Indeed, Van Baerle’s happiness depended on the whim of this man. He might one day find Loewestein dull, or the air of the place unhealthy, or the gin bad, and leave the fortress, and take his daughter with him, when Cornelius and Rosa would again be separated.
“Of what use would the carrier pigeons then be?” said Cornelius to Rosa, “as you, my dear girl, would not be able to read what I should write to you, nor to write to me your thoughts in return.”
“Well,” answered Rosa, who in her heart was as much afraid of a separation as Cornelius himself, “we have one hour every evening, let us make good use of it.”
“I don’t think we make such a bad use of it as it is.”
“Let us employ it even better,” said Rosa, smiling. “Teach me to read and write. I shall make the best of your lessons, believe me; and, in this way, we shall never be separated any more, except by our own will.”
“Oh, then, we have an eternity before us,” said Cornelius.
Rosa smiled, and quietly shrugged her shoulders.
“Will you remain for ever in prison?” she said, “and after having granted you your life, will not his Highness also grant you your liberty? And will you not then recover your fortune, and be a rich man, and then, when you are driving in your own coach, riding your own horse, will you still look at poor Rosa, the daughter of a jailer, scarcely better than a hangman?”
Cornelius tried to contradict her, and certainly he would have done so with all his heart, and with all the sincerity of a soul full of love.
She, however, smilingly interrupted him, saying, “How is your tulip going on?”