*CHAPTER VIII*
*CASTEL SAN ANGELO*
Night had spread her pinions over the ancient capital of the Caesars anddeepest silence had succeeded the thousand cries and noises of the day.Few belated strollers still lingered in the deserted squares. Under theshadows of the Borgo Vecchio slow moving figures could be seen flittingnoiselessly as phantoms through the marble ruins of antiquity, pausingfor a moment under the high unlighted arches, talking in undertones andvanishing in the night, while the remote swell of monkish chants,monotonous and droning, died on the evanescent breezes.
Round Castel San Angelo, rising, a giant Mausoleum, vast and sombre outof the solitudes of the Flaminian Way, night wove a more poetic air ofmystery and quiet, and but for the tread of the ever wakeful sentinelson its ramparts, the colossal tomb of the emperor Hadrian would haveappeared a deserted Memento Mori of Imperial Rome, the possession ofwhich no one cared to dispute with the shades of the Caesars or theghosts of the mangled victims, which haunted the intricate labyrinth ofits subterranean chambers and vaults.
A pale moon was rising behind the hills of Albano, whose ghostly rayscast an unsteady glow over the undulating expanse of the Roman Campagna,and wove a pale silver mounting round the crest of the imperial tomb,whose towering masses seemed to stretch interminably into the night, asif oppressed with their own memories.
What a monstrous melodrama was contained in yonder circular walls! Theywore a comparatively smiling look only in the days when Castel SanAngelo received the dead. Then according to the historian Procopius,the immense three-storied rotunda, surmounted by a pyramidal roof hadits sides covered with Parian marble, intersected with columns andsurmounted with a ring of Grecian statues. The first story was aquadrangular basement, decorated with festoons and tablets of funeralinscriptions, colossal equestrian groups in gilt bronze at the fourcorners.
Within the memory of living generation, this pile had been the theatreof a tragedy, almost unparalleled in the annals of Rome, the scene ofthe wildest Saturnalia, that ever stained the history of mediaevalstate. An incongruous relic of antique profligacy and the monstrositiesof the lower empire, drawing its fatal power from feudal institutions,Theodora, a woman illustrious for her beauty and rank, had at the dawnof the century quartered herself in Castel San Angelo. From there sheexercised over Rome a complete tyranny, sustained against Germaninfluence by an Italian party, which counted amongst its chiefsAdalbert, Count of Tuscany, the father of this second Messalina. Herfateful beauty ruled Church and state. Theodora caused one pontiff afteranother to be deposed and nominated eight popes successively. She had adaughter as beautiful and as powerful as herself and still moredepraved. Marozia, as she was called, reigned supreme in Castel SanAngelo and caused the election of Sergius III, Anastasius III and JohnX, the latter a creature of Theodora, who had him appointed to thebishopric of Ravenna. Intending to deprive Theodora and her lover, thePope, of the dominion of Rome, Marozia invaded the Lateran with a bandof ruffians, put to the sword the brother of the Pope, and incarceratedthe pontiff, who died in prison either by poison or otherwise.Tradition relates that his corpse was placed in Theodora's bed, andsuperstition believes that he was strangled by the devil as a punishmentfor his sins.
Left as widow by the premature death of the Count of Tusculum andmarried to Guido, Prince of Tuscany, Marozia, after the demise of hersecond husband, was united by a third marriage to Hugo of Provence,brother of Guido. Successively she placed on the pontifical throne LeoVI and Stephen VIII, then she gave the tiara to John XI, her youngerson. One of her numerous offspring imprisoned in the same dungeon bothhis mother and his brother, the Pope, and then destroyed them. Rumourhath it, however, that a remote descendant, who had inherited Marozia'sfatal beauty, had been mysteriously abducted at an early age andconcealed in a convent, to save her from the contamination andlicentiousness, which ran riot in the blood of the women of her house.She had been heard of no more and forgotten long ago.
