Чорний тюльпан
The Maid and the Flower
ShehadnotforgottenonewordofthedirectionsgiventoherbyCornelius,whosespeechesshetreasuredinherheart,evenwhentheydidnottaketheshapeofdirections.
He,onhispart,awokedeeperinlovethanever.Thetulip,indeed,wasstillaluminousandprominentobjectinhismind;buthenolongerlookeduponitasatreasuretowhichheoughttosacrificeeverything,andevenRosa,butasamarvellouscombinationofnatureandartwithwhichhewouldhavebeenhappytoadornthebosomofhisbelovedone.
Yetduringthewholeofthatdayhewashauntedwithavagueuneasiness,atthebottomofwhichwasthefearlestRosashouldnotcomeintheeveningtopayhimherusualvisit.Thisthoughttookmoreandmoreholdofhim,untilattheapproachofeveninghiswholemindwasabsorbedinit.
Howhisheartbeatwhendarknessclosedin!ThewordswhichhehadsaidtoRosaontheeveningbeforeandwhichhadsodeeplyafflictedher,nowcamebacktohismindmorevividlythanever,andheaskedhimselfhowhecouldhavetoldhisgentlecomfortertosacrificehimtohistulip,—thatistosay,togiveupseeinghim,ifneedbe,—whereastohimthesightofRosahadbecomeaconditionoflife.
InCornelius’scelloneheardthechimesoftheclockofthefortress.Itstruckseven,itstruckeight,itstrucknine.Neverdidthemetalvoicevibratemoreforciblythroughtheheartofanymanthandidthelaststroke,markingtheninthhour,throughtheheartofCornelius.
Allwasthensilentagain.Corneliusputhishandonhisheart,torepressasitwereitsviolentpalpitation,andlistened.
