University of Virginia Library

6. CHAPTER VI.
THE FALSE LOVE.

Troilus and Cressida.

About three hours later than the scene in the Campus
Martius, which had occurred a little after noon, Catiline
was standing richly dressed in a bright saffron[1] robe, something
longer than the ordinary tunic, flowered with springs
of purple, in the inmost chamber of the woman's apartments,
in his own heavily mortgaged mansion. His wife,
Aurelia Orestilla, sat beside him on a low stool, a woman
of the most superb and queenly beauty—for whom it was
believed that he had plunged himself into the deepest
guilt—and still, although past the prime of Italian womanhood,
possessing charms that might well account for the
most insane passion.

A slave was listening with watchful and half terrified
attention to the injunctions of his lord—for Catiline was an
unscrupulous and severe master—and, as he ceased speaking,
he made a deep genuflexion and retired.

No sooner had he gone than Catiline turned quickly to
the lady, whose lovely face wore some marks of displeasure,
and said rather shortly,

“You have not gone to her, my Aurelia. There is no
time to lose; the young man will be here soon, and if they
meet, ere you have given her the cue, all will be lost.”

“I do not like it, my Sergius,” said the woman, rising,
but making no movement to leave the chamber.

“And why not, I beseech you, madam?” he replied
angrily; “or what is there in that which I desire you to
tell the girl to do, that you have not done twenty times
yourself, and Fulvia, and Sempronia, and half Rome's noblest
ladies? Tush! I say, tush! go do it.”

“She is my daughter, Sergius,” answered Aurelia, in a
tone of deep tenderness; “a daughter's honor must be
something to every mother!”

“And a son's life to every father!” said Catiline with
a fierce sneer. “I had a son once, I remember. You wished
to enter an [2] empty house on the day of your marriage
feast. I do not think you found him in your way! Besides,
for honor—if I read Lucia's eyes rightly, there is not
much of that to emperil.”

When he spoke of his son, she covered her face in her
richly jewelled hands, and a slight shudder shook her
whole frame. When she looked up again, she was pale
as death, and her lips quivered as she asked—

“Must I, then? Oh! be merciful, my Sergius.”

“You must, Aurelia!” he replied sternly, “and that
now. Our fortunes, nay, our lives, depend on it!”

“All—must she give all, Lucius?”

“All that he asks! But fear not, he shall wed her, when
our plans shall be crowned with triumph?”

“Will you swear it?”

“By all the Gods! he shall! by all the Furies, if you
will, by Earth, and Heaven, and Hades!”

“I will go,” she replied, something reassured, “and
prepare her for the task!”

“The task!” he muttered with his habitual sneer.
“Daintily worded, fair one; but it will not, I fancy, prove
a hard one; Paullus is young and handsome; and our soft
Lucia has, methinks, something of her mother's yielding
tenderness.'

“Do you reproach me with it, Sergius?”

“Nay! rather I adore thee for it, loveliest one; but go
and prepare our Lucia.” Then, as she left the room, the
dark scowl settled down on his black brow, and he clinched
his hand as he said—

“She waxes stubborn—let her beware! She is not
half so young as she was; and her beauty wanes as fast as
my passion for it; let her beware how she crosses me!”

While he was speaking yet a slave entered, and announced
that Paullus Cæcilius Arvina had arrived, and
Curius, and the noble Fulvia; and as he received the tidings
the frown passed away from the brow of the conspirator,
and putting on his mask of smooth, smiling dissimulation,
he went forth to meet his guests.

They were assembled in the tablinum, or saloon, Arvina
clad in a violet colored tunic, sprinkled with flowers in
their natural hues, and Curius—a slight keen-looking man,
with a wild, proud expression, giving a sort of interest to
a countenance haggard from the excitement of passion, in
one of rich crimson, fringed at the wrists and neck with
gold. Fulvia, his paramour, a woman famed throughout
Rome alike for her licentiousness and beauty, was hanging
on his arm, glittering with chains and carcanets, and
bracelets of the costliest gems, in her fair bosom all too
much displayed for a matron's modesty; on her round dazzling
arms; about her swan-like neck; wreathed in the profuse
tresses of her golden hair—for she was that unusual
and much admired being, an Italian blonde—and, spanning
the circumference of her slight waist. She was, indeed,
a creature exquisitely bright and lovely, with such an air of
mild and angelic candor pervading her whole face, that you
would have sworn her the most innocent, the purest of her
sex. Alas! that she was indeed almost the vilest! that she was
that rare monster, a woman, who, linked with every crime
and baseness that can almost unsex a woman, preserves
yet in its height, one eminent and noble virtue, one half-redeeming
trait amidst all her infamy, in her proud love of
country! Name, honor, virtue, conscience, womanhood,
truth, piety, all, all, were sacrificed to her rebellious passions.
But to her love of country she could have sacrificed
those very passions! That frail abandoned wretch was
still a Roman—might have been in a purer age a heroine
of Rome's most glorious.

