The Laughing Cavalier | Page 6

that they
learned then and there an entirely new and absolutely comprehensive
string of oaths, the sound of which they had never even known of

before, from the two solemn and sober town councilors who found
themselves baulked of a coveted prize. But this I do not altogether
believe; for these three eavesdroppers had already forgotten more about
swearing than all the burghers of Haarlem put together had ever known.
In the meantime the town councilors had reached the foot of the steps:
here they parted company and there was a marked coldness in the
manner of some of them toward Mynheer Beresteyn, who still pressed
his hand against his doublet, in the inner pocket of which reposed a bit
of dormant vegetation for which he had that same afternoon paid no
less a sum than fifteen thousand florins.
"There 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