Cornelius had not three hundred paces to walk outside theprison to reach the foot of the scaffold. At the bottom ofthe staircase, the dog quietly looked at him whilst he waspassing; Cornelius even fancied he saw in the eyes of themonster a certain expression as it were of compassion.
The dog perhaps knew the condemned prisoners, and only bitthose who left as free men.
The shorter the way from the door of the prison to the footof the scaffold, the more fully, of course, it was crowdedwith curious people.
These were the same who, not satisfied with the blood whichthey had shed three days before, were now craving for a newvictim.
And scarcely had Cornelius made his appearance than a fiercegroan ran through the whole street, spreading all over theyard, and re-echoing from the streets which led to thescaffold, and which were likewise crowded with spectators.
The scaffold indeed looked like an islet at the confluenceof several rivers.
In the midst of these threats, groans, and yells, Cornelius,very likely in order not to hear them, had buried himself inhis own thoughts.
And what did he think of in his last melancholy journey
Neither of his enemies, nor of his judges, nor of hisexecutioners.
He thought of the beautiful tulips which he would see fromheaven above, at Ceylon, or Bengal, or elsewhere, when hewould be able to look with pity on this earth, where Johnand Cornelius de Witt had been murdered for having thoughttoo much of politics, and where Cornelius van Baerle wasabout to be murdered for having thought too much of tulips.
It is only one stroke of the axe," said the philosopher tohimself, "and my beautiful dream will begin to be realised."Only there was still a chance, just as it had happenedbefore to M. de Chalais, to M. de Thou, and other slovenlyexecuted people, that the headsman might inflict more thanone stroke, that is to say, more than one martyrdom, on thepoor tulip-fancier.
Yet, notwithstanding all this, Van Baerle mounted thescaffold not the less resolutely, proud of having been thefriend of that illustrious John, and godson of that nobleCornelius de Witt, whom the ruffians, who were now crowdingto witness his own doom, had torn to pieces and burnt threedays before.
He knelt down, said his prayers, and observed, not without afeeling of sincere joy, that, laying his head on the block,and keeping his eyes open, he would be able to his lastmoment to see the grated window of the Buytenhof.
At length the fatal moment arrived, and Cornelius placed hischin on the cold damp block. But at this moment his eyesclosed involuntarily, to receive more resolutely theterrible avalanche which was about to fall on his head, andto engulf his life.
A gleam like that of lightning passed across the scaffold
it was the executioner raising his sword.
Van Baerle bade farewell to the great black tulip, certainof awaking in another world full of light and glorioustints.
Three times he felt, with a shudder, the cold current of airfrom the knife near his neck, but what a surprise! he feltneither pain nor shock.
He saw no change in the colour of the sky, or of the worldaround him.
Then suddenly Van Baerle felt gentle hands raising him, andsoon stood on his feet again, although trembling a little.
He looked around him. There was some one by his side,reading a large parchment, sealed with a huge seal of redwax.
And the same sun, yellow and pale, as it behooves a Dutchsun to be, was shining in the skies; and the same gratedwindow looked down upon him from the Buytenhof; and the samerabble, no longer yelling, but completely thunderstruck,were staring at him from the streets below.
Van Baerle began to be sensible to what was going on aroundhim.
His Highness, William, Prince of Orange, very likely afraidthat Van Baerle's blood would turn the scale of judgmentagainst him, had compassionately taken into considerationhis good character, and the apparent proofs of hisinnocence.
His Highness, accordingly, had granted him his life.
Cornelius at first hoped that the pardon would be complete,and that he would be restored to his full liberty and to hisflower borders at Dort.
But Cornelius was mistaken. To use an expression of Madamede Sevigne, who wrote about the same time, "there was apostscript to the letter;" and the most important part ofthe letter was contained in the postscript.
In this postscript, William of Orange, Stadtholder ofHolland, condemned Cornelius van Baerle to imprisonment forlife. He was not sufficiently guilty to suffer death, but hewas too much so to be set at liberty.
Cornelius heard this clause, but, the first feeling ofvexation and disappointment over, he said to himself, --"Never mind, all this is not lost yet; there is some good inthis perpetual imprisonment; Rosa will be there, and also mythree bulbs of the black tulip are there."But Cornelius forgot that the Seven Provinces had sevenprisons, one for each, and that the board of the prisoner isanywhere else less expensive than at the Hague, which is acapital.
His Highness, who, as it seems, did not possess the means tofeed Van Baerle at the Hague, sent him to undergo hisperpetual imprisonment at the fortress of Loewestein, verynear Dort, but, alas! also very far from it; for Loewestein,as the geographers tell us, is situated at the point of theislet which is formed by the confluence of the Waal and theMeuse, opposite Gorcum.
Van Baerle was sufficiently versed in the history of hiscountry to know that the celebrated Grotius was confined inthat castle after the death of Barneveldt; and that theStates, in their generosity to the illustrious publicist,jurist, historian, poet, and divine, had granted to him forhis daily maintenance the sum of twenty-four stivers.
I," said Van Baerle to himself, "I am worth much less thanGrotius. They will hardly give me twelve stivers, and Ishall live miserably; but never mind, at all events I shalllive."Then suddenly a terrible thought struck him.
Ah!" he exclaimed, "how damp and misty that part of thecountry is, and the soil so bad for the tulips! And thenRosa will not be at Loewestein