“Welcome, most lovely Fulvia,” exclaimed the host,
gliding softly into the room. “By Mars! the most favored
of immortals! You must have stolen Aphrodite's cestus!
Saw you her ever look so beautiful, my Paullus? You
do well to put those sapphires in your hair, for they wax

pale and dim besides the richer azure of your eyes; and
the dull gold in which they are enchased sets off the sparkling
splendor of your tresses. What, Fulvia, know you
not young Arvina—one of the great Cæcilii? By Hercules!
my Curius, he won the best of the quinquertium from
such competitors as Victor and Aristius Fuscus, and ran
twelve stadii, with the heaviest breast-plate and shield in
the armory, quicker than it has been performed since the
days of Licinius Celer. I prithee, know, and cherish him,
my friends, for I would have him one of us. In truth I
would, my Paullus.”

The flattering words of the tempter, and the more fascinating
smiles and glances of the bewitching siren, were
not thrown away on the young noble; and these, with the
soft perfumed atmosphere, the splendidly voluptuous furniture
of the saloon, and the delicious music, which was
floating all the while upon his ears from the blended instruments
and voices of unseen minstrels, conspired to
plunge his senses into a species of effeminate and luxurious
languor, which suited well the ulterior views of Catiline.

“One thing alone has occurred,” resumed the host, after
some moments spent in light jests and trivial conversation,
“to decrease our pleasure: Cethegus was to have
dined with us to-day, and Decius Brutus, with his inimitable
wife Sempronia. But they have disappointed us; and,
save Aurelia only, and our poor little Lucia, there will be
none but ourselves to eat my Umbrian boar.”

“Have you a boar, my Sergius?” exclaimed Curius,
eagerly, who was addicted to the pleasures of the table,
almost as much as the charms of women. “By Pan, the
God of Hunters! we are in luck to-day!”

“But wherefore comes not Sempronia?” inquired
Fulvia, not very much displeased by the absence of a rival
beauty.

“Brutus is called away, it appears, suddenly to Tarentum
upon business; and she”—

“Prefers entertaining our Cethegus, alone in her own
house, I fancy,” interrupted Fulvia.

“Exactly so,” replied Catiline, with a smile of meaning.

“Happy Cethegus,” said Arvina.

“Do you think her so handsome?” asked Fulvia, favoring
him with one of her most melting glances.

“The handsomest woman,” he replied, “with but one
exception, I ever had the luck to look upon.”

“Indeed!—and pray, who is the exception?” asked the
lady, very tartly.

There happened to be lying on a marble slab, near to the
place where they were standing, a small round mirror of
highly polished steel, set in a frame of tortoiseshell and
gold. Paullus had noticed it before she spoke; and taking
it up without a moment's pause, he raised it to her face.

“Look!” he said, “look into that, and blush at your
question.”

“Prettily said, my Paullus; thy wit is as fleet as thy
foot is speedy,” said the conspirator.

“Flatterer!” whispered the lady, evidently much delighted;
and then, in a lower voice she added, “Do you
indeed think so?”

“Else may I never hope.”

But at this moment the curtains were drawn aside, and
Orestilla entered from the gallery of the peristyle, accompanied
by her daughter Lucia.

The latter was a girl of about eighteen years old, and of
appearance so remarkable, that she must not be passed unnoticed.
In person she was extremely tall and slender,
and at first sight you would have supposed her thin; until
the wavy outlines of the loose robe of plain white linen
which she wore, undulating at every movement of her
form, displayed the exquisite fulness of her swelling bust,
and the voluptuous roundness of all her lower limbs.
Her arms, which were bare to the shoulders, where her
gown was fastened by two studs of gold, were quite unadorned,
by any gem or bracelet, and although beautifully
moulded, were rather slender than full.