After the changes and vicissitudes of half a century the family of theCrescentii had taken possession of Castel San Angelo, keeping theirstate in the almost impregnable stronghold, without which the possessionof Rome availed but little to any conqueror. It was a period marked bybrutal passions and feudal anarchy. The Romans had degenerated to thelow estate of the barbarian hordes, which had during the great upheavalextinguished the light of the Western empire. The Crescentii tracedtheir origin even to that Theodora of evil fame, who had perished in thedungeons of the formidable keep, and Johannes Crescentius, the presentSenator and Patricius, seemed wrapt in dark ruminations, as from thewindow of a chamber in the third gallery he looked out into the night,gazing upon the eddying Tiber below, bordered by dreary huts, thinlyinterspersed with ilex, and the barren wastes, from which rose massivewatch-towers. Far away to Southward sloped the Alban hills. From thedark waving greens of Monte Pincio the eye, wandering along the ridge ofthe Quirinal, reached to the mammoth arches of Constantine's Basilica,to the cypress bluffs of Aventine. Almost black they looked at thebase, so deep was their shade, contrasted with the spectral moon-light,which flooded their eminences.
The chamber in which the Senator of Rome paced to and fro, was large andexceedingly gloomy, being lighted only by a single taper which threw allobjects it did not touch into deep shadow. This fiery illumination,casting its uncertain glimmer upon the face of Crescentius, revealedthereon an expression of deepest gloom and melancholy and his thoughtsseemed to roam far away.
The workings of time, the traces of furious passions, the lines wroughtby care and sorrow were evident in the countenance of the Senator ofRome and sometimes gave it in the eyes of the physiognomist anexpression of melancholy and devouring gloom. Only now and then thereshot athwart his features, like lightning through a distant cloud-bank,a look of more strenuous daring--of almost terrifying keenness, like theedge of a bare and sharpened sword.
The features of Johannes Crescentius were regular, almost severe intheir classic outlines. It was the Roman type, softened by centuries ofamalgamation with the descendants of the invading tribes of the North.The Lord of Castel San Angelo was in the prime of manhood. The darkhair was slightly touched with gray, his complexion bronzed. The grayeyes with their glow like polished steel had a Brutus-like expression,grave and impenetrable.
The hour marked the close of a momentous interview. Benilo, the GrandChamberlain, had just left the Senator's presence. He had been thebearer of strange news which, if it proved true, would once more turnthe tide of fortune in the Senator's favour. He had urged Crescentiusto make the best of the opportunity--the moment might never returnagain. He had unmasked a plot, the plausibility of which had evenstaggered the Senator's sagacious mind. At first Crescentius hadfiercely resented the Chamberlain's suggestions, but by degrees hisresistance had lessened and after his departure the course outlined byBenilo seemed to hold rut a strange fascination.
After glancing at the sand-clock on the table Crescentius ascended thenarrow winding stairs leading to the upper galleries of the formidablekeep, whose dark, blackened walls were lighted by tapers in measuredintervals, and made his way through a dark passage, until he reached thedoor of an apartment at the opposite end of the corridor. He knockedand receiving no response, entered, closing the door noiselessly behindhim.
On the threshold he paused taking in at a glance the picture before him.
The apartment was of moderate size. The lamp in the oratory was turnedlow. The windows facing the Campagna were open and the soft breeze ofnight stole into the flower-scented room. There was small semblance ofluxury about the chamber, which was flanked on one side by an oratory,on the other, by a sleeping room, whose open door permitted a glimpse ofa great, high bed, hung with draperies of sarcenet.
On a couch, her head resting on her bare, white arms reclined Stephania,the consort of the Senator of Rome. Tenderly the night wind caressedthe soft dark curls, which stole down her brow. Her right handsu
pported a head exquisitely beautiful, while the fingers of the leftplayed mechanically with the folds of her robe. Zoe, her favouritemaiden, sat in silence on the floor, holding in her lap a red and bluebird, which now and then flapped its wings and gave forth a strange cry.All else was silent within and without.
Stephania's thoughts dwelt in bygone days.
Listless and silent she reclined in her pillows, reviewing the past inpictures that mocked her soul. Till a few hours ago she had believedthat she had conquered that madness. But something had inflamed herhatred anew and she felt like a goddess bent upon punishing thepresumption of mortal man.
