LITMIR.BIZ

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Muse’s figure is perfectly thought out with reference to possibility—rich, broadly handled, and at the same time of surprising delicacy. Urania has drawn her mantle closely round her, as if to protect herself from the keen night-air while gazing at the stars. When he has finished his Muse, he is to repair some mutilated busts of women; he was fixing the head of a finished Berenice to-day, and I proposed to him to take Balbilla as the model for his Sappho.”

      “A good idea” said the Empress. “If the bust is successful I will take him with me to Rome.”

      “I will sit to him with pleasure,” said the girl. “The bright young fellow took my fancy.”

      “And Balbilla his,” added the praetor’s wife; “he gazed at her as a marvel, and she promised him that, with your permission, she would place her face at his disposal for three hours to-morrow.”

      “He begins with the head,” interposed Verus. “What a happy man is an artist such as he! He may turn about her head, or lay her peplum in folds without reproof or repulse, and to-day when we had to get past bogs of plaster, and lakes of wet paint, she scarcely picked up the hem of her dress, and never once allowed me—who would so willingly have supported her—to lift her over the worst places.”

      Balbilla reddened and said angrily:

      “Really Verus, in good earnest, I will not allow you to speak to me in that way, so now you know it once for all; I have so little liking for what is not clean that I find it quite easy to avoid it without assistance.”

      “You are too severe,” interrupted the Empress with a hideous smile. “Do not you think Domitia Lucilla, that she ought to allow your husband to be of service to her?”

      “If the Empress thinks it right and fitting,” replied the lady raising her shoulders, and with an expressive movement of her hands. Sabina quite took her meaning, and suppressing another yawn she said angrily:

      “In these days we must be indulgent toward a husband who has chosen Ovid’s amatory poems as his faithful companion. What is the matter Titianus?”

      While Balbilla had been relating her meeting with the sculptor Pollux, a chamberlain had brought in to the prefect an important letter, admitting of no delay. The state official had withdrawn to the farther side of the room with it, had broken the strong seal and had just finished reading it, when the Empress asked her question.

      Nothing of what went on around her escaped Sabina’s little eyes, and she had observed that while the governor was considering the document addressed to him he had moved uneasily. It must contain something of importance.

      “An urgent letter,” replied Titianus, “calls me home. I must take my leave, and I hope ere long to be able to communicate to you something agreeable.”

      “What does that letter contain?”

      “Important news from the provinces,” said Titianus.

      “May I inquire what?”

      “I grieve to say that I must answer in the negative. The Emperor expressly desired that this matter should be kept secret. Its settlement demands the promptest haste, and I am therefore unfortunately obliged to quit you immediately.”

      Sabina returned the prefect’s parting salutations with icy coldness and immediately desired to be conducted to her private rooms to dress herself for supper.

      Balbilla escorted her, and Florus betook himself to the “Olympian table,” the famous eating-house kept by Lycortas, of whom he had been told wonders by the epicures at Rome.

      When Verus was alone with his wife he went up in a friendly manner and said:

      “May I drive you home again?”

      Domitia Lucilla had thrown herself on a couch, and covered her face with her hands, and she made no reply. “May I?” repeated the praetor. As his wife persisted in her silence, he went nearer to her, laid his hand on her slender fingers that concealed her face, and said:

      “I believe you are angry with me!” She pushed away his hand, with a slight movement, and said: “Leave me.”

      “Yes, unfortunately I must leave you. Business takes me into the city and I will—”

      “You will let the young Alexandrians, with whom you revelled through the night, introduce you to new fair ones—I know it.”

      “There are in fact women here of incredible charm,” replied Verus quite coolly. “White, brown, copper-colored, black—and all delightful in their way. I could never be tired of admiring them.”

      “And your wife?” asked Lucilla, facing him, sternly. “My wife? yes, my fairest. Wife is a solemn title of honor and has nothing to do with the joys of life. How could I mention your name in the same hour with those of the poor children who help me to beguile an idle hour.”

      Domitia Lucilla was used to such phrases, and yet on this occasion they gave her a pang. But she concealed it, and crossing her arms she said resolutely and with dignity:

      “Go your way—through life with your Ovid, and your gods of love, but do not attempt to crush innocence under the wheels of your chariot.”

      “Balbilla do you mean,” asked the praetor with a loud laugh. “She knows how to take care of herself and has too much spirit to let herself get entangled in erotics. The little son of Venus has nothing to say to two people who are such good friends as she and I are.”

      “May I believe you?”

      “My word for it, I ask nothing of her but a kind word,” cried he, frankly offering his hand to his wife. Lucilla only touched it lightly with her fingers and said:

      “Send me back to Rome. I have an unutterable longing to see my children, particularly the boys.”

      “It cannot be,” said Verus. “Not at present; but in a few weeks, I hope.”

      “Why not sooner?”

      “Do not ask me.”

      “A mother may surely wish to know why she is separated from her baby in the cradle.”

      “That cradle is at present in your mother’s house, and she is taking care of our little ones. Have patience, a little longer for that which I am striving after, for you, and for me, and not last, for our son, is so great, so stupendously great and difficult that it might well outweigh years of longing.”

      Verus spoke the last words in a low tone, but with a dignity which characterized him only in decisive moments, but his wife, even before he had done speaking, clasped his right-hand in both of hers and said in a low frightened voice:

      “You aim at the purple?” He nodded assent.

      “That is what it means then!”

      “What?”

      “Sabina and you—”

      “Not on that account only; she is hard and sharp to others, but to me she has shown nothing but kindness, ever since I was a boy.”

      “She hates me.”

      “Patience, Lucilla; patience! The day is coming when the daughter of Nigrinus, the wife of Caesar, and the former Empress—but I will not finish. I am, as you know, warmly attached to Sabina, and sincerely wish the Emperor a long life.”

      “And he will adopt.”

      “Hush!—he is thinking of it, and his wife wishes It.”

      “Is it likely to happen soon?”

      “Who can tell at this moment what Caesar may decide on in the very next hour. But probably his decision may be made on the thirtieth of December.”

      “Your birthday.”

      “He asked what day it was, and he is certainly casting my horoscope, for the night when my mother bore me—”

      “The stars then are to seal our fate?”

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