Her face did not at first sight strike you more than her
person, as being beautiful; for it was singularly still and
inexpressive when at rest—although all the features were
fine and classically regular—and was almost unnaturally
pale and hueless. The mouth only, had any thing of
warmth, or color, or expression; and what expression there
was, was not pleasing, for although soft and winning, it
was sensual to the last degree.

Her manner, however, contradicted this; for she slided
into the circle, with downcast eyes, the long dark silky
lashes only visible in relief against the marble paleness of
her cheek, as if she were ashamed to raise them from the
ground; her whole air being that of a girl oppressed with
overwhelming bashfulness, to an extent almost painful.

“Why, what is this, Aurelia,” exclaimed Catiline, as if
he were angry, although in truth the whole thing was
carefully preconcerted. “Wherefore is Lucia thus strangely
clad? Is it, I pray you, in scorn of our noble guests,
that she wears only this plain morning stola?”

“Pardon her, I beseech you, good my Sergius,” answered
his wife, with a painfully simulated smile; “you
know how over-timid she is and bashful; she had determined
not to appear at dinner, had I not laid my commands
on her. Her very hair, you see, is not braided.”

“Ha! this is ill done, my girl Lucia,” answered Catiline.
“What will my young friend, Arvina, think of you,
who comes hither to-day, for the first time? For Curius
and our lovely Fulvia, I care not so much, seeing they
know your whims; but I am vexed, indeed, that Paullus
should behold you thus in disarray, with your hair thus
knotted like a slave girl's, on your neck.”

“Like a Dryad's, rather, or shy Oread's of Diana's
train—beautiful hair!” replied the youth, whose attention
had been called to the girl by this conversation; and who,
having thought her at first unattractive rather than otherwise,
had now discovered the rare beauties of her lythe
and slender figure, and detected, as he thought, a world
of passion in her serpent-like and sinuous motions.

She raised her eyes to meet his slowly, as he spoke;
gazed into them for one moment, and then, as if ashamed
of what she had done, dropped them again instantly; while
a bright crimson flush shot like a stream of lava over her
pallid face, and neck, and arms; yes, her arms blushed,
and her hands to the finger ends! It was but one moment,
that those large lustrous orbs looked full into his, swimming
in liquid Oriental languor, yet flashing out beams of
consuming fire.

Yet Paullus Arvina felt the glance, like an electrical
influence, through every nerve and artery of his body, and
trembled at its power.

It was a minute before he could collect himself enough
to speak to her, for all the rest had moved away a little,
and left them standing together; and when he did so,
his voice faltered, and his manner was so much agitated,
that she must have been blind, indeed, and stupid, not to
perceive it.

And Lucia was not blind nor stupid. No! by the God
of Love! an universe of wild imaginative intellect, an
ocean of strange whirling thoughts, an Etna of fierce and
fiery passions, lay buried beneath that calm, bashful, almost
awkward manner. Many bad thoughts were there,
many unmaidenly imaginings, many ungoverned and most
evil passions; but there was also much that was partly
good; much that might have been all good, and high and
noble, had it been properly directed; but alas! as much
pains had been taken to corrupt and deprave that youthful
understanding, and to inflame those nascent passions,
as are devoted by good parents to developing the former,
and repressing the growth of the latter.

As it was, self indulged, and indulged by others, she
was a creature of impulse entirely, ill regulated and ungovernable.

Intended from the first to be a tool in his own hands,
whenever he might think fit to use her, she had in no case
hitherto run counter to the views of Catiline; because, so
long as his schemes were agreeable to her inclinations,
and favorable to her pleasures, she was quite willing to
be his tool; though by no means unconscious of the fact
that he meant her to be such.

What might be the result should his wishes cross her
own, the arch conspirator had never given himself the
pains to enquire; for, like the greater part of voluptuaries,
regarding women as mere animals, vastly inferior in
mind and intellect to men, he had entirely overlooked her
mental qualifications, and fancied her a being of as small
moral capacity, as he knew her to be of strong physical
organization.

He was mistaken; as wise men often are, and deeply,
perhaps fatally.

There was not probably a girl in all Italy, in all the
world, who would so implicitly have followed his directions,
as long as to do so gratified her passions, and clashed

not with her indomitable will, to the sacrifiee of all
principle, and with the most total disregard of right or
wrong, as Lucia Orestilla; but certainly there was not
one, who would have resisted commands, threats, violence,
more pertinaciously or dauntlessly, than the same
Lucia, should her will and his councils ever be set at twain.

