“don’t you meddle with what don’t concern you, but go down as quickly as possible.”
“Unfortunate me,” continued Cornelius, overwhelmed with grief.
“After all, it is but a tulip,” Gryphus resumed, as he began to be a little ashamed of himself. “You may have as many tulips as you like: I have three hundred of them in my loft.”
“To the devil with your tulips!” cried Cornelius; “you are worthy of each other: had I a hundred thousand millions of them, I would gladly give them for the one which you have just destroyed!”
“Ah! so,” Gryphus said, in a tone of triumph; “now there we have it. It was not your tulip you cared for. There was in that false bulb some witchcraft, perhaps some means of correspondence with conspirators against His Highness who has granted you your life. I always said they were wrong in not cutting your head off.”
“Father, father!” cried Rosa.
“Yes, yes! it is better as it is now,” repeated Gryphus, growing warm; “I have destroyed it, and I’ll do the same again, as often as you repeat the trick. Didn’t I tell you, my fine fellow, that I would make your life a hard one?”
“A curse on you!” Cornelius exclaimed, quite beyond himself with despair, as he gathered, with his trembling fingers, the remnants of that bulb on which he had rested so many joys and so many hopes.
“We shall plant the other to-morrow, my dear Mynheer Cornelius,” said Rosa, in a low voice, who understood the intense grief of the unfortunate tulip-fancier, and who, with the pure sacred love of her innocent heart, poured these kind words, like a drop of balm, on the bleeding wounds of Cornelius.
