Chapter 9. The Family Cell

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.