While Paullus was yet conversing in an under tone with
this strange girl, and becoming every moment more and
more fascinated by the whole tone of her remarks, which
were free, and even bold, as contrasted with the bashful
air and timid glances which accompanied them, the curtains
of the Tablinum were drawn apart, and a soft symphony
of flutes stealing in from the atrium, announced
that the dinner was prepared.

“My Curius,” exclaimed Catiline, “I must entreat you
to take charge of Fulvia; I had proposed myself that
pleasure, intending that you should escort Sempronia,
and Decius my own Orestilla; but, as it is, we will
each abide by his own lady; and Paullus here will pardon
the youth and rawness of my Lucia.”

“By heaven! I would wish nothing better,” said Curius,
taking Fulvia by the hand, and leading her forward.
“Should you Arvina?”

“Not I, indeed,” replied Paullus, “if Lucia be content.”
And he looked to catch her eye, as he took her soft
hand in his own, but her face remained cold and pale as
marble, and her eye downcast.

As they passed out, however, into the fauces, or passage
leading to the dining-room, Catiline added,

“As we are all, I may say, one family and party, I have
desired the slaves to spread couches only; the ladies will
recline with us, instead of sitting at the board.”

At this moment, did Paullus fancy it? or did that beautiful
pale girl indeed press his fingers in her own? he
could not be mistaken; and yet there was the downcast
eye, the immoveable cheek, and the unsmiling aspect of
the rosy mouth. But he returned the pressure, and that so
significantly, that she at least could not be mistaken; nor
was she, for her eye again met his, with that deep amorous
languid glance; was bashfully withdrawn; and then met
his again, glancing askance through the dark fringed lids,
and a quick flashing smile, and a burning blush followed;

and in a second's space she was again as cold, as impassive
as a marble statue.

They reached the triclinium, a beautiful oblong apartment,
gorgeously painted with arabesques of gold and
scarlet upon a deep azure ground work. A circular table,
covered with a white cloth, bordered with a deep edge of
purple and deeper fringe of gold, stood in the centre, and
around it three couches, nearly of the same height with
the board, each the segment of a circle, the three forming
a horse-shoe.

The couches were of the finest rosewood, inlaid with
tortoiseshell and ivory and brass, strewed with the richest
tapestries, and piled with cushions glowing with splendid
needlework. And over all, upheld by richly moulded
shafts of Corinthian bronze, was a canopy of Tyrian purple,
tasselled and fringed with gold.

The method of reclining at the table was, that the guests
should place themselves on the left side, propped partly
by the left elbow and partly by a pile of cushions; each
couch being made to contain in general three persons, the
head of the second coming immediately below the right
arm of the first, and the third in like manner; the body of
each being placed transversely, so as to allow space for
the limbs of the next below in front of him.

The middle place on each couch was esteemed the most
honorable; and the middle couch of the three was that assigned
to guests of the highest rank, the master of the
feast, for the most, occupying the central position on the
third or left hand sofa. The slaves stood round the outer
circuit of the whole, with the cupbearers; but the carver,
and steward, if he might so be termed, occupied that side
of the table which was left open to their attendance.

On this occasion, there being but six guests in all, each
gentleman assisted the lady under his charge to recline,
with her head comfortably elevated, near the centre of
the couch; and then took his station behind her, so that, if
she leaned back, her head would rest on his bosom, while
he was enabled himself to reach the table, and help himself
or his fair partner, as need might be, to the delicacies offered
in succession.

Curius and Fulvia, he as of senatorial rank, and she as
a noble matron, occupied the highest places; Paullus and

Lucia reclined on the right hand couch, and Catiline with
Orestilla in his bosom, as the phrase ran, on the left.

No sooner were they all placed, and the due libation
made of wine, with an offering of salt, to the domestic
Gods—a silver group of statues occupying the centre of
the board, where we should now place the plateau and
epergne, than a louder burst of music ushered in three
beautiful female slaves, in succinct tunics, like that seen
in the sculptures of Diana, with half the bosom bare,
dancing and singing, and carrying garlands in their hands
of roses and myrtle, woven with strips of the philyra,
or inner bark of the linden tree, which was believed to be
a specific against intoxication. Circling around the board,
in time to the soft music, they crowned each of the guests,
and sprinkled with rich perfumes the garments and the hair
of each; and then with more animated and eccentric gestures,
as the note of the flute waxed shriller and more
piercing, they bounded from the banquet hall, and were
succeeded by six boys with silver basins, full of tepid water
perfumed with costly essences, and soft embroidered
napkins, which they handed to every banqueter to wash
the hands before eating.

