“I reproach you with nothing, Mynbeer Cornelius, except, perhaps, with the intense grief which I felt when people came to tell me at the Buitenhof that you were about to be put to death.”
“You are displeased, Rosa, my sweet girl, with my loving flowers.”
“I am not displeased with your loving them, Mynheer Cornelius, only it makes me sad to think that you love them better than you do me.”
“Oh! my dear, dear Rosa, look how my hands tremble; look at my pale cheek, hear how my heart beats. It is for you, my love, not for the black tulip. Destroy the bulb, destroy the germ of that flower, extinguish the gentle light of that innocent and delightful dream, to which I have accustomed myself; but love me, Rosa, love me; for I feel deeply that I love but you.”
“Yes, after the black tulip,” sighed Rosa, who at last no longer coyly withdrew her warm hands from the grating, as Cornelius most affectionately kissed them.
“Above and before everything in this world, Rosa.”
“May I believe you?”
“As you believe in your own existence.”
“Well, then, be it so; but loving me does not bind you to much.”
“Unfortunately it does not bind me more than I am bound, but it binds you, Rosa, you.”
“To what?”
“First of all, not to marry.”
“She smiled.
“That’s your way,” she said; you are tyrants, all of you. You worship a certain beauty; you think of nothing but her. Then you are condemned to death; and, whilst walking to the scaffold, you devote to her
