University of Virginia Library

11. CHAPTER XI.
THE RELEASE.

Tennyson. Œnone.

Paullus Arvina sat alone in a small chamber of his
own house. Books were before him, his favorites; the
authors, whose words struck chords the most kindred in
his soul; but though his eye rested on the fair manuscripts,
it was evident that his mind was absent. The slender
preparations for the first Roman meal were displayed
temptingly on a board, not far from his elbow; but they
were all untouched. His hair was dishevelled; his face
pale, either from watching or excitement; and his eye wild
and haggard. He wore a loose morning gown of colored
linen, and his bare feet were thrust carelessly into unmatched
slippers.

It was past noon already; nor, though his favorite freedman
Thrasea had warned him several times of the lateness
of the hour, had he shewn the least willingness to exert
himself, so far even as to dress his hair, or put on attire
befitting the business of the day.

It could not but be seen, at a glance, that he was ill at
ease; and in truth he was much perturbed by what had
passed on the preceding night, and very anxious with regard
to the future.

Nor was it without ample cause that he was restless and
disturbed; within the last three days he had by his own
instability of purpose, and vacillating tastes and temper,
brought himself down from as enviable a position as well
can be imagined, to one as insecure, unfortunate, and
perilous.

That he had made to himself in Catiline an enemy, as
deadly, as persevering, as relentless as any man could
have upon his track; an enemy against whom force and
fraud would most likely be proved equally unavailing, he
entertained no doubt. But brave as he was, and fearless,
both by principle and practice, he cared less for this, even
while he confessed to himself, that he must be on his guard
now alway against both open violence and secret murder,
than he did for the bitter feeling, that he was distrusted;
that he had brought himself into suspicion and ill-odor
with the great man, in whose eyes he would have given so
much to stand fairly, and whose good-will, and good opinion,
but two little days before, he flattered himself that he
had conciliated by his manly conduct.

Again, when he thought of Julia, there was no balm to
his heart, no unction to his wounded conscience! What if
she knew not, nor suspected anything of his disloyalty,
did not he know it, feel it in every nerve? Did he not
read tacit reproaches in every beam of her deep tranquil
eye? Did he not fancy some allusion to it, in every tone
of her low sweet voice? Did he not tremble at every air
of heaven, lest it should waft the rumor of his infidelity to
the chaste ears of her, whom alone he loved and honored?
Did he not know that one whisper of that disgraceful truth
would break off, and forever, the dear hopes, on which all
his future happiness depended? And was it not most possible,
most probable, that any moment might reveal to her
the fatal tidings?—The rage of Catiline, frustrated in his
foul designs, the revengeful jealousy of Lucia, the vigilance
of the distrustful consul, might each or all at any moment
bring to light that which he would have given all but life
to bury in oblivion.

For a long time he had sat musing deeply on the perils
of his false position, but though he had taxed every energy,
and strained every faculty to devise some means by
which to extricate himself from the toils, into which he

had so blindly rushed, he could think of no scheme, resolve
upon no course of action, which should set him at
liberty, as he had been before his unlucky interview with
the conspirator.

At times he dreamed of casting himself at the feet of
Cicero, and confessing to that great and generous statesman
all his temptations, all his trials, all his errors; of
linking himself heart and soul with the determined patriots,
who were prepared to live or die with the constitution,
and the liberties of the republic; but the oath!—
the awful imprecation, by which he had bound himself, by
which he had devoted all that he loved to the Infernal
Gods, recurred to his mind, and shook it with an earth-quake's
power. And he, the bold free thinker, the daring
and unflinching soldier, bound hand and foot by a silly
superstition, trembled—aye, trembled, and confessed to
his secret soul that there was one thing which he ought
to do, yet dared not!