This done, the music died away into a low faint close,
and was silent; and in the hush that followed, an aged
slave bore round a mighty flask of Chian wine, diluted
with snow water, and replenished the goblets of stained
glass, which stood beside each guest; while another dispensed
bread from a lordly basket of wrought gilded scroll
work.

And now the feast commenced, in earnest; as the first
course, consisting of fresh eggs boiled hard, with lettuce,
radishes, endive and rockets, olives of Venafrum, anchovies
and sardines, and the choicest luxury of the day—hot
sausages served upon gridirons of silver, with the rich
gravy dripping through the bars upon a sauce of Syrian
prunes and pomegranate berries—was placed upon the
board.

For a time there was little conversation beyond the ordinary
courtesies of the table, and such trifling jests as
were suggested by occurrences of the moment. Yet still in
the few words that passed from time to time, Paullus
continued often to convey his sentiments to Lucia in words

of double meaning; keenly marked, it is true, but seemingly
unobserved by the wily plotter opposite; and more than
once in handing her the goblet, or loading her plate with
dainties, he took an opportunity again and again of pressing
her not unwilling hand. And still at every pressure he
caught that soft momentary glance, was it of love and
passion, or of mere coquetry and girlish wantonness, succeeded
by the fleeting blush pervading face, neck, arms,
and bosom.

Never had Paullus been so wildly fascinated; his heart
throbbed and bounded as if it would have burst his
breast; his head swam with a sort of pleasurable dizziness;
his eyes were dim and suffused; and he scarce
knew that he was talking, though he was indeed the life
of the whole company, voluble, witty, versatile, and at
times eloquent, so far as the topics of the day gave room
for eloquence.

And now, to the melody of Lydian lutes, two slaves introduced
a huge silver dish, loaded by the vast brawn of
the Umbrian boar, garnished with leaves of chervil, and
floating in a rich sauce of anchovies, the dregs of Coan
wine, white pepper, vinegar, and olives. The carver brandished
his knife in graceful and fantastic gestures, proud
of his honorable task; and as he plunged it into the savory
meat, and the delicious savor rushed up to his nostrils, he
laid down the blade, spread out his hands in an ecstacy,
and cried aloud, “ye Gods, how glorious!”

“Excellent well, my Glycon,” cried Curius, delighted
with the expressive pantomine of the well skilled Greek;
“smells it so savory?”

“I have carved many a boar from Lucania and from
Umbria also; to say nothing of those from the Laurentian
marshes, which are bad, seeing that they are fed on reeds
only and marsh grass; most noble Curius; and never put
I knife into such an one as this. There are two inches on
it of pure fat, softer than marrow. He was fed upon holm
acorns, I'll be sworn, and sweet chesnuts, and caught in a
mild south wind!”

“Fewer words, you scoundrel,” exclaimed Catiline,
laughing at the fellow's volubility, “and quicker carving,
if you wish not to visit the pistrinum. You have set Curius'
mouth watering, so that he will be sped with longing, before

you have helped Fulvia and your mistress. Fill up
you knaves, fill up; nay! not the Chian now; the Falernian
from the Faustian hills, or the Cæcuban? Which
shall it be, my Curius?”

“The Cæcuban, by all the Gods! I hold it the best vintage
ever, and yours is curious. Besides, the Falernian is
too dry to drink before the meat. Afterward, if, as Glycon
says, the boar hath a flavor of the south, it will be excellent,
indeed.”

“Are as you as constant, Paullus, in your love for the
boar, as these other epicures?” cried Fulvia, who, despite
the depreciating tone in which she spoke, had sent
her own plate for a second slice.

“No! by the Gods! Fulvia,” he replied, “I am but a
sorry epicure, and I love the boar better in his reedy fen,
or his wild thicket on the Umbrian hills, with his eye glaring
red in rage, and his tusks white with foam, than girt
with condiments and spices upon a golden dish.”

“A strange taste,” said Curius, “I had for my part rather
meet ten on the dining table, than one in the oak woods.”

“Commend me to the boar upon the table likewise,”
said Catiline; “still, with my friend Arvina at my side,
and a good boarspear in my hand, I would like well to
bide the charge of a tusker! It is rare sport, by Hercules!”

