University of Virginia Library

13. CHAPTER XIII.

THE DISCLOSURE.

Sallust.

Love's Labour Lost.

Among all those of Senatorial rank—and they were
very many—who were participants of the intended treason,
one alone was absent from the assemblage of the Order
on that eventful night.

The keen unquiet eye of the arch-traitor missed Curius
from his place, as it ran over the known faces of the conspirators,
on whom he reckoned for support.

Curius was absent.

Nor did his absence, although it might well be, although
indeed it was, accidental, diminish anything of Catiline's
anxiety. For, though he fully believed him trusty and
faithful to the end, though he felt that the man was linked
to him indissolubly by the consciousness of common crimes,
he knew him also to be no less vain than he was daring.
And, while he had no fear of intentional betrayal, he apprehended
the possibility of involuntary disclosures, that
might be perilous, if not fatal, in the present juncture.

It has been left on record of this Curius, by one who
knew him well, and was himself no mean judge of character,
that he possessed not the faculty of concealing any

thing he had heard, or even of dissembling his own crimes;
and Catiline was not one to overlook or mistake so palpable
a weakness.

But the truth was, that knowing his man thoroughly, he
was aware that, with the bane, he bore about with him,
in some degree, its antidote. For so vast and absurd
were his vain boastings, and so needless his exaggerations
of his own recklessness, blood-thirstiness, and crime, that
hitherto his vaporings had excited rather ridicule than fear.

The time was however coming, when they were to
awaken distrust, and lead to disclosure.

It was perfectly consistent with the audacity of Catiline—an
audacity, which, though natural, stood him well
in stead, as a mask to cover deep designs—that even
now, when he felt himself to be more than suspected, instead
of avoiding notoriety, and shunning the companionship
of his fellow traitors, he seemed to covet observation,
and to display himself in connection with his guilty partners,
more openly than heretofore.

But neither Lentulus, nor Vargunteius, nor the Syllæ,
nor any other of the plotters had seen Curius, or could inform
him of his whereabout. And, ere they separated for
the night, amid the crash of the contending elements above,
and the roar of the turbulent populace below, doubt, and
almost dismay, had sunk into the hearts of several the
most daring, so far as mere mortal perils were to be encountered,
but the most abject, when superstition was
joined with conscious guilt to appal and confound them.

Catiline left the others, and strode away homeward,
more agitated and unquiet than his face or words, or anything
in his demeanor, except his irregular pace, and fitful
gestures indicated.

Dark curses quivered unspoken on his tongue—the
pains of hell were in his heart already.

Had he but known the whole, how would his fury have
blazed out into instant action.

At the very moment when the Senate was so suddenly
convoked on the Palatine, a woman of rare loveliness
waited alone, in a rich and voluptuous chamber of a house
not far removed from the scene of those grave deliberations.

The chamber, in which she reclined alone on a pile of

soft cushions, might well have been the shrine of that bland
queen of love and pleasure, of whom its fair tenant was
indeed an assiduous votaress. For there was nothing,
which could charm the senses, or lap the soul in luxurious
and effominate ease, that was not there displayed.

The walls glowed with the choicest specimens of the
Italian pencil, and the soft tones and harmonious colouring
were well adapted to the subjects, which were the same
in all—voluptuous and sensual love.

Here Venus rose from the crisp-smiling waves, in a
rich atmosphere of light and beauty—there Leda toyed
with the wreathed neck and ruffled plumage of the enamoured
swan—in this compartment, Danaë lay warm and
languid, impotent to resist the blended power of the God's
passion and his gold—in that, Ariadne clung delighted to
the bosom of the rosy wine-God.

The very atmosphere of the apartment was redolent of
the richest perfumes, which streamed from four censers of
chased gold placed on a tall candelabra of wrought bronze
in the corners of the room. A bowl of stained glass on
the table was filled with musk roses, the latest of the year;
and several hyacinths in full bloom added their almost
overpowering scent to the aromatic odours of the burning
incense.

