THE DISCLOSURE.
Maria montesque polliceri cæpit,
Minari interdum ferro, nisi obnoxia foret.
SALLUST.
A woman, master.
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
effeminate 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, curled
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 eyes, 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.
Where in umbrageous shadow of the greenwood
Buds the gay primrose i’ the balmy spring time;
Where never silent, Philomel, the wildest
Minstrel of ether,
Pours her high notes, and caroling, delighted
In the cool sun-proof canopy of the ilex
Hung with ivy green or a bloomy dog-rose
Idly redundant,
Charms the fierce noon with melody; in the moonbeam
Where the coy Dryads trip it unmolested
All the night long, to merry dithyrambics
Blissfully timing
Their rapid steps, which flit across the knot grass
Lightly, nor shake one flower of the blue-bell;
Where liquid founts and rivulets o’ silver
Sweetly awaken
Clear forest echoes with unearthly laughter;
There will I, dearest, on a bank be lying
Where the wild thyme blows ever, and the pine tree
Fitfully murmurs
Slumber inspiring. Come to me, my dearest,
On the fresh greensward, as a downy bride-bed,
Languid, unzoned, and amorous, reclining;
Like Ariadne,
When the blythe wine-God, from Olympus hoary,
Wooed the soft mortal tremulously yielding
All her enchantments to the mighty victor—
Happy Ariadne!
There will I, dearest, every frown abandon;
Nor do thou fear, nor hesitate to press me,
Since, if I chide, ’tis but a girl’s reproval,
Faintly reluctant.
Doubt not I love thee, whether I return thy
Kisses in delight, or avert demurely
Lips that in truth burn to be kissed the closer,
Eyes that avoid thee,
Loth to confess how amorously glowing
Pants the fond heart. Oh! tarry not, but urge me
Coy to consent; and if a blush alarm thee,
Shyly revealing
Sentiments deep as the profound of Ocean,
If a sigh, faltered in an hour of anguish,
Seem to implore thee—pity not. The maiden
Often adores thee
Most if offending. Never, oh! believe me,
Did the faint-hearted win a girl’s devotion,
Nor the true girl frown when a youth disarmed her
Dainty denial.
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 keepsake! 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 sufferance. 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!"