“Wonderful beings you men are,” said Fulvia, mincing
her words affectedly, “ever in search of danger; ever on
the alert to kill; to shed blood, even if it be your own! by
Juno, I cannot comprehend it.”

“I can, I can,” cried Lucia, raising her voice for the
first time, so that it could be heard by any others than her
nearest neighbor; “right well can I comprehend it; were
I a man myself, I feel that I should pant for the battle.
The triumph would be more than rapture; and strife,
for its own sake, maddening bliss! Heavens! to see the
gladiators wheel and charge; to see their swords flash in
the sun; and the red blood gush out unheeded; and the
grim faces flushed and furious; and the eyes greedily devouring
the wounds of the foeman, but all unconscious of
their own; and the play of the muscular strong limbs; and
the terrible death grapple! And then the dull hissing sound
of the death stroke; and the voiceless parting of the bold

spirit! Ye Gods! ye Gods! it is a joy, to live, and almost
to die for!”

Paullus Arvina looked at her in speechless wonder. The
eyes so wavering and downcast were now fixed, and steady,
and burning with a passionate clear light; there was
a fiery flush on her cheek, not brief and evanescent; her
ripe red mouth was half open, shewing the snow white
teeth biting the lower lip in the excitement of her feelings.
Her whole form seemed to be dilated and more
majestic than its wont.

“Bravo! my girl; well said, my quiet Lucia!” exclaimed
Catiline. “I knew not that she had so much of
mettle in her.”

“You must have thought, then, that I belied my race,”
replied the girl, unblushingly; “for it is whispered that
you are my father, and I think you have looked on blood,
and shed it before now!”

“Boar's blood, ha! Lucia; but you are blunt and brave
to-night. Is it that Paullus has inspired you?”

“Nay! I know not,” she replied, half apathetically;
“but I do know, that if I ever love, it shall be a hero; a
man that would rather lie in wait until dawn to receive
the fierce boar rushing from the brake upon his spear,
than until midnight to enfold a silly girl in his embrace.”

“Then will you never love me, Lucia,” answered
Curius.

“Never, indeed!” said she; “it must be a man whom
I will love; and there is nothing manly about thee, save
thy vices!”

“It is for those that most people love me,” replied Curius,
nothing disconcerted. “Now Cato has nothing of
the man about him but the virtues; and I should like to
know who ever thought of loving Cato.”

“I never heard of any body loving Cato,” said Fulvia,
quietly.

“But I have,” answered the girl, almost fiercely;
“none of you love him; nor do I love him; because he is
too high and noble, to be dishonored by the love of such as
I am; but all the good, and great, and generous, do love
him, and will love his memory for countless ages! I would
to God, I could love him!”

“What fury has possessed her?” whispered Catiline

to Orestilla; “what ails her to talk thus? first to proclaim
herself my daughter, and now to praise Cato?”

“Do not ask me!” replied Aurelia in the same tone;
“she was a strange girl ever; and I cannot say, if she likes
this task that you have put upon her.”

“More wine, ho! bring more wine! Drink we each
man to his mistress, each lady to her lover in secrecy and
silence!” cried the master of the revel. “Fill up! fill up!
let it be pure, and sparkling to the brim.”

But Fulvia, irritated a little by what had passed, would
not be silent; although she saw that Catiline was annoyed
at the character the conversation had assumed, and ere
the slave had filled up the beakers she addressed Lucia—

“And wherefore, dearest, would you love Cato? I
could as soon love the statue of Accius Nævius, with his
long beard, on the steps of the Comitium; he were scarce
colder, or less comely than your Cato.”

“Because to love virtue is still something, if we be vicious
even; and, if I am not virtuous myself, at least I
have not lost the sense that it were good to be so!”

“I never knew that you were not virtuous, my Lucia,”
interposed her mother; “affectionate and pious you have
ever been.”

“And obedient!” added Catiline, with strong emphasis.
“Your mother, my Lucia, and myself, return thanks
to the Gods daily for giving us so good a child.”

“Do you?” replied the girl, scornfully; “the Gods must
have merry times, then, for that must needs make them
laugh! But good or bad, I respect the great; and, if I
ever love, it will be, as I said, a great and a good man.”

“I fear you will never love me, Lucia,” whispered Paullus
in her ear, unheard amid the clash of knives and flagons,
and the pealing of a fresh strain of music, which ushered
in the king of fish, the grand conger, garnished with prawns
and soused in pungent sauce.