The memory of her husband holding the emperor's stirrup upon thelatter's entry into Rome had rekindled in her another thought which shemost of all had striven to forget. It alone had, to her mind, sufficedto make reconciliation to existing conditions impossible. Shame andhate seethed anew in her soul. She could have strangled the son ofTheophano with her own hands.
But did Crescentius himself wish to break the shackles which wereforever to destroy the prestige of a noble house, that had for more thana century ruled the city of Rome? Was he content to be the lackey ofthat boy, before whom a mighty empire bowed, a youth truly, imbued withthe beauty of body and soul which fall but rarely to one mortal'slot--but yet a youth, a barbarian, the descendant of the Nomad tribes ofthe great upheaval? Was there no one, worthy of the name of a greatRoman, who would cement the disintegrated states of Italy, plant hisstandards upon the Capitol and proclaim himself lord of new Roman world?And he, her husband, from whom at one time she had expected such greatthings, was he not content with his lot? Was he not at this very momentoffering homage to the despised foreigners, kissing the sandals of aheretical pope, whom a bribed Conclave had placed in the chair of St.Peter through the armed manifestation of an emperor's will?
The walls of Castel San Angelo weighed upon her like lead, since Romewas again defiled by these Northern barbarians, whom her countrymen werepowerless to repulse, whom they dared not provoke and under whoseinsolence they smarted. Stephania heaved a deep sigh. Then everythingfaded from her vision, like a landscape shrouded in mist and sherelapsed in twilight dreams of a past that had gone forever.
For a moment Crescentius lingered on the threshold, as if entranced bythe vision of her loveliness. The stern and anxious look, which hisface had worn during the interview with the Chamberlain, passed off likea summer storm, as he stood before his adored wife. She started, as hisshadow darkened the doorway, but the next moment he was at her side, andtaking both her white hands in his, he drew her towards him and gazedwith love and scrutiny into the velvet depths of her eyes.
For a moment her manner seemed slightly embarrassed and there wassomething in her tone which did not escape the Senator's trained ear.
"I am glad you came," she said after the usual interchange of greetingssuch as lovers indulge in when brought together after a briefseparation. "My lord's time has been greatly occupied in the emperor'sabsence."
Crescentius failed not to note the reproach in the tone of his wife,even through her smile. She seemed more radiantly beautiful than everat this moment.
"And what would my queen have?" he asked. "All I have, or ever shallhave, is hers."
"Queen indeed,--queen of a sepulcher, of the Mausoleum of an emperor,"she replied scornfully. "But I ask not for jewels or palaces--orwomen's toys. I am my lord's helpmate. I am to take counsel in affairsof state."
A musing glance broke from the Senator's eyes.
"Affairs of state," he said, with a smile and a sigh. "Alas,--I hopedwhen I turned my back on Aventine, there would be love awaiting me andoblivion--in Stephania's arms. But I have strange news for you,--has itreached your ear?"
She shook her head. "I know of nothing stranger than the prevailingstate."
He ignored the veiled reproach.
"Margrave Eckhardt of Meissen, the German commander-in-chief, is bentupon taking holy orders. I thought it was an idle rumour, some gossipof the taverns, but within the hour it has been confirmed to me by asource whose authenticity is above doubt."
"And your informant?"
"Benilo, the Chamberlain."
"And whence this sudden world weariness?"
"The mastering grief for the death of his wife."
Stephania fell to musing.
"Benilo," she spoke after a time, "has his own ends in view--not yours.Trust him not!"
Crescentius felt a strange misgiving as he remembered his late discoursewith the Chamberlain, and the latter's suggestion, the primary cause ofhis visit to Stephania's apartments.
"I fear you mistrust him needlessly," he said after a pause. "Benilo'sfriendship for the emperor is but the mantle, under which he concealsthe lever that shall raise the Latin world."
Stephania gazed absently into space.
"As I lay dreaming in the evening light, looking out upon the city,which you should rule, by reason of your name, by reason of yourdescent,--of a truth, I did marvel at your patience."
A laugh of bitter scorn broke from the Senator's lips.
"Can the living derive force and energy from a past, that is forgotten?Rome does not want tragedies! It wants to be danced to, sung to andamused. Anything to make the rabble forget their own abasement. 'Panemet Circenses' has been for ever their cry."