Anon, maddened by the apparent hopelessness of ever
being able to recur to the straight road; of ever more regaining
his own self-esteem, or the respect of virtuous
citizens—forced, as he seemed to be, to play a neutral
part—the meanest of all parts—in the impending struggle—of
ever gaining eminence or fame under the banners
of the commonwealth; he dreamed of giving himself up,
as fate appeared to have given him already up, to the designs
of Catiline! He pictured to himself rank, station,
power, wealth, to be won under the ensigns of revolt;
and asked himself, as many a self-deluded slave of passion
has asked himself before, if eminence, however won, be
not glory; if success in the world's eyes be not fame, and
rectitude and excellence.

But patriotism, the old Roman virtue, clear and undving
in the hardest and most corrupt hearts, roused itself in
him to do battle with the juggling fiends tempting him to
his ruin; and whenever patriotism half-defeated appeared
to yield the ground, the image of his Julia—his Julia,
never to be won by any indirection, never to be deceived
by any sophistry, never to be deluded into smiling for one
moment on a traitor—rose clear and palpable before him,
and the mists were dispersed instantly, and the foes of his
better judgment scattered to the winds and routed.

Thus wavering, he sat, infirm of purpose, ungoverned—
whence indeed all his errors—by any principle or unity of
action; when suddenly the sound of a faint and hesitating
knock of the bronze ring on the outer door reached his
ear. The chamber, which he occupied, was far removed
from the vestibule, divided from it by the whole length of
the atrium, and fauces; yet so still was the interior of the
house, and so inordinately sharpened was his sense of
hearing by anxiety and apprehension, that he recognized
the sound instantly, and started to his feet, fearing he knew
not what.

The footsteps of the slave, though he hurried to undo
the door, seemed to the eager listener as slow as the pace
of the dull tortoise; and the short pause, which followed
after the door had been opened, he fancied to be an hour
in duration. Long as he thought it, however, it was too
short to enable him to conquer his agitation, or to control
the tumultuous beating of his heart, which increased to
such a degree, as he heard the freedman ushering the
new comer toward the room in which he was sitting,
that he grew very faint, and turned as pale as ashes.

Had he been asked what it was that he apprehended,
he could assuredly have assigned no reasonable cause to
his tremors. Yet this man was as brave, as elastic in temperament,
as tried steel. Oppose him to any definite
and real peril, not a nerve in his frame would quiver;
yet here he was, by imaginary terrors, and the disquietude
of an uneasy conscience, reduced to more than woman's
weakness.

The door was opened, and Thrasea appeared alone
upon the threshold, with a mysterious expression on his
blunt features.

“How now?” asked Paullus, “what is this?—Did I not
tell you, that I would not be disturbed this morning?”

“Yes! master,” answered the sturdy freedman; “but
she said that it was a matter of great moment, and that
she would—”

“She!—Who?” exclaimed Arvina, starting up from the
chair, which he had resumed as his servant entered.
“Whom do you mean by She?”

“The girl who waits in the tablinum, to know if you
will receive her.”

“The girl!—what girl? do you know her?”

“No, master, she is very tall, and slender, yet round
withal and beautifully formed. Her steps are as light as
the doe's upon the Hæmus, and as graceful. She has the
finest foot and ancle mine eyes ever looked upon. I am
sure too that her face is beautiful, though she is closely
wrapped in a long white veil. Her voice, though exquisitely
sweet and gentle, is full of a strange command, half
proud and half persuasive. I could not, for my life, resist
her bidding.”

“Well! well! admit her, though I would fain be spared
the trouble. I doubt not it is some soft votary of Flora;
and I am not in the vein for such dalliance now.”

“No! Paullus, no! it is a Patrician lady. I will wager
my freedom on it, although she is dressed plainly, and, as
I told you, closely veiled.”

“Not Julia? by the Gods! it is not Julia Serena?”
exclaimed the young man, in tones of inquiry, blent with
wonder.

But, as he spoke, the door was opened once more;
and the veiled figure entered, realizing by her appearance
all the good freedman's eulogies. It seemed that she had
overheard the last words of Arvina; for, without raising
her veil, she said in a soft low voice, full of melancholy
pathos,

“Alas! no, Paullus, it is not your Julia. But it is
one, who has perhaps some claim to your attention; and
who, at all events, will not detain you long, on matters
most important to yourself. I have intruded thus, fearing
you were about to deny me; because that which I
have to say will brook no denial.”

