“Unfortunately, it does not bind me more than I am bound; but it binds you, Rosa, you.”
“To what?”
“First of all, not to marry.”
She smiled.
“That’s your way,” she said; “you are tyrants all of you. You worship a certain beauty, you think of nothing but her. Then you are condemned to death, and whilst walking to the scaffold, you devote to her your last sigh; and now you expect poor me to sacrifice to you all my dreams and my happiness.”
“But who is the beauty you are talking of, Rosa?” said Cornelius, trying in vain to remember a woman to whom Rosa might possibly be alluding.
“The dark beauty with a slender waist, small feet, and a noble head; in short, I am speaking of your flower.”
Cornelius smiled.
“That is an imaginary lady love, at all events; whereas, without counting that amorous Jacob, you by your own account are surrounded with all sorts of swains eager to make love to you. Do you remember Rosa, what you told me of the students, officers, and clerks of the Hague? Are there no clerks, officers, or students at Loewestein?”
“Indeed there are, and lots of them.”