"Yet ours is a glorious race! Of a blood which has flowed untarnishedin the veins of our ancestors for centuries. It has been our proudboast, that not a drop of the mongrel blood of foreign invaders evertainted our own. It is not for the Roman rabble I grieve,--it is forourselves."
"You have wondered at my patience, Stephania, at my endurance of theforeign yoke, at my seeming indifference to the traditions of our house.Would you, after all, counsel rebellion?"
"I would but have you remember, that you are a Roman," Stephania repliedwith her deep-toned voice. "Stephania's husband, and too good to holdan emperor's stirrup."
"Then indeed you sorely misjudge me, if you think that under thisoutward mask of serene submission there slumbers a spirit indifferent tothe cause of Rome. If the prediction of Nilus is true, we have not muchtime to lose. Send the girl away! It is not well that she hear toomuch."
The last words, spoken in a whisper, caused Stephania to dismiss theGreek maid. Then she said:
"And do you too, my lord, believe in these monkish dreams?"
"The world cannot endure forever."
Crescentius paused, glanced round the apartment, as if to convincehimself that there was no other listener. Then he rose, and strode tothe curtain, which screened the entrance to an inner chamber. Not untilhe had convinced himself that they were alone, did he resume his seat bythe side of Stephania. Then he spoke in low and cautious accents:
"I have brooded over the present state, until I am well nigh mad. Ihave brooded ever since the first tidings of Otto's approach reached thecity, how to make a last, desperate dash for freedom and our old rights.I have conceived a plan, as yet known to none but to myself. Too manyhunters spoil the chase. We cannot count on the people. Long fasts andabstinences have made them cowards. Let them listen to the monks! Letthem howl their Misereres! I will not break into their rogue's litanynor deprive them of their chance in purgatory."
He paused for a moment, as if endeavouring to bring order into histhoughts, then he continued, slowly.
"It is but seemly that the Romans in some way requite the affection soroyally showered on them by the German King. Therefore it is in my mindto arrange such festivities in honour of Otto's return from the shrinesof Monte Gargano, as shall cause him to forget the burden ofgovernment."
"And enhance his love for our sunny land," Stephania interposed.
"That malady is incurable," Crescentius replied. "Otto is a fantastic.He dreams of making Rome the capital of the earth,--a madness harmlessin itself, were it not for Bruno in the chair of St. Peter. Singlehanded their efforts might be stemmed. Their combined frenzy will sweepeverything before it. These fe
stivities are to dazzle the eyes of thestalwart Teutons whose commander is a very Cerberus of watchfulness.Under the cover of merry-making I shall introduce into Castel San Angelosuch forces from the Calabrian themes as will supplant the lack of Romandefenders. And as for the Teutons--their souls will be ours through ourwomen; their bodies through our men."
Crescentius paused. Stephania too was silent, less surprised at themessage than its suddenness. She had never wholly despaired of him.Now his speech revealed to her that Crescentius could be as crafty inintrigue as he was bold in warfare. Proud as she was and averse todissimulation the intrigue unmasked by the Senator yet fascinated her,as the only means to reach the long coveted goal. "Rome for the Romans"had for generations been the watchword of her house and so little painshad she taken to disguise her feelings that when upon some formeroccasion Otto had craved an audience of her, an unheard ofcondescension, inspired as much by her social position as by the fame ofher unrivalled beauty, the imperial envoy had departed with anill-disguised rebuff, and Stephania had shut herself up within the wallsof a convent till Otto and his hosts had returned beyond the Alps.
"Within one week, Eckhardt is to be consecrated," Crescentius continuedwith slight hesitation, as if not quite assured of the directness of hisarguments with regard to the request he was about to prefer. "Everypressure is being brought to bear upon him, to keep him true to hispurpose. Even a guard is--at Benilo's instigation--to be placed at theportals of St. Peter's to prevent any mischance whatsoever during theceremony."
He paused, to watch the effect of his speech upon Stephania and toascertain if he dared proceed. But as he gazed into the face of thewoman he loved, he resolved that not a shadow of suspicion should evercloud that white brow, caressed by the dark wealth of her silken hair.