The freedman had withdrawn abruptly the very moment
that the lady entered; and, closing the door firmly behind
him, stood on guard out of earshot, lest any one
should break upon his young lord's privacy. But Paullus
knew not this; scarce knew, indeed, that they were
alone; when, as she ceased, he made two steps forward,
exclaiming in a piercing voice—

“Ye Gods! ye Gods! Lucia Orestilla!”

“Aye! Paul,” replied the girl, raising her veil, and
showing her beautiful face, no longer burning with bright
amorous blushes, her large soft eyes, no longer beaming

unchaste invitation, but pale, and quiet, and suffused with
tender sadness, “it is indeed Lucia. But wherefore this
surprise, I might say this terror? You were not, I remember,
so averse, the last time we were alone together.”

Her voice was steady, and her whole manner perfectly
composed, as she addressed him. There was neither
reproach nor irony in her tones, nor anything that
betokened even the sense of injury endured. Yet was
Arvina more unmanned by her serene and tranquil bearing,
than he would have been by the most violent reproaches.

“Alas! alas! what shall I say to you,” he faltered,
“Lucia; Lucia, whom I dare not call mine.”

“Say nothing, Paullus Arvina,” she replied, “thou art
a noble and generous soul!—Say nothing, for I know what
thou would'st say. I have said it to myself many times
already. Oh! wo is me! too late! too late! But I have
come hither, now, upon a brief and a pleasant errand.
For it is pleasant, let them scoff who will! I say, it is
pleasant to do right, let what may come of it. Would
God, that I had always thought so!”

“Would God, indeed!” answered the young man, “then
had we not both been wretched.”

“Wretched! aye! most, most wretched!” cried the girl,
a large bright tear standing in either eye. “And art thou
wretched, Paullus.”

“Utterly wretched!” he said, with a deep groan, and
buried his face for a moment in his hands. “Even before
I looked upon you, thought of you, I was miserable!
and now, now—words cannot paint my anguish, my self-degradation!”

“Aye! is it so?” she said, a faint sad smile flitting
across her pallid lips. “Why I should feel abased and
self-degraded, I can well comprehend. I, who have fallen
from the high estate, the purity, the wealth, the consciousness
of chaste and virtuous maidenhood! I, the despised,
the castaway, the fallen! But thou, thou!—from thee I
looked but for reproaches—the just reproaches I have
earned by my faithless folly! I thought, indeed, to have
found you wretched, writhing in the dark bonds which I,
most miserable, cast around you; and cursing her who
fettered you!”

“Cursing myself,” he answered, “rather. Cursing my
own insane and selfish passion, which alone trammelled
me, which alone ruined one, better and brighter fifty fold
than I!—alas! alas! Lucia.”

And forgetful of all that he had heard to her disparagement
from her bad father's lips, or, if he half remembered,
discrediting all in that moment of excitement, he flung
himself at her feet, and grovelled like a crushed worm on
the floor, in the degrading consciousness of guilt.

“Arise, arise for shame, young Arvina!” she said.
“The ground, at a woman's feet, is no place for a man
ever; least of all such a woman's. Arise, and mark me,
when I tell you that, which to tell you, only, I came hither.
Arise, I say, and make me not scorn the man, whom I
admire, whom—wo is me! I love.”

Paullus regained his feet slowly, and abashed; it seemed
that all the pride and haughtiness of his character had
given way at once. Mute and humiliated, he sank into a
chair, while she continued standing erect and self-sustained
before him by conscious, though new, rectitude of purpose.

“Mark me, I say, Arvina, when I tell you, that you are
as free as air from the oath, with which I bound you.
That wicked vow compels you only so long as I hold you
pledged to its performance. Lo! it is nothing any more—
for I, to whom alone of mortals you are bound, now and
forever release you. The Gods, above and below, whom
you called to witness it, are witnesses no more against you.
For I annual it here; I give you back your plight. It is as
though it never had been spoken!”

