But at this moment Constantius was staring at himself in the great polished silver mirror, and rubbing his hand over the silky new shaven region on his right cheek. He interrupted—
"I don't think that's very smooth!—eh! I think you might go over it again. What were you saying to me about consubstantiality?"
The barber, who had received a talent of gold from the Court bishops Ursatius and Valentine to prepare the Emperor for the new profession of faith, was murmuring insinuatingly in the ear of Constantius and wielding his razor with the most persuasive delicacy, when at this moment the chief of the silentiarii, Paul, surnamed Catena, approached the Emperor.
He was so called because his infamous system of reports enwound any chosen victim in chains well-nigh indissoluble. His effeminate face was beardless and handsome, and judged by externals he seemed the angel of humility. His dark eyes were full of languor; his walk, a noiselessly graceful feline motion. He wore crosswise over the shoulder a wide dark blue ribbon—sign of special Imperial favour.
Paul Catena with a subtle and authoritative gesture waved the barber away, and whispered in the ear of Constantius—
"A letter from Julian! Intercepted to-night. Deign to read it."
Constantius greedily snatched the letter from the hands of Paul, opened it, and read. Disappointed, he muttered—
"Mere trash—trifles; he sends a present of a hundred grapes to a sophist and writes the praises of the fruit and of the number 'a hundred.'"
"Ah! a ruse!" said Catena.
"Really?" asked Constantius; "what proofs are there?"