"The German leader removed for ever," Crescentius continued, "immuredalive within the inexorable walls of the cloister--small is indeed thechance for another German victory."
"But will King Otto acquiesce to lose his great leader?"
"Benilo is fast supplanting Eckhardt in Otto's favour. Benilo wisheswhat Otto wishes. Benilo sees what Otto sees. Benilo speaks what Ottothinks. Rome is pacified; Rome is content; Rome is happy; what need ofheavy armament? Eckhardt reviles the Romans,--he reviles Benilo, hereviles the new state,--he insists upon keeping his iron hosts in theNeronian field,--within sight of Castel San Angelo. It was to be Beniloor Eckhardt--you know the result."
"But if you were deceived," Stephania replied with a shudder. "Youreagle spirit often ascends where mine fails to follow. Yet,--be notover-bold."
"I am not deceived! I bide my time. 'Tis not by force men slay therushing bull. Otto would regenerate the Roman world. But he himself isto be the God of his new state, a jealous God who brooks no rival--onlysubjects or slaves. He has nursed this dream until it is part ofhimself, of his own flesh and blood. What may you expect of a youth,who, not content to absorb the living, calls the dead to his aid? Heshall nevermore recross the Alps alive."
Crescentius' tone grew gloomy as he continued.
"I bear the youth no grudge, nor ill-will.--But Rome cannot share. Hehas a power of which he is himself unconscious; it is the inheritancefrom his Hellenic mother. Were he conscious of its use, hardly the gravewould be a safe refuge for us. Once Rome triumphed over Hellas. ShallHellas trample Rome in the dust in the person of this boy, whoseunspoken word will sweep our old traditions from the soil?"
"But this power, this weakness as you call it--what is it?" Stephaniainterposed, raising her head questioningly. "I know you have notscrutinized the armour, which encases that fantastic soul, without aneffort to discover a flaw."
"And I have discovered it," Crescentius replied, his heart beatingstrangely. Stephania herself was leading up to the fatal subject of hisvisit; but in the depths of his soul he trembled for fear of himself,and wished he had not come.
"And what have you discovered?" Stephania persisted curiously.
"The weak spot in the armour," he replied, avoiding her gaze.
"Is there a remedy?"
"We lack but the skilful physician."
Stephania raised herself from her recumbent position. With pale andcolourless face she stared at the speaker.
"Surely--you would not resort to--"
She paused, her lips refusing to utter the words.
Crescentius shook his head.
"If such were my desire, the steel of John of the Catacombs wereswifter. No,--it is not like that," he continued musingly, as iftesting the ground inch by inch, as he advanced. "A woman's hand mustlead the youth to the fateful brink. A woman must enwrap him and entraphim; a woman must cull the hidden secrets from his heart;--a woman mustmake him forget time and eternity, forget the volcano, on whose craterhe stands,--until the great bell of the Capitol shall toll the hour ofdoom for German dominion in Rome."
He paused, trembling, lest she might read and anticipate the thoughts ofhis heart.
But she seemed not to guess them, for with a smile she said:
"They say the boy has never loved."
"Thereon have I built my plans. Some Circe must be found to administerto him the fatal lotus,--to estrange him from his country, from hisleaders, from his hosts."
"But where is one to be trusted so supremely?" she questioned.
Crescentius had anticipated the question.
"There is but one in all Rome--but one."
"And she?" the question came almost in a whisper. "Do you know her?"
Crescentius breathed hard. For a moment he closed his eyes, prayinginwardly for courage. At last he replied with seeming indifference:
"I have known her long. She is loyal to Rome and true to herself."
"Her name?" she insisted.
"Stephania."
A wild laugh resounded in the chamber. Its echoes seemed to mock thosetwo, who faced each other, trembling, colourless.
"That was Benilo's advice."
Like a knife-thrust the words from Stephania's lips pierced the heart ofthe Senator of Rome.
Stephania stared at him in such bewilderment, as if she thought him mad.But when he remained silent, when she read in his downcast eyes the muteconfirmation of his speech, she sprang from her couch, facing him in thewhole splendour of her beauty.