Armed chairs, with downy pillows, covered with choice
embroidered cloths of Calabria, soft ottomans and easy
couches, tables loaded with implements of female luxury,
musical instruments, drawings, and splendidly illuminated
rolls of the amatory bards and poetesses of the Egean
islands, completed the picture of the boudoir of the Roman
beauty.

And on a couch piled with the Tyrian cushions, which
yielded to the soft impress of her lovely form, well worthy
of the splendid luxury with which she was surrounded,
lay the unrivalled Fulvia, awaiting her expected lover.

If she was lovely in her rich attire, as she appeared at
the board of Catiline, with jewels in her bosom, and her
bright ringlets of luxuriant gold braided in fair array, far
lovelier was she now, as she lay there reclined, with those
bright ringlets all dishevelled, and falling in a flood of
wavy silken masses, over her snowy shoulders, and palpitating
bosom; with all the undulating outlines of her superb

form, unadorned, and but scantily concealed by a
loose robe of snow-white linen.

Her face was slightly flushed with a soft carnation tinge,
her blue eyes gleamed with unusual brightness. And by
the fluttering of her bosom, and the nervous quivering of
her slender fingers, as they leaned on a tripod of Parian
marble which stood beside the couch, it was evident that
she was labouring under some violent excitement.

“He comes not,” she said. “And it is waxing late.
He has again failed me! and if he have—ruin—ruin!—
Debts pressing me in every quarter, and no hope but from
him. Alfenus the usurer will lend no more—my farms all
mortgaged to the utmost, a hundred thousand sesterces of
interest, due these last Calends, and unpaid as yet. What
can I do?—what hope for? In him there is no help—
none! Nay! It is vain to think of it; for he is amorous
as ever, and, could he raise the money, would lavish millions
on me for one kiss. No! he is bankrupt too; and
all his promises are but wild empty boastings. What,
then, is left to me?” she cried aloud, in the intensity of
her perturbation. “Most miserable me! My creditors
will seize on all—all—all! and poverty—hard, chilling,
bitter poverty, is staring in my face even now. Ye Gods!
ye Gods! And I can not—can not live poor. No more
rich dainties, and rare wines! no downy couches and soft
perfumes! No music to induce voluptuous slumbers! no
fairy-fingered slaves to fan the languid brow into luxurious
coolness! No revelry, no mirth, no pleasure! Pleasure
that is so sweet, so enthralling! Pleasure for which I
have lived only, without which I must die! Die! By
the great Gods! I will die! What avails life, when all
its joys are gone? or what is death, but one momentary
pang, and then—quiet? Yes! I will die. And the world
shall learn that the soft Epicurean can vie with the cold
Stoic in carelessness of living, and contempt of death—
that the warm votaress of Aphrodite can spend her glowing
life-blood as prodigally as the stern follower of Virtue!
Lucretia died, and was counted great and noble, because
she cared not to survive her honour! Fulvia will perish,
wiser, as soon as she shall have outlived her capacity for
pleasure!”

She spoke enthusiastically, her bright eyes flashing a

strange fire, and her white bosom panting with the strong
and passionate excitement; but in a moment her mood
was changed. A smile, as if at her own vehemence, curl
ed her lip; her glance lost its quick, sharp wildness. She
clapped her hands together, and called aloud,

“Ho! ægle! ægle!”

And at the call a beautiful Greek girl entered the chamber,
voluptuous as her mistress in carriage and demeanor,
and all too slightly robed for modesty, in garments that
displayed far more than they concealed of her rare symmetry.

“Bring wine, my girl,” cried Fulvia; “the richest
Massic; and, hark thee, fetch thy lyre. My soul is dark
to-night, and craves a joyous note to kindle it to life and
rapture.”

The girl bowed and retired; but in a minute or two
returned, accompanied by a dark-eyed Ionian, bearing a
Tuscan flask of the choice wine, and a goblet of crystal,
embossed with emeralds and sapphires, imbedded, by a
process known to the ancients but now lost, in the transparent
glass.

