"Don't you know, Julian, that Constantia is dead? She died unexpectedly after an attack of tertian ague, on the very journey to the Emperor which she had undertaken to absolve me from blame in his eyes. I wept for two whole nights when I heard that news."
He cast a timid glance at the door, put his hand on Julian's shoulder, and whispered confidentially—
"Since then, I have let things go to the devil! She alone might have saved me. Ah! she was an astonishing woman. Without her I am ruined. I can do, and I can learn, nothing.... 'They' do with me just as they please."
He tossed off a cup of wine at a gulp.
Julian remembered Constantia, the sister of Constantius, a widow of ripe age, the evil genius of her brother, her who had incited him to commit numberless crimes, crimes which were frequently mere fatuous stupidities. Amazed, he asked, anxious to know by what quality this woman had tamed his brother—
"She was beautiful?"
"It is clear you never saw her."
"No. Was she ugly?"
"Yes, very ugly. She was short, brown, thin, and had bad teeth, which I can't bear in women. Nevertheless, being aware of this defect, she never laughed. People used to say she deceived me, that in disguise she used to go to the circus, as Messalina did, on visits to a young and handsome groom. Well, what of it? Did not I on my side deceive her? She never bothered me, and I used to take care in return never to worry her about these trifles. Folk used to say she was cruel! By God, Julian, she knew how to govern! Of course she didn't like the authors of epigrams on her bad manners, comparing her to some kitchen-slave dressed as Cæsar's wife! She loved revenge, admiration! And what a mind, what a mind, Julian! Why, I was as much at ease sheltered behind her, as behind a granite wall. Ah, the mad things we used to do together! We certainly never lacked amusement."
He smiled at some agreeable recollection and passed the tip of his tongue along his rosy upper lip between the sips of Chian wine.