only because of his impatience to see her and renew their former
friendly relations, her anxiety vanished. She had the sensation of
breathing more freely, as though a window had been opened. Her
calculations had not betrayed her. In deferring her visit to Antony
she had whetted his desire to see her. But would he not make her pay
for her coquetry? Was he not, perhaps, planning some revenge?
She made various excuses for her delay, which in no way deceived
Dellius. He was still more skeptical when, under pretence of
timidity, she said that she had put off her departure on account of
current reports concerning the reception accorded to certain
princesses on their arrival at Tarsus.
Judging it wise to reassure her he protested: "What! Glaphyra!
Eutrope! Beggars already dethroned, or fearing to be! Vassals who
threw themselves at the conqueror's feet with the most doubtful
intentions! What comparison can there be between them and your
gracious self?" Then, adopting the tone of a priest addressing an
idol, he went on:
"O thou, the well-beloved of Osiris! August sovereign whose sceptre
covers land and sea! Woman above all other women! Understand that
your presence is expected with reverence as well as eagerness. From
the moment that you set foot on Roman territory, gracious deeds will
follow you and the whole people will pay you homage."
But this was not what interested Cleopatra. One word as to Antony's
personal sentiments would have given her more satisfaction. How
could she learn what these were? How was she to find out whether he
was summoning her as a sovereign, with whom he wished to renew an
alliance, or as a vassal who was already in his debt? Or simply
because in his heart of hearts old memories of her still lingered?
As he watched her and talked with her, Dellius began to understand
what an exceptional creature she was and why his master thought her
worth the price he was paying. It was not alone her beauty which
made her so wonderful. In gazing at her a vague uneasiness, an
indefinable fear took possession of him. If her animation sometimes
caused an uncontrollable tremor, her sensuous languor, at others,
gave promise of untold delights. His keen insight told him the
influence such a woman would have in the life of Antony, who was now
nearly forty years old, that dangerous age in sensual natures. The
gallant adventures of his youth no longer sufficed; he was now
experiencing an actual sentimental hunger which comes to men who,
without genuine passion, have lived a life of excess. An
overwhelming love at this time would be his salvation. He would give
himself up to it without reservation, and however unworthy the woman
who inspired it might be, she would not fail to acquire a power whose
limit it was impossible to foresee. Dellius felt that Cleopatra
would be this ruler over Antony's destiny; so he decided that he
would not only carry out his master's mission and persuade her to go
to Tarsus, but that he would also make her his patron and friend.
Later, when she had become the Egeria of Antony, perhaps she would
recall the service he had rendered her and would help him to attain
his own end, which was a consulship. From that moment the shrewd man
set to work to interpret the sentiments of his master. He described
him as deeply in love, which Antony certainly was not as yet, though
he was ready to be; pretended that he was obsessed by the memory of
Cleopatra; that for days at a time he did nothing but wait for her
coming. He was often seen standing at the mouth of the Cydnus,
beaten by the winds, watching the incoming ships. It would be
inhuman to prolong his misery. One word from her would set his mind
at rest. If she would only send him that word of promise Antony
would be happier than if he had conquered fresh kingdoms.
"Is it possible," added Dellius, as though talking to himself, "is it
possible to have been near the divine Cleopatra without experiencing
on leaving her a regret which nothing but seeing her again can cure?"
An indescribable dread disturbed the Queen's mind. She felt that
this was the decisive moment of her life, and a thrill went through
her. She had a burning desire for the joys that the future might
hold, and wanted to hurry on to them. She had the impulse to cry
out: "I am going! I shall start to-morrow!" The attitude, however,
which she had adopted from the beginning still held her captive.
Even to the end she must play her part, seem to hesitate, to be
difficult to win, and above all, let no one suspect the longing she
had to be forced to go.
"Since it is necessary, since the Triumvir demands it, I will go to
bear him my homage," she said.
But this did not satisfy Dellius. He had too little faith in women
to trust to a vague promise made from a sense of duty. He wanted a
definite statement, with no reservations. So he began to protest
again. It was not as a sovereign that Antony would receive the Queen
of Egypt. He longed for her coming and would welcome her with the
reverence due a goddess.