A lyre of tortoiseshell was in the hands of ægle, and a
golden plectrum with which to strike its chords; she had
cast loose her abundant tresses of dark hair, and decked
her brows with a coronal of myrtle mixed with roses, and
as she came bounding with sinuous and graceful gestures
through the door, waving her white arms with the dazzling
instruments aloft, she might have represented well a
young priestess of the Cyprian queen, or the light Muse
of amorous song.

The other girl filled out a goblet of the amber-coloured
wine, the fragrance of which overpowered, for a moment,
as it mantled on the goblet's brim, the aromatic perfumes
which loaded the atmosphere of the apartment.

And Fulvia raised it to her lips, and sipped it slowly,
and delightedly, suffering it to glide drop by drop between
her rosy lips, to linger on her pleased palate, luxuriating
in its soft richness, and dwelling long and rapturously on
its flavour.

After a little while, the goblet was exhausted, a warmer
hue came into her velvet cheeks, a brighter spark danced
in her azure eves, and as she motioned the Ionian slave-girl

to replenish the cup and place it on the tripod at her
elbow, she murmured in a low languid tone,

“Sing to me, now—sing to me, ægle.”

And in obedience to her word the lovely girl bent her
fair form over the lute, and, after a wild prelude full of
strange thrilling melodies, poured out a voice as liquid and
as clear, aye! and as soft, withal, as the nightingale's, in
a soft Sapphic love-strain full of the glorious poetry of her
own lovely language.

While she was yet singing, the curtains which covered
the door were put quietly aside, and with a noiseless step
Curius entered the apartment, unseen by the fair vocalist,
whose back was turned to him, and made a sign to Fulvia
that she should not appear to notice his arrival.

The haggard and uneasy aspect, which was peculiar to
this man—the care-worn expression, half-anxious and half-jaded,
which has been previously described, was less conspicuous
on this occasion than ever it had been before,
since the light lady loved him. There was a feverish flush
on his face, a joyous gleam in his dark eye, and a self-satisfied
smile lighting up all his features, which led her to
believe at first that he had been drinking deeply; and secondly,
that by some means or other he had succeeded in
collecting the vast sum she had required of him, as the
unworthy price of future favours.

In a minute or two, the voluptuous strain ended; and,
ere she knew that any stranger listened to her amatory
warblings, the arm of Curius was wound about her slender
waist, and his half-laughing voice was ringing in her
ear,

“Well sung, my lovely Greek, and daintily advised!—
By my faith! sweet one, I will take thee at thy word!”

“No! no!” cried the girl, extricating herself from his
arms, by an elastic spring, before his lips could touch her
cheek. “No! no! you shall not kiss me. Kiss Fulvia,
she is handsomer than I am, and loves you too. Come,
Myrrha, let us leave them.”

And, with an arch smile and coquettish toss of her pretty
head, she darted through the door, and was followed instantly
by the other slave-girl, well trained to divine the
wishes of her mistress.

“ægle is right, by Venus!” exclaimed Curius, drawing
nearer to his mistress; “you are more beautiful to-night
than ever.”

“Flatterer!” murmured the lady, suffering him to enfold
her in his arms, and taste her lips for a moment. But
the next minute she withdrew herself from his embrace,
and said, half-smiling, half-abashed, “But flattery will not
pay my debts. Have you brought me the moneys for Alfenus,
my sweet Curius? the hundred thousand sesterces,
you promised me?”

“Perish the dross!” cried Curius, fiercely. “Out on
it! when I come to you, burning with love and passion,
you cast cold water on the flames, by your incessant cry
for gold. By all the Gods! I do believe, that you love
me only for that you can wring from my purse.”

