Cornelius, startled, laid his hands on his bulbs, and turned round.
“Who is here?” he asked. “Sir,” answered the servant, “it is a messenger from the Hague.”
“A messenger from the Hague! What does he want?”
“Sir, it is Craeke.”
“Craeke! the confidential servant of Mynheer John de Witte? Good, let him wait.”
“I cannot wait,” said a voice in the lobby.
And at the same time forcing his way in, Craeke rushed into the dry-room.
This abrupt entrance was such an infringement on the established rules of the household of Cornelius Van Baerle, that the latter, at the sight of Craeke, almost convulsively moved his hand which covered the bulbs, so that two of them fell on the floor, one of them rolling under a small table, and the other into the fire-place.
“Zounds!” said Cornelius, eagerly picking up his precious bulbs, “what’s the matter?”
“The matter, Sir!”—said Craeke, laying a paper on the large table, on which the third bulb was lying—“the matter is, that you are requested to read this paper without losing one moment.”
And Craeke, who thought he had remarked in the streets of Dort symptoms of a tumult similar to that which he had witnessed before his departure from the Hague, ran off without even looking behind him.
“All right! all right! my dear Craeke,” said Cornelius, stretching his arm under the table for the bulb; your paper shall be read, indeed it shall.”
Then, examining the bulb which he held in the hollow of his hand, he said, “Well, here is one of them uninjured. That confounded Craeke! thus to rush into my dry-room; let us now look after the other.”
And without laying down the bulb which he already
