“You are as gracious as Amathusia![104] Well, to-day Parthenius will share our meal—but to-morrow—to-morrow, say, beloved one—you will receive me alone?”
“I will try,” repeated Cornelia, looking down.
Parthenius threw a triumphant glance at Domitian, a glance that seemed to expect some acknowledgment of the superior skill, which had so quickly converted the coy maiden into a docile child. And Caesar vouchsafed him a hasty nod. Then he took Cornelia by the hand, and, with an air of repulsive gallantry, led her into the little triclinium, where the slaves had by this time made everything ready. Caesar took his place on the middle couch, with Parthenius on his left hand, and Cornelia on his right. As each couch was intended to accommodate three persons, this arrangement placed them at some distance apart; a respectful distance, which Domitian intended as a sort of atonement for his vehemence on the former occasion. They had no one to serve them but the two slave-girls, helped by Phaeton.
Cornelia had eaten nothing the whole day, and the dishes before her were the choicest productions of that great artist, Euphemus. Nevertheless she could hardly force herself to swallow a mouthful. Her throat seemed to close; her terrors increased every instant, and to give herself some courage, she emptied the gold cup of strong Falernian twice or three times.
Perhaps it was from a kindred feeling, that Caesar carried the goblet to his lips oftener than usual.—Gentle and humble as the beautiful girl seemed, who reclined there on the pillows, now and again he saw, in fancy, the haughty and indignant heroine.—It was not till he had drunk deeply, and the Falernian began to warm his blood, that he found some of the flattering phrases of a wooer. By degrees his eloquence grew freer and readier. He enlarged on the all-conquering might of beauty, before which even the gods themselves must bow; he dilated in rhetorical flights on the charms of a country life—asked for no greater happiness than to marry the vine with the elm,[105] to wield the harrow, the plough, and the pruning hook, and to live on fresh figs with honey and goat’s milk. A few cups more, and his ecstatic mood had sunk to amorous melancholy. He spoke of the solitude of a throne, the aching void of a heart that beats unsatisfied even when nearing the grave; of “black care,” which incessantly hovers round a crowned head.
All this mawkish sentimentality, so ill-becoming the furrowed face stamped with the traces of the lowest vices, put the finishing touch to Cornelia’s utter loathing. She almost repented not having frankly betrayed her aversion, in spite of every danger, and boldly faced death rather than submit to the approaches of this revolting reprobate. But the thought of Quintus kept her resolution up.
A newer and heavier wine now sparkled in the cups. Caesar drank it unmixed with water, and the color took a deeper dye in his bald and polished forehead—the golden circlet had slipped backwards, his eyes were half shut, and he spoke thickly. He raised himself slowly and unsteadily from his couch.
“Your health, sweet Cor ... Cornelia,” he stammered, supporting himself with his left hand against the table, while his right hand held the goblet. “I am happy to think that Aphrodite has touched your heart to kindness.”
He went towards her, and laid his hand on her round, white arm. She shuddered, but she kept still. Her mind was made up to endure to the very last limits of endurance, and then to cast off the mask of submission, and defend herself with all the strength of desperation. She hastily glanced at the side-table, where the slaves had set down the dishes; she hoped to see a carving-knife, but in vain. All the meat had come up ready carved[106] through the trap-door. There was no weapon available but the gold cup with its heavy foot—or, in the last extremity, Bryonia’s terrible little vial.
“Cornelia,” he continued, still grasping her arm, “we anger the gods, if we scorn their gifts—and to-day—now—I feel so bright, so well, so happy—the present smiles on me.—Cornelia, speak....”