“Indeed? indeed? am I free?—Good, noble, generous,
dear, Lucia, is it true? can it be? I am free, and at
thy bidding?”

“Free as the winds of heaven, Paullus, that come
whence no man knoweth, and go whither they will soever,
and no mortal hindereth them! As free as the winds, Paullus,”
she repeated, “and I trust soon to be as happy.”

“But wherefore,” added the young man, “have you
done this? You said you would release me never, and now
all unsolicited you come and say `you are free, Paullus,'
almost before the breath is cold upon my lips that swore
obedience. This is most singular, and inconsistent.”

“What in the wide world is consistent, Paullus, except
virtue? That indeed is immutable, eternal, one, the same
on earth as in heaven, present, and past, and forever. But
what else, I beseech you, is consistent, or here or anywhere,
that you should dream of finding me, a weak wild wanton
girl, of firmer stuff than heroes? Are you, even in your
own imagination, are you, I say, consistent?”

She spoke eagerly, perhaps wildly; for the very part of
self-denial, which she was playing, stirred her mind to its
lowest depths; and the great change, which had been
going on within for many hours, and was still in powerful
progress, excited her fancy, and kindled all her strongest
feelings; and, as is not unfrequently the case, all the
profound vague thoughts, which had so long lain mute and
dormant, found light at once, and eloquent expression.

Paullus gazed at her, in astonishment, almost in awe.
Could this be the sensual, passionate voluptuary he had
known two days since?—the strange, unprincipled, impulsive
being, who yielded like the reed, to every gust of
passion—this deep, clear, vigorous thinker! It was indeed
a change to puzzle sager heads than that of Arvina! a
transformation, sudden and beautiful as that from the torpid
earthy grub, to the swift-winged etherial butterfly!
He gazed at her, until she smiled in reply to his look of
bewilderment; and then he met her smile with a sad heavy
sigh, and answered—

“Most inconsistent, I! alas! that I should say it, far
worse than inconsistent, most false to truth and virtue,
most recreant to honor! Have not I, whose most ardent
aspirations were set on glory virtuously won, whose soul,
as I fancied, was athirst for knowledge and for truth, have
not I bound myself by the most dire and dreadful oaths,
to find my good in evil, my truth in a lie, my glory in
black infamy?—Have not I, loving another better than my
own life, won thee to love, poor Lucia, and won thee by
base falsehood to thy ruin?”

“No! no!” she interrupted him, “this last thing you
have not done, Arvina. Awake! you shall deceive
yourself no longer! Of this last wrong you are as innocent
as the unspotted snow; and I, I only, own the
guilt, as I shall bear the punishment! Hear first,
why I release you from your oath; and then, if you

care to listen to a sad tale, you shall know by what
infamy of others, one, who might else have been both
innocent and happy, has been made infamous and foul
and vile, and wretched; a thing hateful to herself, and
loathsome to the world; a being with but one hope left,
to expiate her many crimes by one act of virtue, and then
to die! to die young, very young, unwept, unhonored,
friendless, and an orphan—aye! from her very birth, more
than an orphan!”

“Say on,” replied the young man, “say on, Lucia; and
would to heaven you could convince me that I have not
wronged you. Say on, then; first, if you will, why you
have released me; but above all, speak of yourself—
speak freely, and oh! if I can aid, or protect, or comfort
you, believe me I will do it at my life's utmost peril.”

“I do believe you, Paullus. I did believe that, ere you
spoke it. First, then, I set you free—and free you are
henceforth, forever.”

“But wherefore?”

“Because you are betrayed. Because I know all, that
fell out last night. Because I know darker villainy plotted
against you, yet to come; villainy from which, tramelled
by this oath, no earthly power can save you. Because,
I know not altogether why or how, my mind has been
changed of late completely, and I will lend myself no
more to projects, which I loathe, and infamy which I
abhor. Because—because—because, in a word, I loveyou
Paullus! Better than all I have, or hope to have on earth.”

