully on the two brothers when
they were overtaken by the murderers, thanks to the precaution which
William--the man of precautions--had taken in having the gates of the
city closed.
A momentary lull had therefore set in whilst the prison was empty, and
Rosa availed herself of this favourable moment to come forth from her
hiding place, which she also induced her father to leave.
The prison was therefore completely deserted. Why should people remain
in the jail whilst murder was going on at the Tol-Hek?
Gryphus came forth trembling behind the courageous Rosa. They went to
close the great gate, at least as well as it would close, considering
that it was half demolished. It was easy to see that a hurricane of
mighty fury had vented itself upon it.
About four o'clock a return of the noise was heard, but of no
threatening character to Gryphus and his daughter. The people were only
dragging in the two corpses, which they came back to gibbet at the usual
place of execution.
Rosa hid herself this time also, but only that she might not see the
ghastly spectacle.
At midnight, people again knocked at the gate of the jail, or rather
at the barricade which served in its stead: it was Cornelius van Baerle
whom they were bringing.
When the jailer received this new inmate, and saw from the warrant the
name and station of his prisoner, he muttered with his turnkey smile,--
"Godson of Cornelius de Witt! Well, young man, we have the family cell
here, and we will give it to you."
And quite enchanted with his joke, the ferocious Orangeman took his
cresset and his keys to conduct Cornelius to the cell, which on that
very morning Cornelius de Witt had left to go into exile, or what in
revolutionary times is meant instead by those sublime philosophers who
lay it down as an axiom of high policy, "It is the dead only who do not
return."
On the way which the despairing florist had to traverse to reach that
cell he heard nothing but the barking of a dog, and saw nothing but the
face of a young girl.
The dog rushed forth from a niche in the wall, shaking his heavy
chain, and sniffing all round Cornelius in order so much the better to
recognise him in case he should be ordered to pounce upon him.
The young girl, whilst the prisoner was mounting the staircase, appeared
at the narrow door of her chamber, which opened on that very flight of
steps; and, holding the lamp in her right hand, she at the same time
lit up her pretty blooming face, surrounded by a profusion of rich
wavy golden locks, whilst with her left she held her white night-dress
closely over her breast, having been roused from her first slumber by
the unexpected arrival of Van Baerle.
It would have made a fine picture, worthy of Rembrandt, the gloomy
winding stairs illuminated by the reddish glare of the cresset of
Gryphus, with his scowling jailer's countenance at the top, the
melancholy figure of Cornelius bending over the banister to look down
upon the sweet face of Rosa, standing, as it were, in the bright frame
of the door of her chamber, with embarrassed mien at being thus seen by
a stranger.
And at the bottom, quite in the shade, where the details are absorbed
in the obscurity, the mastiff, with his eyes glistening like carbuncles,
and shaking his chain, on which the double light from the lamp of Rosa
and the lantern of Gryphus threw a brilliant glitter.
The sublime master would, however, have been altogether unable to
render the sorrow expressed in the face of Rosa, when she saw this pale,
handsome young man slowly climbing the stairs, and thought of the full
import of the words, which her father had just spoken, "You will have
the family cell."
This vision lasted but a moment,--much less time than we have taken to
describe it. Gryphus then proceeded on his way, Cornelius was forced to
follow him, and five minutes afterwards he entered his prison, of which
it is unnecessary to say more, as the reader is already acquainted with
it.
Gryphus pointed with his finger to the bed on which the martyr had
suffered so much, who on that day had rendered his soul to God. Then,
taking up his cresset, he quitted the cell.
Thus left alone, Cornelius threw himself on his bed, but he slept not,
he kept his eye fixed on the narrow window, barred with iron, which
looked on the Buytenhof; and in this way saw from behind the trees that
first pale beam of light which morning sheds on the earth as a white
mantle.
Now and then during the night horses had galloped at a smart pace over
the Buytenhof, the heavy tramp of the patrols had resounded from the
pavement, and the slow matches of the arquebuses, flaring in the east
wind, had thrown up at intervals a sudden glare as far as to the panes
of his window.
But when the rising sun began to gild the coping stones at the gable
ends of the houses, Cornelius, eager to know whether there was any
living creature about him, approached the window, and cast a sad look
round the circular yard before him.
At the end of the yard a dark mass, tinted with a dingy blue by the
morning dawn, rose before him, its dark outlines standing out in
contrast to the houses already illuminated by the pale light of early
morning.
Cornelius recognised the gibbet.
On it were suspended two shapeless trunks, which indeed were no more
than bleeding skeletons.
The good people of the Hague had chopped off the flesh of its victims,
but faithfully carried the remainder to the gibbet, to have a pretext
for a double inscription written on a huge placard, on which Cornelius;
with the keen sight of a young man of twenty-eight, was able to read the
following lines, daubed by the coarse brush of a sign-painter:--
"Here are hanging the great rogue of the name of John de Witt, and the
little rogue Cornelius de Witt, his brother, two enemies of the people,
but great friends of the king of France."
Cornelius uttered a cry of horror, and in the agony of his frantic
terror knocked with his hands and feet at the door so violently and
continuously, that Gryphus, with his huge bunch of keys in his hand, ran
furiously up.
The jailer opened the door, with terrible imprecations against the
prisoner who disturbed him at an hour which Master Gryphus was not
accustomed to be aroused.
"Well, now, by my soul, he is mad, this new De Witt," he cried, "but all
those De Witts have the devil in them."
"Master, master," cried Cornelius, seizing the jailer by the arm and
dragging him towards the window,--"master, what have I read down there?"
"Where down there?"
"On that placard."
And, trembling, pale, and gasping for breath, he pointed to the gibbet
at the other side of the yard, with the cynical inscription surmounting
it.
Gryphus broke out into a laugh.
"Eh! eh!" he answered, "so, you have read it. Well, my good sir, that's
what people will get for corresponding with the enemies of his Highness
the Prince of Orange."
"The brothers De Witt are murdered!" Cornelius muttered, with the cold
sweat on his brow, and sank on his bed, his arms hanging by his side,
and his eyes closed.
"The brothers De Witt have been judged by the people," said Gryphus;
"you call that murdered, do you? well, I call it executed."
And seeing that the prisoner was not only quiet, but entirely prostrate
and senseless, he rushed from the cell, violently slamming the door, and
noisily drawing the bolts.
Recovering his consciousness, Cornelius found himself alone, and
recognised the room where he was,--"the family cell," as Gryphus had
called it,--as the fatal passage leading to ignominious death.
And as he was a philosopher, and, more than that, as he was a Christian,
he began to pray for the soul of his godfather, then for that of the
Grand Pensionary, and at last submitted with resignation to all the
sufferings which God might ordain for him.
Then turning again to the concerns of earth, and having satisfied
himself that he was alone in his dungeon, he drew from his breast the
three bulbs of the black tulip, and concealed them behind a block of
stone, on which the traditional water-jug of the prison was standing, in
the darkest corner of his cell.
Useless labour of so many years! such sweet hopes crushed; his discovery
was, after all, to lead to naught, just as his own career was to be cut
short. Here, in his prison, there was not a trace of vegetation, not an
atom of soil, not a ray of sunshine.
At this thought Cornelius fell into a gloomy despair, from which he was
only aroused by an extraordinary circumstance.
What was this circumstance?
We shall inform the reader in our next chapter. _