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The Black Tulip-Part13_Alexandre Dumas(1802-1870)_Translated Works(翻译文学)-第2页

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produce the black tulip were planted, he ran towards the



spot, following, however, the gravelled walks in order not

to be betrayed by his footprints, and, on arriving at the



precise spot, he proceeded, with the eagerness of a tiger,

to plunge his hand into the soft ground.



He found nothing, and thought he was mistaken.

In the meanwhile, the cold sweat stood on his brow.



He felt about close by it, -- nothing.

He felt about on the right, and on the left, -- nothing.



He felt about in front and at the back, -- nothing.

He was nearly mad, when at last he satisfied himself that on



that very morning the earth had been disturbed.

In fact, whilst Boxtel was lying in bed, Cornelius had gone



down to his garden, had taken up the mother bulb, and, as we

have seen, divided it into three.



Boxtel could not bring himself to leave the place. He dug up

with his hands more than ten square feet of ground.



At last no doubt remained of his misfortune. Mad with rage,

he returned to his ladder, mounted the wall, drew up the



ladder, flung it into his own garden, and jumped after it.

All at once, a last ray of hope presented itself to his



mind: the seedling bulbs might be in the dry-room; it was

therefore only requisite to make his entry there as he had



done into the garden.

There he would find them, and, moreover, it was not at all



difficult, as the sashes of the dry-room might be raised

like those of a greenhouse. Cornelius had opened them on



that morning, and no one had thought of closing them again.

Everything, therefore, depended upon whether he could



procure a ladder of sufficient length, -- one of twenty-five

feet instead of ten.



Boxtel had noticed in the street where he lived a house

which was being repaired, and against which a very tall



ladder was placed.

This ladder would do admirably, unless the workmen had taken



it away.

He ran to the house: the ladder was there. Boxtel took it,



carried it with great exertion to his garden, and with even

greater difficulty raised it against the wall of Van



Baerle's house, where it just reached to the window.

Boxtel put a lighted dark lantern into his pocket, mounted



the ladder, and slipped into the dry-room.

On reaching this sanctuary of the florist he stopped,



supporting himself against the table; his legs failed him,

his heart beat as if it would choke him. Here it was even



worse than in the garden; there Boxtel was only a

trespasser, here he was a thief.



However, he took courage again: he had not gone so far to

turn back with empty hands.



But in vain did he search the whole room, open and shut all

the drawers, even that privileged one where the parcel which



had been so fatal to Cornelius had been deposited; he found

ticketed, as in a botanical garden, the "Jane," the "John de



Witt," the hazel-nut, and the roasted-coffee coloured tulip;

but of the black tulip, or rather the seedling bulbs within



which it was still sleeping, not a trace was found.

And yet, on looking over the register of seeds and bulbs,



which Van Baerle kept in duplicate, if possible even with

greater exactitude and care than the first commercial houses



of Amsterdam their ledgers, Boxtel read these lines: --

"To-day, 20th of August, 1672, I have taken up the mother



bulb of the grand black tulip, which I have divided into

three perfect suckers."



"Oh these bulbs, these bulbs!" howled Boxtel, turning over

everything in the dry-room, "where could he have concealed



them?"

Then, suddenly striking his forehead in his frenzy, he



called out, "Oh wretch that I am! Oh thrice fool Boxtel!

Would any one be separated from his bulbs? Would any one



leave them at Dort, when one goes to the Hague? Could one

live far from one's bulbs, when they enclose the grand black



tulip? He had time to get hold of them, the scoundrel, he

has them about him, he has taken them to the Hague!"



It was like a flash of lightning which showed to Boxtel the

abyss of a uselessly committed crime.






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