“It is, indeed, a feast in which flowers play a principal part.”
“Oh, the sweet scents! oh, the beautiful colours!” cried Cornelius.
“Stop, that the gentleman may see,” said the officer, with that frank kindliness which is peculiar to military men, to the soldier who was acting as postilion.
“Oh, thank you, Sir, for your kindness,” replied Van Baerle, in a melancholy tone; “the joy of others pains me; please spare me this pang.”
“Just as you wish. Drive on! I ordered the driver to stop because I thought it would please you, as you are said to love flowers, and especially that the feast of which is celebrated to-day.”
“And what flower is that?”
“The tulip.”
“The tulip!” cried Van Baerle, “is to-day the feast of tulips?”
“Yes, sir; but as this spectacle displeases you, let us drive on.”
The officer was about to give the order to proceed, but Cornelius stopped him, a painful thought having struck him. He asked, with faltering voice,—