“But you must not,” he replied, gravely yet tenderly,
“because”—

“You love another,” she interrupted him, very quickly,
“You love Julia Serena, Hortensia's lovely daughter; and
she loves you, and you are to be wedded soon. You
see,” she added, with a faint painful smile, “that I know
everything about you. I knew it long since; long, long
before I gave myself to you; even before I loved you,
Paul—for I have loved you, also, long!”

“Loved me long!” he exclaimed, in astonishment,
“how can that be, when you never saw me until the
day before yesterday?”

“Oh! yes I have,” she answered sadly. “I have seen
you and known you many years; though you have forgotten

me, if even, which I doubt, you ever noticed me at all.
But I can bring it to your mind. Have you forgotten how,
six summers since, as you were riding down the Collis
Hortulorum, you passed a little girl weeping by the wayside?—”

“Over a wounded kid? No, I remember very well.
A great country boor had hurt it with a stone.”

“And you,” exclaimed the girl, with her eyes flashing
fire, “you sprang down from your horse, and chastised him,
till he whined like a beaten hound, though he was twice as
big as you were; and then you bound up the kid's wound,
and wiped away the tears—innocent tears they were—of
the little girl, and parted her hair, and kissed her on the
forehead. That little girl was I, and I have kept that kiss
upon my brow, aye, and in my heart too! until now. No
lips of man or woman have ever touched that spot which
your lips hallowed. From that day forth I have loved you,
I have adored you, Paullus. From that day forth I have
watched all your ways, unseen and unsuspected. I have
seen you do fifty kind, and generous, and gallant actions;
but never saw you do one base, or tyrannous, or cowardly,
or cruel—”

“Until that fatal night!” he said, with a deep groan.
“May the Gods pardon me! I never shall forgive myself.”

“No! no! I tell you, no!” cried the girl, impetuously.
“I tell you, that I was not deceived, if I fell; but I did
not fall then! I knew that you loved Julia, years ago. I
knew that I never could be yours in honor; and that put
fire and madness in my brain, and despair in my heart.
And my home was a hell, and those who should have been
my guides and saviours were my destroyers; and I am—
what I am; but in that you had no share. On that night,
I but obeyed the accursed bidding of the blackest and
most atrocious monster that pollutes Jove's pure air by his
breath!”

“Bidding,” he exclaimed, starting back in horror, “Catiline's
bidding?”

“My father's,” answered the miserable girl. “My own
father's bidding!”

“Ye gods! ye gods!” His own daughter's purity!”

“Purity!” she replied, with a smile of sad bitter irony.

“Do you think purity could long exist in the same house
with Catiline and Orestilla? Paullus Arvina, the scenes I
have beheld, the orgies I have shared, the atmosphere of
voluptuous sin I have breathed, almost from my cradle, had
changed the cold heart of the virgin huntress into the fiery
pulses of the wanton Venus! Since I was ten years old, I
have been, wo is me! familiar with all luxury, all infamy,
all degradation!”

“Great Nemesis!” he cried, turning up his indignant
eyes toward heaven. “But, in the name of all the Gods!
wherefore, wherefore? Even to the worst, the most debased
of wretches, their children's honor is still dear.”

“Nothing is dear to Catiline but riot, and debauchery,
and murder! Sin, for its own sake, even more than for
the rewards its offers to its votaries! Paullus, men called
me beautiful! But what cared I for beauty, that charmed
all but him, whom alone I desired to fascinate? Men
called me beautiful, I say! and in my father's sight that
beauty became precious, when he foresaw that it might
prove a means of winning followers to his accursed cause!
Then was I educated in all arts, all graces, all accomplishments
that might enhance my charms; and, as those fatal
charms could avail him nothing, so long as purity remained
or virtue, I was taught, ah! too easily! to esteem pleasure
the sole good, passion the only guide! Taught thus, by
my own parents! Curses, curses, and shame upon them!
Pity me, pity me, Paullus. Oh! you are bound to pity
me! for had I not loved you, fatally, desperately loved, and
known that I could not win you, perchance—perchance I
had not fallen. Oh! pity me, and pardon—”

“Pardon you, Lucia,” he interrupted her. “What
have you done to me, or who am I, that you should crave
my pardon?”