Such words could not fail to win the consent which was already in her
heart. Cleopatra's pride was safe, she had been sufficiently
implored; so, with a smile, she promised to set out for Tarsus before
the days began to shorten.
Although eager to announce the good tidings, Dellius accepted her
invitation to stay a few days in Alexandria. It would not be a waste
of time because, although his master's mission had been successfully
accomplished, his own was not fulfilled. In bringing Cleopatra to
Tarsus, where she would become the mistress of Antony, he had the
secret hope that he would thereby win their double gratitude.
Each had his own end to gain and the two held long conversations,
usually with Antony for the subject. Dellius made a point of
dwelling on the Triumvir's various characteristics; his tastes, his
qualities, for her information when opportunity offered. Undoubtedly
Antony had always cared for display, but the incense which Asia had
burned at his feet had so intoxicated him that he had become almost
obsessed by the love of ostentation. Nothing was gorgeous enough, no
banquet sufficiently resplendent, to satisfy him.
"How severe and gloomy Rome to-day would seem to him; on the other
hand how enchanted he would be with the magnificence that reigns
here," said Dellius.
Further persuasion was needless; Cleopatra understood. A plan was
already forming in her mind. She saw in imagination the glorious
vision she would present to Antony's astonished eyes.
The next day she began to make ready for the journey. Although she
commanded all possible haste, for she was now really eager to go, the
preparations took nearly a month. It would not have been possible to
complete in less time the marvellous equipment for the voyage of this
new Queen of Sheba.
The rising sun cast the soft light of one of those ideal summer days
when all outlines are blurred and blend in the mysterious charm of
woods and sky. Under a cluster of sycamore trees, which shaded the
public square of Tarsus, Antony was holding court as Proconsul,
assisted by petty rulers, magi, and prætors, and, governed by his
somewhat rudimentary conscience, deciding the various cases according
to the Roman law. He was besieged by a crowd, each having his own
special petition, and each in turn being granted a hearing. The
court was following the speech of one of the advocates in respectful
silence when excited murmurs began to be heard. Men came running up
from the shores of the Cydnus with strange tales. The agitation
spread rapidly and Aphrodite's name was on all lips. The people had
been carefully trained by the priests, and their religion had
accustomed them to believe in the proximity of the gods and in their
possible intervention. But this strange tale surpassed the most
wonderful fables. It was reported that the daughter of Zeus was
sailing up the river on a golden galley resounding with music. She
had been recognized, not only by her supernatural beauty, but by
those symbols with which painters and sculptors had always
represented her. Reclining in an enormous shell, this goddess seemed
to be rising from the sea. Purple sails adorned the galley and a
troop of nereids hung in the rigging, waving fans, while tiny cupids
scattered rose leaves at her feet. Every moment new messengers
arrived with fresh details that surpassed all the preceding ones.
The galley's sails were of silk; purple draperies covered the decks;
fifty black men from Koursch rowed rhythmically, with oars tipped
with silver; light smoke from the galley wafted the sweet perfume of
cinnamon and of incense.
The public square was gradually deserted as curiosity overcame the
people. Those who, the instant before, had been struggling for a
place near the Tribunal, had suddenly vanished. The ever-growing
crowd was now jostling each other on the banks of the Cydnus. Snouts
and cries of admiration went up. The whole city of Tarsus was soon
on the quais, and, in an ecstasy of enthusiasm, welcomed the
approaching goddess and thanked Zeus for sending her.
On hearing these astounding reports Antony was as one distracted. He
put his hand to his head; he struggled for breath. Beyond all doubt
it was she! That goddess whom his impatient heart had so long
craved! She had taken him by surprise!
As he could not permit himself to join the crowd and rush to meet
her, he called Dellius.
"Go," he said, "receive Cleopatra with all honour. Put at her
disposal all that she wishes, and ask her to sup with me at the
palace this evening."
