Quintus Claudius, Volume 1. Eckstein Ernst
said Lycoris, as she drew Quintus away, “you must tell me all you can about your provincial friend. The man is unbearable with his strictness and sobriety, and yet there is something in him – how can I explain it? – something that is wanting in every one of you others without exception; a balance of mind, a steadfast certainty – one may as well give in as soon as he opens his mouth.”
And as she spoke she laid her hand familiarly in the young man’s arm.
“Very true,” he said coldly. “Aurelius is not much like those oiled and perfumed gallants, who think themselves happy to kiss the dust on your sandals. But that boy is waiting to speak to you.”
Lycoris looked round; a young slave, who had slowly followed her, glanced at her significantly.
“Madam,” he said, “everything is ready.”
“Ah?” said the lady. “The actors are ready? Very good; then let the music begin.”
The slave bowed and vanished. Lycoris imperceptibly guided her companion into a thickly overgrown sidewalk.
“We have time to spare,” she said, “and the music sounds much better from here than up there from the terrace. What were we talking about?.. oh! the Batavian… Why did you not bring your strange specimen to my house sooner?”
“Because he has not long been in Rome.”
“In Rome…” repeated Lycoris vaguely. Her eyes were searching the shrubbery. Then, recollecting herself, she went on talking vivaciously. Thus the couple lost themselves farther and farther in the recesses of the garden; their conversation ceased, and they listened involuntarily to the Dionysiac hymn which reached them in softened tones from the distance. Out here even, in this remote alley, everything was festally illuminated; every leaf, every pebble in the path, shone in many-colored hues. And yet, how deserted, how lonely it was, in spite of the lights! there was something uncanny and ghostly in their doubtful flicker and sparkle. Suddenly Lycoris stood still.
“By the Styx!” she exclaimed. “I have lost my most valuable ring. Not two seconds since I saw it on my finger! Wait, you must have trodden on it; it cannot be twenty paces off and must be lying on the ground.” Before Quintus fairly understood what had happened, she had vanished down a side path. The young man waited. “Lycoris!” he called out presently.
No answer.
He went back to the turning – of Lycoris, not a sign.
“This is strange!” thought he. “What can it mean?”
Suddenly he stood stock-still, for in the middle of the path stood a girlish form, small, but well made and of the sweetest grace. She pressed her finger mysteriously to her rosebud lips, and then made unmistakable signs to the youth that he was to follow her.
“What do you want?” asked Quintus, going up to her.
“Above all things silence,” said the girl. “My errand is to you alone.”
“Speak on then.”
“Nay, not here, noble Quintus; consider a moment – with impenetrable hedges on each side of us! If any one came upon us, how could we escape?”
“And who are you?” asked Quintus with a meaning smile.
“Only a slave – named Polycharma. Will you come with me?”
“Certainly, Polycharma, I follow you.”
About a hundred yards farther on a small circular clearing opened to their right; the entrance to it was decorated with gold-colored festoons. Just before reaching this spot the path became so narrow, that a stout man could hardly pass along it; the wall of yew on each side had overgrown three-quarters of its width. Polycharma drew the folds of her dress more closely round her slim limbs, while the young man pushed aside the branches to the right and left. He looked round once more to see if he could discover Lycoris, but behind him all was silent and deserted. Even the sound of the music was only heard faintly and as if in a dream. Having reached the round plot, the slave girl took a letter out of her bosom. “My lord,” she said, “I must exact a solemn oath from you…”
“What about?”
“That you will keep my errand an absolute secret, and return me this letter when you have read it.”
“Good, I swear it by Jupiter!”
Polycharma handed him the note; the mere sight of it filled him with a suspicion of its origin. He hastily broke the seal and the silk thread, and by the light of the colored lamps which lighted the place, he read as follows:
“She who is wont only to command, humbles herself to the dust – so terrible is the power of love to change us. The cruel wretch who scorns me – he is the god of my aspirations! Have pity, O Quintus! have pity on the miserable woman, who is dying of love for you. Caesar, my husband, holds out his hand to me in reconciliation. It costs me but one word, and I shall be again, as I have been, the mistress of Rome and sovereign of the world. But behold, beloved Quintus, all this might and all this splendor I will cast from me and go into the remotest banishment without a tear, if you will give me, for one second only, the happy certainty of your love. Crush me, kill me, but ere you kill me say you are mine! Quintus, I await my sentence. At a sign, a glance, from you I reject all reconciliation.”
The young man was stunned; he stared speechless at the letter, which declared in such plain terms a consuming passion. And yet, in spite of the answering emotion which any love – even though it be rejected – must rouse in the recipient, he could not shake off the feeling which he had already experienced at Baiae. A dull, unutterable loathing remained paramount in his soul, and the foppish figure of Paris, the actor, rose clearly before his fancy. Had not the ear of that slave drunk in the same flattering words, as were now intended to intoxicate and ravish him? Miserable, contemptible woman – ah! how differently and how truly beat the proud heart of his Cornelia!
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