“Wherefore not?” she replied, meeting his eye with a
furtive sidelong glance.

“Because I, for one, had rather watch till midnight fifty
times, in the hope only of clasping Lucia, once, in my
embrace; than once until dawn, to kill fifty boars of
Umbria.”

She made no answer; but looked up into his face as if

to see whether he was in earnest, with an affectionate and
pleading glance; and then pressed her unsandalled foot
against his. A moment or two afterward, he perceived
the embroidered table cover had been drawn up, with the
intent of protecting her dress from the sauces of the fish
which she was eating, in such a manner as to conceal the
greater part of her person.

Observing this, and excited beyond all restraint of ordinary
prudence, by the consciousness of her manner, he
profited by the chance to steal his arm about her waist;
and to his surprise, almost as much as his delight, he felt
his hand clasped instantly in hers, and pressed upon her
throbbing heart.

The blood gushed like molten fire through his veins.
The fascinations of the siren had prevailed. The voice of
the charmer had been heard, charming him but too wisely.
And for the moment, fool that he was, he fancied he
loved Lucia, and his own pure and innocent and lovely
Julia was forgotten! Forgotten, and for whom!

Catiline had not lost one word, one movement of the
young couple; and he perceived, that, although there was
clearly something at work in the girl's bosom which he
did not comprehend, she had at least obeyed his commands
in captivating Paullus; and he now doubted not but
she would persevere, from vanity or passion, and bind him
down a fettered captive to her will.

Determined to lose nothing by want of exertion, the
traitor circulated now the fiery goblet as fast as possible,
till every brain was heated more or less, and every cheek
flushed, even of the women, by the inspiring influence of
the wine cup.

All dainties that were known in those days ministered
to his feast; oysters from Baiæ; pheasants—a rarity but
lately introduced, since Pompey's conquests in the east—
had been brought all the way from Phasis upon the southern
shores of the Black Sea; and woodcock from the valleys
of Ionia, and the watery plains of Troas, to load the
tables of the luxurious masters of the world. Livers of
geese, forced to an unnatural size by cramming the unhappy
bird with figs; and turbot fricasseed in cream, and
peacocks stuffed with truffles, were on the board of Catiline
that day, as on the boards of many another noble

Roman; and the wines by which these rare dainties were
diluted, differed but little, as wisest critics say, from the
madeiras and the sherries of the nineteenth century. For
so true is it, that under the sun there is nothing new, that
in the foix gras of Strasburg, in the turbot à la crême, and
in the dindons aux truffes of the French metropolis, the
gastronomes of modern days have only reproduced the
dishes, whereon Lucullus and Hortensius feasted before
the Christian era.

The day passed pleasantly to all, but to Paullus Arvina
it flew like a dream, like a delirious trance, from which,
could he have consulted his own will, he would never have
awakened.

With the dessert, and the wine cup, the myrtle branch
and the lute went round, and songs were warbled by sweet
voices, full of seductive thoughts and words of passion. At
length the lamps were lighted, and the women arose to quit
the hall, leaving the ruder sex to prolong the revel; but
as Lucia rose, she again pressed the fingers of Arvina, and
whispered a request that he would see her once more ere
he left the house.

He promised; but as he did so, his heart sank within
him; for dearly as he wished it, he believed he had promised
that which would prove impossible.

But in a little while, chance, as he thought it, favored
him; for seeing that he refused the wine cup, Catiline,
after rallying him some time, good humoredly said with a
laugh, “Come, my Arvina, we must not be too hard on
you. You have but a young head, though a stout one.
Curius and I are old veterans of the camp, old revellers,
and love the wine cup better than the bright eyes of beauty,
or the minstrel's lute. Thou, I will swear it, wouldst
rather now be listening to Lucia's lyre, and may be fingering
it thyself, than drinking with us roisterers! Come,
never blush, boy, we were all young once! Confess, if I
am right! The women you will find, if you choose to seek
them, in the third chamber on the left, beyond the inner
peristyle. We all love freedom here; nor are we rigid
censors. Curius and I will drain a flagon or two more,
and then join you.”

Muttering something not very comprehensible about his
exertions in the morning, and his inability to drink any

more, Paullus arose, delighted to effect his escape on terms
so easy, and left the triclinium immediately in quest of his
mistress.

As he went out, Catiline burst into one of his sneering
laughs, and exclaimed, “He is in; by Pan, the hunter's
God! he is in the death-toil already! May I perish ill, if
he escape it.”