"Surely you are jesting, my lord, or else you rave, you are mad?" shecried. "Or can it be, that my ears tinkle with some mockery of thefiend? Speak! You have not said it! You did not! You dared not."
She removed a stray lock of hair from her snow white brow, while hereyes burnt into those of Crescentius, like two orbs of living fire.
"Your ears did not belie you, Stephania," the Senator said at last. "Isaid you are the one--the only one."
With these words he took her hands in his and attempted to draw her downbeside him, but she tore them from his grasp, while her face alternatelypaled and flushed.
"Nay," she spoke with cutting irony, "the Senator of Rome is a modelhusband. He disdains the dagger and poison phial, instead he bartershis wife. You have an admirable code of morality, my lord! 'Tis a pityI do not share your views, else the fiend might teach me how to profitby your suggestion."
Crescentius did not interrupt the flow of her indignation, but his facebetrayed a keenness of anguish which did not escape Stephania'spenetrating gaze. She approached him and laying her hands on hisshoulders bade him look her in the eye.
"How could you say this to me?" she spoke in softer, yet reproachfultones. "How could you? Has it come to the pass where Rome can but besaved by the arts of a wanton? If so, then let Rome perish,--and weourselves be buried under her ruins."
Her eyes reflected her noble, undaunted spirit and never had Stephaniaappeared more beautiful to the Senator, her husband.
"Your words are the seal of loyalty upon your soul, Stephania,"Crescentius replied. "Think you, I would cast away my jewel, cast itbefore these barbarians? But you do not understand. I will be moreplain. It was not that part you were to ass
ume."
Stephania resumed her seat by his side. Her bosom heaved and her eyespeered dimly through a mist of tears.
"Of all the hosts who crossed the Alps with him," Crescentius spoke witha voice, unsteady at first, but gradually gaining the strength of hisown convictions, "none shares the emperor's dreams, none his hopes ofreconstruction. An embassy from the Palatinate is even now on the way,to demand his return.--Not he! But there is one, the twin of his mindand soul--Gregory the Pontiff, who will soon have his hands full with arefractory Conclave, and will not be able to succour his friend in therealization of his fantastic dreams. He must be encouraged,--hiswatchfulness beguiled until we are strong enough to strike the finalblow. Only an intellect equal to his own dares assail the task. Hemust be led by a firm hand, by a hand which he trusts--but by a handnever forgetful of its purpose, a hand closed to bribery of chattel orsoul. He must be ruled by a mind that grasps all the strangeexcrescences of his own diseased brain. Let him build up his fantasticdream-empire, while Rome rallies her forces for a final reckoning, thenlet the mirage dissolve. This is the part I had assigned to you. I canentrust it to none else. Our hopes hang upon the fulfilment. Thus, hishosts dissatisfied, the electors muttering beyond the Alps, the Romansawakening to their own disgrace, the king at odds with his leaders andhimself, the pontiff menaced by the hostile Cardinals, there is one hopeleft to us, to crush the invaders--our last. If it miscarries,--therewill not be gibbets enough in the Campagna for the heads that willswing."
Stephania had gradually regained her composure. Raising her eyes tothose of Crescentius, she said with hesitation:
"There is truth in your words, but I like not the task. I hate Ottowith all my Roman heart; with all my soul do I hate that boy whose loftyaims shame our depravity. 'Tis an ill time for masks and mummeries.Why not entrust the task to the one so eminently fitted for it,--Benilo,the glittering snake?"
"There will be work enough for all of us," Crescentius repliedevasively. Somehow he hated to admit even to his wife, that hemistrusted the Chamberlain's serpent wisdom. He had gone too far. Hedared not recede without betraying his own misgivings.
Stephania heaved a deep sigh.
"What would you have me do?"
"You have so far studiously avoided the king. You have not evenpermitted him to feast his eyes on the most beautiful woman in all Rome.Be gracious to him, enter into his vagaries, point out to him oldtemples and forgotten tombs, newly dug-up friezes and musty crypts!Tell him of our legends and lead him back into the past, from whoselabyrinth no Ariadne will guide him back to the present hour,--It is forRome I ask."