“What have I done? Do you ask in mockery? Have
not I made you the partaker of my sin? Have not I lured
you into falsehood, momentary falsehood it is true, yet still
falsehood, to your Julia? Have I not tangled you in the
nets of this most foul conspiracy? Betrayed you, a bound
slave, to the monster—the soul-destroyer?

Arvina groaned aloud, but made no answer, so deeply
did his own thoughts afflict, so terribly did her strong words
oppress him.

“But it is over—it is over now!” She exclaimed exultingly.
“His reign of wickedness is over! The tool,
which he moulded for his own purposes, shall be the instrument
to quell him. The pitfall which he would have
digged in the way of others, shall be to them a door whereby
they shall escape his treason, and his ruin. You are
saved, my Arvina! By all the Gods! you are saved!
And, if it lost me once, it has preserved me now—my wild,
unchangeable, and undying love for you, alone of men!
For it has made me think! Has quenched the insane
flames that burned within me! Has given me new views,
new principles, new hopes! Evil no more shall be my
good, nor infamy my pride! If, myself, I am most unhappy,
I will live henceforth, while I do live, to make
others happy! I will live henceforth for two things—revenge
and retribution! By all the Gods! Julia and you,
my Paullus, shall be happy! By all the Gods! he who
destroyed me for his pleasure, shall be destroyed in turn,
for mine!”

“Lucia! think! think! he is your father!”

“Perish the monster! I have not—never had father, or
home, or—Speak not to me; speak not of him, or I
shall lose what poor remains of reason his vile plots have
left me. Perish!—by all the powers of hell, he shall perish,
miserably!—miserably! And you, you, Paullus, must
be the weapon that shall strike him!”

“Never the weapon in a daughter's hand to strike a
father,” answered Paullus, “no! though he were himself
a parricide!”

“He is!—he is a parricide!—the parricide of Rome
itself!—the murderer of our common mother!—the sacrilegious
stabber of his holy country! Hear me, and tremble!
It lacks now two days of the Consular election. If Catiline
go not down ere that day cometh, then Rome goes down,
on that day, and forever?”

“You are mad, girl, to say so.”

“You are mad, youth, if you discredit me. Do not I
know? am not I the sharer? the tempter to the guilt myself?
and am not I the mistress of its secrets? Was it
not for this, that I gave myself to you? was it not unto
this that I bound you by the oath, which now I restore to
you? was it not by this, that I would have held you my

minion and my paramour? And is it not to reveal this, that
I now have come? I tell you, I discovered, how he would
yesternight have slain you by the gladiator's sword; discovered
how he now would slay you, by the perverted sword
of Justice, as Medon's, as Volero's murderer; convicting
you of his own crimes, as he hath many men before, by his
suborned and perjured clients—his comrades on the Præ
tor's chair! I tell you, I discovered but just now, that me
too he will cut off in the flower of my youth; in the heat
of the passions, he fomented; in the rankness of the soft
sins, he taught me—cut me off—me, his own ruined and
polluted child—by the same poisoned chalice, which made
his house clear for my wretched mother's nuptials!”

“Can these things be,” cried Paullus, “and the Gods
yet withhold their thunder?”

“Sometimes I think,” the girl answered wildly, “that
there are no Gods, Paullus. Do you believe in Mars and
Venus?”

“In Gods, whose worship were adultery and murder?”
said Arvina. “Not I, indeed, poor Lucia.”

“If these be Gods, there is no truth, no meaning in the
name of virtue. If not these, what is God?”

“All things!” replied the young man solemnly. “Whatever
moves, whatever is, is God. The universe is but the
body, that clothes his eternal spirit; the winds are his
breath; the sunshine is his smile; the gentle dews are the
tears of his compassion! Time is the creature of his hand,
eternity his dwelling place, virtue his law, his oracles the
soul of every living man!”

“Beautiful,” cried the girl. “Beautiful, if it were but
true!”