Antony was too much agitated to resume the interrupted hearings. Of
what importance were individual interests, or even those of the
Republic, in comparison with this overwhelming event? Assessors,
registrars, witnesses were all dismissed, and in his ecstasy, wishing
to share his joy with others, he granted all the petitions laid
before him.
Dellius returned with the message that Cleopatra warmly appreciated
the invitation from the Triumvir, but that this first evening she
wished to have him as her guest. She would expect him on board her
galley at the time appointed for supper.
Then it was really true! It was she! She had crossed the seas to
come to him! In a few moments he would see her, be at the same table
with her! How should he approach her; what words of greeting should
he use? He was perplexed, for proper words never come in the moment
of excitement. He tried to imagine the scene. His attitude would be
courteous, certainly; how otherwise? But he must have a certain
majesty of bearing. His title of Triumvir placed him above all other
sovereigns. In the eyes of his colleagues it was important that he
should maintain his prestige. Cleopatra had failed in her duty as an
ally of Rome and it would be necessary to inquire the reasons. With
all possible consideration, yet with firmness, he would ask: "What
part did you take in the war? Why did you fail us?"
Full of these thoughts, he began his preparations. He chose his most
beautiful silver breast-plate, the one by an Athenian artist
representing Achilles being dipped in the Styx by his mother. He put
perfume on his face, rubbed it in his hair, and, a superb martial
figure, his head erect, every nerve alert, as though he were going
into battle, set out on the avenue leading to the river. The plane
trees cast darker shadows in the evening light. Between the trunks
of the trees the setting sun was like burnished copper. When he
reached the river banks the brilliant sunset light had faded, but
before him shone the marvellous galley. From the tips of the masts
to the water's edge it was a mass of draperies illuminated by
torches. It was not possible to count them, but the shining whole
was like a fire mounting almost to the sky.
That famous supper at Tarsus, that evening meeting between those two
beings who were to stir the world and leave a path of fire across the
centuries, is assuredly one of the enthralling moments of history.
Putting aside the magnificence of the entertainment, the prodigal
abundance of the feast which this daughter of the Lagidæ had planned
to dazzle the most powerful of the Romans, to let him see that the
luxury in which he lived was provincial compared with the customs and
manners of her court, it was the force of the dramatic situation
which appealed as these two approached each other. It was the climax
of her long-planned design, the result of all her grace and wit, this
taking possession of Antony's very soul, so to seduce and imprison
him that he could find no escape from the binding circle of her
charm. She brought to this plan all the skill of the experienced
woman of the world and a heart as yet untouched by real passion.
In this meeting it was Antony who felt embarrassed and ill at ease.
Although he was familiar with women's ways and accustomed to speaking
freely with them, yet this charmer, with her seductive guile, the
elaborate beauty of her costume, and her mysterious smile, which now
mocked, now tempted him to kneel at her feet, daunted him.
"You!--at last!" ... he exclaimed as he approached her, and that was
all he dared say by way of reproach.
This heart-felt cry was so filled with satisfied longing, showed such
real joy, that Cleopatra knew that she had won him. She began to
make excuses for not having come before. She had been bound by so
many obligations. Egypt was the source of so much anxiety. For the
past two years the wheat crop had failed and there was growing
discontent among her people. It was highly important to attend to
the needs of her country. For a long time she had doubted the
possibility of being able to leave.
But Antony's eyes were fixed on Cleopatra. He ignored the flimsy
excuses, which would not have stood in her way had she desired to
overcome them. He could only whisper:
"You are more beautiful than ever!"
"Do you think so?" she answered, and her smile was that of a simple
girl.
Then, taking her guest by the hand, she led him to the stern of the
vessel, which had been converted into a grove. They took their
places on the two purple couches beside the table; and enjoying the
rare delicacies, drinking old wines from golden cups, they talked of
many things, while the stringed instruments made sweet music.
Memories of other days came back to them, days when, reclining around
a sumptuous table in brilliantly lighted rooms, Antony had gazed on
Cleopatra, eager to declare his love, yet held back by conditions
which so often restrain the natural inclinations. He was baulked
again this evening, not by the presence of others, as in former days,
but by their mutual relations. A definite explanation was necessary
to clear away the political clouds which enveloped them.
