Чорний тюльпан
The Family Cell
Itwouldhavemadeafinepicture,worthyofRembrandt,thegloomywindingstairsilluminatedbythereddishglareofthecressetofGryphus,withhisscowlingjailer’scountenanceatthetop,themelancholyfigureofCorneliusbendingoverthebanistertolookdownuponthesweetfaceofRosa,standing,asitwere,inthebrightframeofthedoorofherchamber,withembarrassedmienatbeingthusseenbyastranger.
Andatthebottom,quiteintheshade,wherethedetailsareabsorbedintheobscurity,themastiff,withhiseyesglisteninglikecarbuncles,andshakinghischain,onwhichthedoublelightfromthelampofRosaandthelanternofGryphusthrewabrilliantglitter.
Thesublimemasterwould,however,havebeenaltogetherunabletorenderthesorrowexpressedinthefaceofRosa,whenshesawthispale,handsomeyoungmanslowlyclimbingthestairs,andthoughtofthefullimportofthewords,whichherfatherhadjustspoken,“Youwillhavethefamilycell.”
Thisvisionlastedbutamoment,—muchlesstimethanwehavetakentodescribeit.Gryphusthenproceededonhisway,Corneliuswasforcedtofollowhim,andfiveminutesafterwardsheenteredhisprison,ofwhichitisunnecessarytosaymore,asthereaderisalreadyacquaintedwithit.
Gryphuspointedwithhisfingertothebedonwhichthemartyrhadsufferedsomuch,whoonthatdayhadrenderedhissoultoGod.Then,takinguphiscresset,hequittedthecell.