“It is true—as true, as the sun in heaven; as certain
as his course through the changeless seasons.”

“How? how?” she asked eagerly. “What makes it
certain?”

“The certainty of death!” he answered.

“Ah! death, death! that is a mystery indeed. And
after that—”

“Everlasting life!”

“Ha! do you believe that too? They tell me all that
is a fable, a folly, and a falsehood!”

“Perchance it would be well for them it were so.”

“Yes!” she replied. “Yes! But who taught you?”

“Plato! Immortal Plato!”

“Ha! I will read him; I will read Plato.”

“What! do you understand Greek too, Lucia?”

“How else should I have sung Anacreon, and learned
the Lesbian arts of Sappho? But we have strayed wide
of our subject, and time presses. Will you denounce, me,
Catiline?”

“Not I! I will perish sooner.”

“You will do so, and all Rome with you.”

“Prove that to me, and—But it is impossible.”

“Prove that to you, will you denounce him?”

“I will save Rome!”

“Will you denounce him?”

“If otherwise, I may preserve my country, no.”

“Otherwise, you cannot. Speak! will you?”

“I must know all.”

“You shall. Mark me, then judge.” And rapidly,
concisely, clearly, she revealed to him the dread secret.
She concealed nothing, neither the ends of the conspiracy,
nor the names of the conspirators. She asseverated to
him the appalling fact, that half the noblest, eldest families
of Rome, were either active members of the plot, sworn to
spare no man, or secret well-wishers, content at first to
remain neutral, and then to share the spoils of empire.
According to her shewing, the Curii, the Portii, the Syllæ,
the Cethegi, the great Cornelian house, the Vargunteii,
the Autronii, and the Longini, were all for the most part
implicated, although some branches of the Portian and
Cornelian houses had not been yet approached by the
seducers. Crassus, she told him too, the richest citizen
of Rome, and Caius Julius Cæsar, the most popular,
awaited but the first success to join the parricides of the
Republic.

He listened thoughtfully, earnestly, until she had finished
her narration, and then shook his head doubtfully.

“I think,” he said, “you must be deceived, poor Lucia.
I do not see how these things can be. These men, whom
you have named, are all of the first houses of the state;
have all of them, either themselves or their forefathers,
bled for the commonwealth. How then should they now
wish to destroy it? They are men, too, of all parties and

all factions; the Syllæ, the proudest and haughtiest aristocrats
of Rome. Your father, also, belonged to the Dictator's
faction, while the Cornelii and the Curii have belonged
ever to the tribunes' party. How should this be?
or how should those whose pride, whose interest, whose
power alike, rest on the maintenance of their order, desire
to mow down the Patrician houses, like grass beneath the
scythe, and give their honors to the rabble? How, above
all, should Crassus, whose estate is worth seven thousand
talents,[1] consisting, too, of buildings in the heart of Rome,
join with a party whose watch-words are fire and plunder,
partition of estates, and death to the rich? You see yourself
that these things cannot be; that they are not consistent.
You must have been deceived by their insolent
and drunken boasting!”

“Consistent!” she replied, with vehement and angry
irony. “Still harping on consistency! Are virtuous
men then consistent, that you expect vicious men to be so?
Oh, the false wisdom, the false pride of man! You tell me
these things cannot be—perhaps they cannot; but they
are! I know it—I have heard, seen, partaken all! But
if you can be convinced only by seeing that the plans of
men, whose every action is insanity and frenzy, are wise
and reasonable, perish yourself in your blindness, and let
Rome perish with you! I can no more. Farewell! I
leave you to your madness!”

“Hold! hold!” he cried, moved greatly by her vehemence,
“are you indeed so sure of this? What, in the
name of all the Gods, can be their motive?”