Cleopatra took the initiative. To run the risk of being accused, of
having to defend herself was contrary to all her instincts. Besides,
what was the danger? However much at fault she might be she was
confident of having a lenient judge. Whatever stand she might take,
of attack or defence, she felt that her tiny hand had the power to
conquer. She preferred to attack, however, and began an account of
the indignities which, to uphold a just course, she had suffered at
the hands of Cassius. Three different times he had demanded recruits
from her, and at each refusal she had been overwhelmed by a deluge of
threats.
"The scoundrel!" muttered Antony.
She went on hurriedly: "But you, too, Antony, you counted on me, you
expected my fleet to come to your aid, and you had a right to expect
it! You could never have doubted my good intentions; I was your
surest ally. All my prayers were with you, you, the avenger of
Cæsar!"
The atmosphere was changed. The discussion was taking an entirely
different turn from what Antony had expected. He was completely
disarmed. He who had planned to question her sternly, to obtain a
justification, or at least some excuse for her attitude, found
himself quietly listening to the voice of an enchantress.
"You have been annoyed with me?" she said, in a caressing tone.
"I have never been angry with you," he answered.
"Yes, you have. I know very well. It was at Lacedæmon. You were
put out at having waited for me in vain."
But here, too, Cleopatra was ready with an explanation. She related
how the gods, whose designs are impenetrably concealed from men, had
seemed determined to thwart her plans. Her squadron had scarcely set
sail when it had been scattered by a tempest. Several of the ships
had been sunk. She, herself, ill and exhausted, had been saved only
by a fortunate chance. She had returned to Alexandria at grave peril
in a boat which was leaking. And when the squadron had been put in
condition again it was too late; the allies had just won the battle
of Philippi.
Presented in this light her conduct as an ally of Rome was not only
above reproach but worthy of all praise; and Antony was not sparing
in his commendation. He was deeply moved at the thought of the
dangers she had passed through. He called her sublime, heroic. He
was almost at the point of making excuses on his own account. Had he
not been a fool in so obstinately expecting her arrival? But, on the
other hand, had he not suffered torment all the days since Fate had
separated them? Everywhere, at every moment, he had sought her, had
hoped to see her appear. Without her he knew only unhappiness. He
loved her, he had always loved her. To be content without her was
impossible. And now that she was with him his passion was too strong
for him. It was a burning fire that would never be quenched.
Cleopatra listened to all this gravely, making no comment. His words
stirred her innermost being, and she was thrilled at the thought:
"The master of the world belongs to me!" Undoubtedly she understood
the passionate tone of this hero, shared his intoxication. She felt
how sweet it would be to yield, to let herself be carried away by
this overwhelming emotion. But the time had gone by when she was
ready to give herself up at the first asking, as when she had yielded
to the desire of Cæsar. The innocent young girl of those days had
grown rich in experience. The years, the events, the stay at Rome
had taught her many things. She recognized the value of her favours.
Although fully determined to grant them, that she might bind Antony
to her, unite their destinies in order to begin once more with him
the game that she had lost the first time, she intended to choose her
own hour.
The supper was over. Leaning back on her cushions she seemed the
very image of sensual delight. She regarded Antony.
"I love you," he whispered.
"Hush," she said in the gentlest way, as though correcting a
cherished child; "you must not say such things."
With a sudden frenzy and before she had time to draw back Antony
pressed his passionate lips to hers. He would not be silent. He had
already waited too long, had suffered too much from her delay. All
hope of happiness seemed to have slipped away and he had been on the
verge of despair. And now that she was really with him, she the
adored idol of his heart, she told him not to speak, not to tell her
of this love which meant life itself to him!
The young Queen stood up. The dying light of the candles and torches
transformed her into a statuette of gold, one of those deities who
are worshipped surrounded by a flashing circle of fire. She looked
at Antony. A little dismayed by his ardour she asked herself
whether, in spite of her ambition, she really could endure such a
passionate lover.
