-
Главная
-
- Книги
-
- Авторы
-
- Александр Дюма
-
- Черный тюльпан
-
- Стр. 251/292
Для того чтобы воспользоваться озвучкой предложений, необходимо
Войти или зарегистрироваться
Озвучка предложений доступна при наличии PRO-доступа
Купить PRO-доступ
No
,
no
.
He
had
seen
during
the
two
preceding
days
too
much
fury
and
malignity
in
the
eyes
of
old
Gryphus
to
expect
that
his
vigilance
would
relax
,
even
for
one
moment
.
Moreover
,
had
not
she
to
suffer
even
worse
torments
than
those
of
seclusion
and
separation
?
Did
this
brutal
,
blaspheming
,
drunken
bully
take
revenge
on
his
daughter
,
like
the
ruthless
fathers
of
the
Greek
drama
?
And
when
the
Genièvre
had
heated
his
brain
,
would
it
not
give
to
his
arm
,
which
had
been
only
too
well
set
by
Cornelius
,
even
double
force
?
The
idea
that
Rosa
might
perhaps
be
ill-treated
nearly
drove
Cornelius
mad
.
He
then
felt
his
own
powerlessness
.
He
asked
himself
whether
God
was
just
in
inflicting
so
much
tribulation
on
two
innocent
creatures
.
And
certainly
in
these
moments
he
began
to
doubt
the
wisdom
of
Providence
.
It
is
one
of
the
curses
of
misfortune
that
it
thus
begets
doubt
.
Van
Baerle
had
proposed
to
write
to
Rosa
,
but
where
was
she
?
He
also
would
have
wished
to
write
to
the
Hague
to
be
beforehand
with
Gryphus
,
who
,
he
had
no
doubt
,
would
by
denouncing
him
do
his
best
to
bring
new
storms
on
his
head
.
But
how
should
he
write
?
Gryphus
had
taken
the
paper
and
pencil
from
him
,
and
even
if
he
had
both
,
he
could
hardly
expect
Gryphus
to
despatch
his
letter
.
Then
Cornelius
revolved
in
his
mind
all
those
stratagems
resorted
to
by
unfortunate
prisoners
.
He
had
thought
of
an
attempt
to
escape
,
a
thing
which
never
entered
his
head
whilst
he
could
see
Rosa
every
day
;
but
the
more
he
thought
of
it
,
the
more
clearly
he
saw
the
impracticability
of
such
an
attempt
.
He
was
one
of
those
choice
spirits
who
abhor
everything
that
is
common
,
and
who
often
lose
a
good
chance
through
not
taking
the
way
of
the
vulgar
,
that
high
road
of
mediocrity
which
leads
to
everything
.
"
How
is
it
possible
,
"
said
Cornelius
to
himself
,
"
that
I
should
escape
from
Loewestein
,
as
Grotius
has
done
the
same
thing
before
me
?
Has
not
every
precaution
been
taken
since
?
Are
not
the
windows
barred
?
Are
not
the
doors
of
double
and
even
of
treble
strength
,
and
the
sentinels
ten
times
more
watchful
?
And
have
not
I
,
besides
all
this
,
an
Argus
so
much
the
more
dangerous
as
he
has
the
keen
eyes
of
hatred
?
Finally
,
is
there
not
one
fact
which
takes
away
all
my
spirit
,
I
mean
Rosa
's
absence
?
But
suppose
I
should
waste
ten
years
of
my
life
in
making
a
file
to
file
off
my
bars
,
or
in
braiding
cords
to
let
myself
down
from
the
window
,
or
in
sticking
wings
on
my
shoulders
to
fly
,
like
Dædalus
?
But
luck
is
against
me
now
.
The
file
would
get
dull
,
the
rope
would
break
,
or
my
wings
would
melt
in
the
sun
;
I
should
surely
kill
myself
,
I
should
be
picked
up
maimed
and
crippled
;
I
should
be
labelled
,
and
put
on
exhibition
in
the
museum
at
the
Hague
between
the
blood-stained
doublet
of
William
the
Taciturn
and
the
female
walrus
captured
at
Stavesen
,
and
the
only
result
of
my
enterprise
will
have
been
to
procure
me
a
place
among
the
curiosities
of
Holland
.
