The Laughing Cavalier | Page 6

goes a lucky devil," said a mocking voice in tones wherein ripples of laughter struggled for ever for mastery. It came from one of the three men who had listened to the conversation between the town councilors on the subject of tulips and of tulip bulbs.
"To think," he continued, "that I have never seen as much as fifteen thousand florins all at once. By St. Bavon himself do I swear that for the mere handling of so much money I would be capable of the most heroic deeds... such as killing my worst enemy . . or... or... knocking that obese and self-complacent councilor in the stomach."
"Say but the word, good Diogenes," said a gruff voice in response, "the lucky devil ye speak of need not remain long in possession of that bulb. He hath name Beresteyn... I think I know whereabouts he lives... the hour is late... the fog fairly dense in the narrow streets of the city... say but the word..."
"There is an honest man I wot of in Amsterdam," broke in a third voice, one which was curiously high-pitched and dulcet in its tones, "an honest dealer of Judaic faith, who would gladly give a couple thousands for the bulb and ask no impertinent questions."
"Say but the word, Diogenes..." reiterated the gruff voice solemnly.
"And the bulb is ours," concluded the third speaker in his quaint high-pitched voice.
"And three philosophers will begin the New Year with more money in their wallets than they would know what to do with," said he of the laughter-filled voice. " 'Tis a sound scheme, O Pythagoras, and one that under certain circumstances would certainly commend itself to me. But just now..."
"Well?" queried the two voices -- the gruff and the high-pitched -- simultaneously, like a bassoon and a flute in harmony, "just now what?"
"Just now, worthy Socrates and wise Pythagoras, I have three whole florins in my wallet, and my most pressing creditor died a month ago -- shot by a Spanish arquebuse at the storming of Breda -- he fell like a hero -- God rest his soul! But as to me I can afford a little while -- at any rate for to-night! -- to act like a gentleman rather than a common thief."
"Bah!" came in muffled and gruff tones of disgust, "you might lend me those three florins -- 'twere the act of a gentleman..."
"An act moreover which would eventually free me from further scruples, eh?" laughed the other gaily.
"The place is dull," interposed the flute-like tones, "'twill be duller still if unworthy scruples do cause us to act like gentlemen."
"Why! 'tis the very novelty of the game that will save our lives from dullness," said Diogenes lightly, "just let us pretend to be gentlemen for this one night. I assure you that good philosophers though ye both are, you will find zest in the entertainment."
It is doubtful whether this form of argument would have appealed to the two philosophers in question. The point was never settled, for at that precise moment Chance took it on herself to forge the second link in that remarkable chain of events which I have made it my duty to relate.
From across the Grootemarkt, there where stands the cathedral backed by a network of narrow streets, there came a series of ear-piercing shrieks, accompanied by threatening cries and occasional outbursts of rough, mocking laughter.
"A row," said Socrates laconically.
"A fight," suggested Pythagoras.
Diogenes said nothing. He was already half way across the Markt. The others followed him as closely as they could. His figure, which was unusually tall and broad, loomed weirdly out of the darkness and out of the fog ahead of them, and his voice with that perpetual undertone of merriment rippling through it, called to them from time to time.
Now he stopped, waiting for his companions. The ear-piercing shrieks, the screams and mocking laughter came more distinctly to their ears, and from several by-streets that gave on the Market Place, people came hurrying along, attracted by the noise.
"Let us go round behind the Fleishmarkt," said Diogenes, as soon as his two friends had come within earshot of him, "and reach the rear of the cathedral that way. Unless I am greatly mistaken the seat of yonder quarrel is by a small postern gate which I spied awhile ago at the corner of Dam Straat and where methinks I saw a number of men and women furtively gaining admittance: they looked uncommonly like Papists, and the postern gate not unlike a Romanist chapel door."
"Then there undoubtedly will be a row," said Socrates dryly.
"And we are no longer likely to find the place dull," concluded Pythagoras in a flute-like voice.
And the three men, pulling their plumed hats well over their eyes, turned without hesitation in the wake of their leader. They had by tacit