"Wait," she said, "it grows late. I am very tired. Let me have this
evening to rest."
But Antony did not stir. Leaning on the couch, his elbows on his
knees and his chin in his hands, he stared distractedly at this
exquisite creature. He could have remained there for ever, under
those shining stars which, hour by hour increasing in brilliancy as
the light of the torches faded, seemed to draw nearer, as though to
share his happiness.
"Let us go," she murmured, "it is time to say good-night."
His longing eyes implored her: "Do not send me from you without a
promise."
With her maddening smile, she replied, "To-morrow I will come to have
supper with you."
"Until to-morrow, then," signed Antony. Then, disappointed and
baffled, his whole being tortured by visions of a joy which had
seemed within his grasp and which for the moment had escaped him, he
left the barge and went back to the shore.
For the next few days Cleopatra and Antony were inseparable. It was
the beginning of that passion which was gradually to absorb their
whole being and consume them like a fire.
If Antony had from that first evening completely lost his reason,
Cleopatra had kept hers. Her mind was stronger than her emotions.
Shrewd and clear-sighted, she looked into the future. With her
mind's eye she saw the old dreams come back, her cherished plans of
long ago. If Antony, as ruler of Rome, lacked the strength of Cæsar,
his power was as far-reaching; and, if his character lacked the
force, his mind the breadth of the other, she would have all the more
chance of supremacy, all the greater opportunity of controlling the
government.
She was seized with the desire to try the experiment without delay.
A great bitterness, an ever-growing rancour was in her heart against
her sister who had disputed her right to the throne and who had
failed in the contest. Fleeing from her vengeance, this sister,
Arsinoë, had taken refuge in the temple of Diana, at Ephesus, and,
under the protection of the high priest, Megabyzus, had assumed the
role of a sovereign. This insult to Cleopatra fell directly within
the jurisdiction of the Triumvir. He alone could put a stop to it.
She asked that the Princess be put to death, and also the minister,
Serapion, who had upheld her in the rebellion and flight to Ephesus.
Such severities were not at all to Antony's taste. The happy hours
spent at Ephesus were still fresh in his memory. Should he forfeit
those for a woman's caprice? Should he thus discredit his reputation
as a genial Proconsul? Besides, in violating the religious
privileges he would incur the risk of making many enemies. He tried
to argue, not in favour of the guilty ones, but to save his own
standing. How would it look if, having shown mercy to the vanquished
of his own country, he should prove pitiless to people who were
subjects of Rome, and against whom he had no just complaint?
The plea had no effect. There was something in Cleopatra's
character, not so much of cruelty as of a desire for domination,
which would not endure resistance. Arsinoe had attacked her
authority; consequently, as long as Arsinoe lived Cleopatra would not
be happy. Was not she constantly in danger of some new attempt
against her crown on the part of this rebel?
Antony suggested imprisonment. But no, it was Arsinoe's head that
she demanded from him. He finally succeeded in rescuing the priest
Megabyzus, thanks to the intervention of the Ephesians, who
threatened to put the town in a state of siege rather than allow any
indignity to their revered High Priest.
This was the beginning of a succession of trivial discussions.
Cleopatra always succeeded in having her own way, gradually
substituting her own wishes for the authority of Antony. His will
was completely dominated by her, for she held him by the magic force
of love. What did she give him in exchange for her first victory?
Her method of evasion had succeeded too well for her to renounce it
readily. Before giving herself to Antony, her instinct, a curious
compound of ambition and coquetry, told her to lead him by slow
degrees to the point where a whole lifetime of delight would be
needed to quench his burning thirst to possess her. Prudence
whispered also that, while granting him certain privileges, it would
be wise to reserve the fulfilment of his happiness until they had
arrived in Alexandria. Would not this be the surest means of
attracting him to that city where she needed him to stabilize her
power? And as to keeping him there, was not the enchanted court of
the Bruchium, the prestige of her palace, its festivals, the bed of
roses where Cæsar had lingered, the place where she would have the
greatest chance of playing the part of the bewitching sorceress, from
whose spell he would never escape?
V
THE INIMITABLES