THE RELEASE.
And, for that right is right, to follow right
Were wisdom, in the scorn of consequence.
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 undying 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 annul 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
love you 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 my self."
"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 Prætor’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,(16)
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.