stroke of fate.'
'A stroke of fate? You succeeded in doing what you wanted all along, to kill her.'
Rembrandt was outraged at the accusation. 'Do not insult me. She just died.' He held up his hands in front of the historians face. 'Look, there is no blood on my hands.'
'There doesn't have to be. It is what you had wanted. You killed her.'
Rembrandt's anger turned to fury. With eyes wild and full of drunken rage, he screamed at the historian. 'There is no proof of that.'
'Does there have to be?'
'Have you now made yourself judge and prosecutor?'
'Am I wrong?'
'I had to do something. That woman was intent on taking everything I had.'
'Instead you took everything she had, including her life.'
Rembrandt grew more irritated. 'I did not take everything as you put it. Her brother and nephew you mean.'
'Whose idea was it?'
'I only made the suggestion.'
'Did her brother agree to it right away or did you have to convince him.'
'I did not have to convince him.'
'No, because you played on his weakness. You knew he needed the money. How did she die?'
He stared at the historian. 'I told you, I have no blood?'
'You ruined her life. You had her locked up for ten years.'
'Not true?'
'She got out after five, I know. Five years locked away.'
'She was going to ruin my life.'
'How would you feel if you had been locked up for five years. You, together with her brother devastated her life.'
'No, no I did not. It was of your own doing.'
He broke down, dazed, confused. Rembrandt slumped down onto the wooden box, in tears.
'Everybody is gone. Saskia, my dear wife. Geertge, to whom I did many wrongs, is gone. Hendrijckje, my last love and companion is also gone. The world is cruel.'
'Yet before Hendrijckje died she presented me with a baby girl. We chose to name her Cornelia.'
'Cornelia?'
'Yes, and she lived.'
'Where is she now?'
'With Hendrijckje's family.' He buried his head in his hands. 'They told me I was not fit to care for such a sweet young child.'
The historian knelt down next to Rembrandt, and placed his hand on his shoulder.
'All gone. Everybody's gone. You should go,' Rembrandt said. 'A young man like you should never hear the confession or see the tears of an old man like me.'
Rembrandt grabbed a small piece of parchment from the top of the pile and stuffed it into the historians jacket. 'A little something to remember me by. Please go. I have to rest. All that drinking has tired me out.'
The historian climbed to his feet. 'Are you sure you will be all right?'
'Yes yes yes I'm sure. Just leave me to my thoughts and tormenting nightmares.'
The historian made his way to the door - opened it slightly then turned to catch sight of Rembrandt sitting slumped on a wooden box wiping the tears on his face. He hesitated a few seconds as if waiting for him to look up, he did not. He quietly closed the door, then walked slowly down the corridor. He pulled the parchment out of his jacket and stopped to look at it. Holding it up to the fading light he realised he was holding the drawing Rembrandt made of himself. Could this be really true, he thought.
The end.
The Begijnhof really exists - including the Amsterdam Museum next to it which was a monastery and later turned into an orphanage (called 'Weeshuys' in old Dutch).
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