“Why, in the name of all the Gods, do you take so
much pains with him,” said Curius; “he is a stout fellow,
and I dare say a brave one; and will make a good legionary,
or an officer perhaps; but he is raw, and a fool to
boot!”

“Raw, but no fool! I can assure you,” answered Catiline;
“no more a fool than I am. And we must have him,
he is necessary!”

“He will be necessary soon to that girl of yours; she
has gone mad, I think, for love of him. I never did believe
in philtres; but this is well nigh enough to make one
do so.”

“Pshaw!” answered Catiline; “it is thou that art raw
now, and a fool, Curius. She is no more in love with
him than thou art; it was all acting—right good acting:
for it did once well nigh deceive me who devised it; but
still, only acting. I ordered her to win him at all hazards.”

“At all hazards?”

“Aye! at all.”

“I wish you would give her the like orders touching
me, if she obey so readily.”

“I would, if it were necessary; which it is not. First,
because I have you as firmly mine, as need be; and
secondly, because Fulvia would have her heart's blood
ere two days had gone, and that would ill suit me; for
the sly jade is useful.”

“Take care she prove not too sly for you, Sergius.
She may obey your orders in this thing; but she does so
right willingly. She loves the boy, I tell you, as madly
as Venus loved Adonis, or Phædra Hyppolitus; she would
pursue him if he fled from her.”

“She loves him no more than she loves the musty statue
of my stout grandsire, Sergius Silo.”

“You will see one day. Meanwhile, look that she fool
you not.”

While they were speaking, Paullus had reached the
entrance of the chamber indicated; and, opening the door,
had entered, expecting to find the three women assembled
at some feminine sport or occupation. But fortune again
favored him—opportune fortune!

For Lucia was alone, expecting him, prepared for his
entrance at any moment; yet, when he came, how unprepared,
how shocked, how terrified!

For she had unclasped her stola upon both her shoulders,
and suffered it to fall down to her girdle which kept it in
its place about her hips. But above those she was dressed
only in a tunic of that loose fabric, a sort of silken gauze,
which was called woven air, and was beginning to be worn
very much by women of licentious character; this dress—
if that indeed could be called a dress, which displayed all
the outlines of the shape, all the hues of the glowing skin
every minute blue vein that meandered over the lovely
bosom—was wrought in alternate stripes of white and silver;
and nothing can be imagined more beautiful than
the effect of its semi-transparent veil concealing just enough
to leave some scope for the imagination, displaying more
than enough for the most prodigal of beauty.

She was employed in dividing her long jet-black hair
with a comb of mother-of-pearl as he entered; but she
dropped both the hair and comb, and started to her feet
with a simulated scream, covering her beautiful bust with
her two hands, as if she had been taken absolutely by surprise.

But Paullus had been drinking freely, and Paullus saw,
moreover, that she was not offended; and, if surprised,
surprised not unpleasantly by his coming.

He sprang forward, caught her in his arms, and clasping
her to his bosom almost smothered her with kisses.
But shame on her, fast and furiously as he kissed, she
kissed as closely back.

“Lucia, sweet Lucia, do you then love me?”

“More than my life—more than my country—more than
the Gods! my brave, my noble Paullus.”

“And will you then be mine—all mine, my Lucia?”

“Yours, Paul?” she faltered, panting as if with agitation
upon his bosom; “am I not yours already? but no, no, no!”
she exclaimed, tearing herself from his embrace. “No

no! I had forgotten. My father! no; I cannot, my father!”

“What mean you, Lucia? your father? What of your
father?”

“You are his enemy. You have discovered, will betray
him.”

“No, by the great Gods! you are mad, Lucia. I have
discovered nothing; nor if I knew him to be the slayer
of my father, would I betray him! never, never!”

“Will you swear that?”

“Swear what?”

“Never, whatever you may learn, to betray him to any
living man: never to carry arms, or give evidence against
him; but faithfully and stedfastly to follow him through
virtue and through vice, in life and unto death; to live
for him, and die with him, unless I release you of your oath
and restore you to freedom, which I will never do!”

“By all the powers of light and darkness! by Jupiter
Omnipotent, and Pluto the Avenger, I swear, Lucia! May
I and all my house, and all whom I love or cherish, wretchedly
perish if I fail you.”

“Then I am yours,” she sighed; “all, and for ever!” and
sank into his arms, half fainting with the violence of that
prolonged excitement.