“If it be so,” replied the lady, scornfully, “I surely do
not love you much; seeing it is three months, since you
have brought me so much as a ring, or a jewel for a keep-sake!
But you should rather speak the truth out plainly,
Curius,” she continued, in an altered tone, “and confess
honestly that you care for me no longer. If you loved me
as once you did, you would not leave me to be goaded by
these harpies. Know you not—why do I ask? you do
know that my house, my slaves, nay! that my very jewels
and my garments, are mine but upon sufference. It wants
but a few days of the calends of November, and if they
find the interest unpaid, I shall be cast forth, shamed, and
helpless, into the streets of Rome!”

“Be it so!” answered Curius, with an expression which
she could not comprehend. “Be it so! Fulvia; and if
it be, you shall have any house in Rome you will, for
your abode. What say you to Cicero's, in the Carinæ?
or the grand portico of Quintus Catulus, rich with the
Cimbric spoils? or, better yet, that of Crassus, with its
Hymettian columns, on the Palatine? Aye! aye! the
speech of Marcus Brutus was prophetic; who termed it,
the other day, the house of Venus on the Palatine! And
you, my love, shall be the goddess of that shrine! It shall
be yours to-morrow, if you will—so you will drive away
the clouds from that sweet brow, and let those eyes beam
forth—by all the Gods!”—he interrupted himself—“I
will kiss thee!”

“By all the Gods! thou shalt not—now, nor for evermore!”
she replied, in her turn growing very angry.—
“Thou foolish and mendacious boaster! what? dost thou
deem me mad or senseless, to assail me with such drivelling
folly? Begone, fool! or I will call my slaves—I
have slaves yet, and, if it be the last deed of service they
do for me, they shall spurn thee, like a dog, from my doors.
—Art thou insane, or only drunken, Curius?” she added,
breaking off from her impetuous railing, into a cool sarcastic
tone, that stung him to the quick.

“You shall see whether of the two, Harlot!” he replied
furiously, thrusting his hand into the bosom of his tunic,
as if to seek a weapon.

“Harlot!” she exclaimed, springing to her feet, the hot
blood rushing to her brow in torrents—“dare you say this
to me?”

“Dare! do you call this daring?” answered the savage.
“This? what would you call it, then, to devastate the
streets of Rome with flame and falchion—to hurl the fabric
of the state headlong down from the blazing Capitol—to
riot in the gore of senators, patricians, consulars!—What,
to aspire to be the lords and emperors of the universe?”

“What mean you?” she exclaimed, moved greatly by
his vehemence, and beginning to suspect that this was something
more than his mere ordinary boasting and exaggeration.
“What can you mean? oh! tell me; if you do love
me, as you once did, tell me, Curius!” and with rare artifice
she altered her whole manner in an instant, all the expression
of eye, lip, tone and accent, from the excess of
scorn and hatred, to blandishment and fawning softness.

“No!” he replied sullenly. “I will not tell you—no!
You doubt me, distrust me, scorn me—no! I will tell you
nothing! I will have all I wish or ask for, on my own
terms—you shall grant all, or die!”

And he unsheathed his dagger, as he spoke, and grasping
her wrist violently with his left hand, offered the weapon
at her throat with his right—“You shall grant all, or
die!”

“Never!”—she answered—“never!” looking him steadily
yet softly in the face, with her beautiful blue eyes.
“To fear I will never yield, whatever I may do, to love or
passion. Strike, if you will—strike a weak woman, and

so prove your daring—it will be easier, if not so noble, as
slaying senators and consuls!”

“Perdition!” cried the fierce conspirator, “I will kill
her!” And with the word he raised his arm, as if to
strike; and, for a moment, the guilty and abandoned sensualist
believed that her hour was come.

Yet she shrunk not, nor quailed before his angry eye,
nor uttered any cry or supplication. She would have died
that moment, as carelessly as she had lived. She would
have died, acting out her character to the last sand of life,
with the smile on her lip, and the soft languor in her melting
eye, in all things an Epicurean.