“Sure! sure!” she answered scornfully; “I thought I
was speaking to a capable and clever man of action; I see
that it is a mere dreamer, to whose waking senses I appeal
vainly. If you be not sure, also, you must be weaker
than I can conceive. Why, if there was no plot, would
Catiline have slaughtered Medon, lest it should be revealed?
Why would he, else, have striven to bind you by
oaths; and to what, if not to schemes of sacrilege and
treason? Why would he else have murdered Volero? why
planted ambushes against your life? why would he now
meditate my death, his own child's death, that I am forced

to fly his house? Oh! in the wide world there is no such
folly, as that of the over wise! Motive—motive enough
have they! While the Patrician senate, and the Patrician
Consuls hold with firm hands the government, full well they
know, that in vain violence or fraud may strive to wrest it
from them. Let but the people hold the reins of empire,
and the first smooth-tongued, slippery demagogue, the first
bloody, conquering soldier, grasps them, and is the King,
Dictator, Emperor, of Rome! Never yet in the history of
nations, has despotism sprung out of oligarchic sway!
Never yet has democracy but yielded to the first despot's
usurpation! They have not read in vain the annals of
past ages, if you have done so, Paullus.”

“Ha!” he exclaimed, “look they so far ahead? Ambition,
then, it is but a new form of ambition?”

“Will you denounce them, Paullus?”

“At least, I will warn the Consul!”

“You must denounce them, or he will credit nothing.”

“I will save Rome.”

“Enough! enough! I am avenged, and thou shalt be
happy. Go to the Consul, straightway! make your own
terms, ask office, rank, wealth, power. He will grant all!
and now, farewell! Me you will see no more forever!
Farewell, Paullus Arvina, fare you well forever! And
sometimes, when you are happy in the chaste arms of Julia,
sometimes think, Paullus, of poor, unhappy, loving,
lost, lost Lucia!”

“Whither, by all the Gods, I adjure you! whither would
you go, Lucia?”

“Far hence! far hence, my Paullus. Where I may
live obscure in tranquil solitude, where I may die when
my time comes, in peace and innocence. In Rome I were
not safe an hour!”

“Tell me where! tell me Lucia, how I may aid, how
guard, console, or counsel you.”

“You can do none of these things, Paullus. All is arranged
for the best. Within an hour I shall be journeying
hence, never to pass the gates, to hear the turbulent
roar, to breathe the smoky skies, to taste the maddening
pleasures, of glorious, guilty Rome! There is but one
thing you can do, which will minister to my well-being—
but one boon you can grant me. Will you?”

“And do you ask, Lucia?”

“Will you swear?” she inquired, with a faint melancholy
smile. “Nay! it concerns no one but myself.
You may swear safely.”

“I do, by the God of faith!”

“Never seek, then, by word or deed, to learn whither I
have gone, or where I dwell. Look! I am armed,” and
she drew out a dagger as she spoke. “If I am tracked or
followed, whether by friend or foe, this will free me from
persecution; and it shall do so, by the living lights of heaven!
This, after all, is the one true, the last friend of the
wretched. All hail to thee, healer of all intolerable anguish!”
and she kissed the bright blade, before she consigned
it to the sheath; and then, stretching out both hands
to Paullus, she cried, “You have sworn—Remember!”

“And you promise me,” he replied, “that, if at any time
you need a friend, a defender, one who would lay down
life itself to aid you, you will call on me, wheresoever I
may be, fearless and undoubting. For, from the festive
board, or the nuptial bed, from the most sacred altar of
the Gods, or from the solemn funeral pyre, I will come instant
to thy bidding. `Lucia needs Paullus,' shall be
words shriller than the war-trumpet's summons to my conscious
soul.”

“I promise you,” she said, “willingly, most willingly.
And now kiss me, Paullus. Julia herself would not forbid
this last, sad, pious kiss! Not my lips! not my lips!
Part my hair on my brows, and kiss me on the forehead,
where your lips, years ago, shed freshness, and hope that
has not yet died all away. Sweet, sweet! it is pure and
sweet, it allays the fierce burning of my brain. Fare you
well, Paul, and remember—remember Lucia Orestilla.”

She withdrew herself from his arm modestly, as she
spoke, lowered her veil, turned, and was gone. Many a
day and week elapsed, and weeks were merged in months,
ere any one, who knew her, again saw Catiline's unhappy,
guilty daughter.