"Truly, were I a man, I would not trap my foe by woman's wiles, as longas I could grip mace or lance. Is there no man among all these Romansof yours treacherous enough for the task?"
"It is even their treachery I dread," replied Crescentius. "Ambition orthe lust of gain may at the last moment carry victory from the field.My maxim, you know: Trust none--Fear none! These festivities are todazzle the aim of suspicion, to attach the people once more to our causeand to give you the desired opportunity to spread your nets. Then leadhim step for step away from life, until he shall himself become but aspectre of the past."
"It is a game unworthy of you and me," Stephania replied after a longpause. "To beguile a trusting foe--but the end? What is it to be?"
"Once in the councils of the king, you will lull his suspicions toslumber! You will counteract the pressure of his flaxen-haired leaders!You will make him a puppet in your hands, that has no will save yours.Then sound the watchword: Rome and Crescentius!"
"I too love glory," Stephania spoke almost inaudibly. "Glory achieved byvalour, not intrigue. Give me time, my lord. As yet I hardly know if Iam fitted for the high mission you have laid out for me. Give me buttime."
"There shall be no further mention of this matter between us,"Crescentius replied. "You will be worthy of your self and of Rome,whose fates I have laid into your hands. The task is grave, but greatwill be the reward. Where will the present state lead to? Is there tobe no limit to humiliation? Is every rebellion unlawful? Has Fatestamped on our brow, Suffer and be silent?"
"For whom then is this comedy to be enacted?"
Crescentius shrugged his shoulders.
"Say for ourselves if you will. Deem you, Stephania, I would put myhead in the sling for that howling mob down yonder in their hovels? Forthe rabble which would stone him, who gives them bread? Or for thebarons of Rome, who have encroached upon our sovereignty? If Fate willbut grant me victory, their robber dens shall crumble into dust, as ifan earthquake had levelled them. For this I have planned this Comedy ofLove--for this alone."
Stephania slowly rose from her seat beside the Senator. Every vestige ofcolour had faded from her face.
"Surely I have not heard aright," she said. "Did you say 'Comedy ofLove'?"
Crescentius laughed, a low but nervous laugh.
"Why stare you so, Stephania, as if I bade you in all truth to betrayme? Is it so hard to feign a little affection for this wingless cherubwhom you are to mould to your fancies? The choice is his,--until--"
"Until it is his no longer," Stephania muttered under her breath, whichquickly came and went.
There was a pause of some duration, during which the Senator of Romerestlessly paced the apartment. Stephania had resumed her formerstation and seemed lost in deep rumination. From without no sounds wereaudible. The city slept. The evening star burnt low down in thehorizon. The moon sickle slept on the crests of the mountains of Albano.
At last Stephania rose and laid her white arm on the shoulder of theSenator of Rome.
"I will do your bidding," she said slowly, looking straight into hiseyes, "for the glory of Rome and your own!"
"For our glory," Crescentius replied with a deep sigh of relief. "Iknew you would not fail me in this hour of need."
Stephania raised her hand, as if deprecating the reward.
"For your glory alone, my lord,--it will suffice for both of us," shereplied hurriedly, as her arms sank down by her side.
"Be it so, since you so wish it," Crescentius replied. "I thank you,Stephania! And now farewell. It waxes late and grave matters of staterequire my instant attention. Await not my return to-night."
And kissing her brow, Crescentius hurriedly left his wife's apartmentand ascended a spiral stairway, leading to the chamber of hisastrologer. Suddenly he staggered, as if he had seen his own ghost andturned sick at heart.
"What have I done!" he gasped, grasping his forehead with both hands."What have I done!"
Was it a presentiment that suddenly rushed over Him, prompting him toretrace his steps, prompting him to take back his request? For a momenthe wavered. His pride and his love struggled for supremacy,--but prideconquered. He would not have Stephania think that he feared a rival onearth. He would not have her believe that he questioned her love.
After Crescentius had departed from the chamber, Stephania gazed longand wistfully into the starlit night without, so calm and so serene.
Then a laugh, wild and shrill, broke from her lips, and sinking backamong her cushions, a shower of tears came to her relief.