But the fierce mood of Curius changed. Irresolute, and
impotent of evil, in a scarce less degree than he was sanguinary,
rash, unprincipled, and fearless, it is not one of
the least strange events, connected with a conspiracy the
whole of which is strange, and much almost inexplicable,
that a man so wise, so sagacious, so deep-sighted, as the
arch traitor, should have placed confidence in one so fickle
and infirm of purpose.

His knitted brow relaxed, the hardness of his eye relented,
he cast the dagger from him.

The next moment, suffering the scarf to fall from her
white and dazzling shoulders, the beautiful but bad enchantress
flung herself upon his bosom, in the abandonment
of her dishevelled beauty, winding her snowy arms
about his neck, smothering his voice with kisses.

A moment more, and she was seated on his knee, with
his left arm about her waist, drinking with eager and attentive
ears, that suffered not a single detail to escape
them, the fullest revelation of that atrocious plot, the days,
the very hours of action, the numbers, names, and rank of
the conspirators!

A woman's infamy rewarded the base villain's double
treason! A woman's infamy saved Rome!

Two hours later, the crash and roar of the hurricane and
earthquake cut short their guilty pleasures. Curius rushed
into the streets headlong, almost deeming that the insurrection
might have exploded prematurely, and found it—
more than half frustrated.

Fulvia, while yet the thunder rolled, and the blue lightning
flashed above her head, and the earth reeled beneath

her footsteps, went forth, strong in the resolution of that
Roman patriotism, which, nursed by the institutions of the
age, and the pride of the haughty heart, stood with her, as
it did with so many others, in lieu of any other principle,
of any other virtue.

Closely veiled, unattended even by a single slave, that
delicate luxurious sinner braved the wild fury of the elements;
braved the tumultuous frenzy, and more tumultuous
terror, of the disorganised and angry populace; braved the
dark superstition, which crept upon her as she marked
the awful portents of that night, and half persuaded her to
the belief that there were Powers on high, who heeded the
ways, punished the crimes of mortals.

And that strange sense grew on her more and more,
though she resisted it, incredulous, when after a little while
she sat side by side with the wise and virtuous Consul,
and marked the calmness, almost divine, of his thoughtful
benignant features, as he heard the full details of the awful
crisis, heretofore but suspected, in which he stood, as
if upon the verge of a scarce slumbering volcano.

What passed between that frail woman, and the wise
orator, none ever fully knew. But they parted—on his
side with words of encouragement and kindness—on her's
with a sense of veneration approaching almost to religious
awe.

And the next day, the usurer Alfenus received in full
the debt, both principal and interest, which he had long
despaired of touching.

But when the Great Man stood alone in his silent study,
that strange and unexpected interview concluded, he turned
his eyes upward, not looking, even once, toward the
sublime bust of Jupiter which stood before him, serene in
more than mortal grandeur; extended both his arms, and
prayed in solemn accents—

“All thanks to thee, Omnipotent, Ubiquitous, Eternal,
One! whom we, vain fools of fancy, adore in many forms,
and under many names; invest with the low attributes of
our own earthy nature; enshrine in mortal shapes, and human
habitations! But thou, who wert, before the round
world was, or the blue heaven o'erhung it; who wilt be,
when those shall be no longer,—thou pardonest our madness,
guidest our blindness, guardest our weakness. Thou,

by the basest and most loathed instruments, dost work out
thy great ends. All thanks, then, be to thee, by whatsoever
name thou wouldest be addressed; to thee, whose
dwelling is illimitable space, whose essence is in every
thing that we behold, that moves, that is—to thee whom I
hail, God! For thou hast given it to me to save my
country. And whether I die now, by this assassin's knife,
or live a little longer to behold the safety I establish, I
have lived long enough, and am content to die!—Whether
this death be, as philosophers have told us, a dreamless,
senseless, and interminable trance; or, as I sometimes
dream, a brief and passing slumber, from which we shall
awaken into a purer, brighter, happier being—I have lived
long enough! and when thou callest me, will answer to
thy summons, glad and grateful! For Rome, at least, survives
me, and shall perchance survive, 'till time itself is
ended, the Queen of Universal Empire!”