CHAPTER XII.

THE WOLF AND THE FOX.

The hints of the African slave had not been thrown away upon the sordid mind of Corvinus. Her own hatred of Christianity arose from the circumstance, that a former mistress of hers had become a Christian and had manumitted all her other slaves; but, feeling it wrong to turn so dangerous a character as Afra, or rather Jubala (her proper name), upon the world, had transferred her to another proprietor.

Corvinus had often seen Fulvius at the baths and other places of public resort, had admired and envied him, for his appearance, his dress, his conversation. But with his untoward shyness, or moroseness, he could never have found courage to address him, had he not now discovered, that though a more refined, he was not a less profound, villain than himself. Fulvius’s wit and cleverness might supply the want of these qualities in his own sottish composition, while his own brute force, and unfeeling recklessness, might be valuable auxiliaries to those higher gifts. He had the young stranger in his power, by the discovery which he had made of his real character. He determined, therefore, to make an effort, and enter into alliance with one who otherwise might prove a dangerous rival.

It was about ten days after the meeting last described, that Corvinus went to stroll in Pompey’s gardens. These covered the space round his theatre, in the neighborhood of the present Piazza Farnese. A conflagration in the reign of Carinus had lately destroyed the scene, as it was called, of the edifice, and Dioclesian had repaired it with great magnificence. The gardens were distinguished from others by rows of plane-trees, which formed a delicious shade. Statues of wild beasts, fountains, and artificial brooks, profusely adorned them. While sauntering about, Corvinus caught a sight of Fulvius, and made up to him.

“What do you want with me?” asked the foreigner, with a look of surprise and scorn at the slovenly dress of Corvinus.

“To have a talk with you, which may turn out to your advantage--and mine.”

“What can you propose to me, with the first of these recommendations? No doubt at all as to the second.”

“Fulvius, I am a plain-spoken man, and have no pretensions to your cleverness and elegance; but we are both of one trade, and both consequently of one mind.”

Fulvius started, and deeply colored; then said, with a contemptuous air, “What do you mean, sirrah?”

“If you double your fist,” rejoined Corvinus, “to show me the fine rings on your delicate fingers, it is very well. But if you mean to threaten by it, you may as well put your hand again into the folds of your toga. It is more graceful.”

“Cut this matter short, sir. Again I ask, what do you mean?”

“This, Fulvius,” and he whispered into his ear, “that you are a spy and an informer.”

Fulvius was staggered; then rallying, said, “What right have you to make such an odious charge against me?”

“You _discovered_” (with a strong emphasis) “a conspiracy in the East, and Dioclesian--”

Fulvius stopped him, and asked, “What is your name, and who are you?”

“I am Corvinus, the son of Tertullus, prefect of the city.”

This seemed to account for all; and Fulvius said, in subdued tones, “No more here; I see friends coming. Meet me disguised at daybreak to-morrow in the Patrician Street,[50] under the portico of the Baths of Novatus. We will talk more at leisure.”

Corvinus returned home, not ill-satisfied with his first attempt at diplomacy; he procured a garment shabbier than his own from one of his father’s slaves, and was at the appointed spot by the first dawn of day. He had to wait a long time, and had almost lost patience, when he saw his new friend approach.

Fulvius was well wrapped up in a large overcoat, and wore its hood over his face. He thus saluted Corvinus:

“Good morning, comrade; I fear I have kept you waiting in the cold morning air, especially as you are thinly clad.”

“I own,” replied Corvinus, “that I should have been tired, had I not been immensely amused and yet puzzled, by what I have been observing.”

“What is that?”

“Why, from an early hour, long, I suspect, before my coming, there have been arriving here from every side, and entering into that house, by the back door in the narrow street, the rarest collection of miserable objects that you ever saw; the blind, the lame, the maimed, the decrepit, the deformed of every possible shape; while by the front door several persons have entered, evidently of a different class.”

“Whose dwelling is it, do you know? It looks a large old house, but rather out of condition.”

“It belongs to a very rich, and, it is said, very miserly old patrician. But look! there come some more.”

At that moment a very feeble man, bent down by age, was approaching, supported by a young and cheerful girl, who chatted most kindly to him as she supported him.

“We are just there,” she said to him; “a few more steps, and you shall sit down and rest.”

“Thank you, my child,” replied the poor old man, “how kind of you to come for me so early!”

“I knew,” she said, “you would want help; and as I am the most useless person about, I thought I would go and fetch you.”

“I have always heard that blind people are selfish, and it seems but natural; but you, Cæcilia, are certainly an exception.”

“Not at all; this is only _my_ way of showing selfishness.”

“How do you mean?”

“Why, first, I get the advantage of your eyes, and then I get the satisfaction of supporting you. ‘I was an eye to the blind,’ that is you; and ‘a foot to the lame,’ that is myself.”[51]

They reached the door as she spoke these words.

“That girl is blind,” said Fulvius to Corvinus. “Do you not see how straight she walks, without looking right or left?”

“So she is,” answered the other. “Surely this is not the place so often spoken of, where beggars meet, and the blind see, and the lame walk, and all feast together? But yet I observed these people were so different from the mendicants on the Arician bridge.[52] They appeared respectable and even cheerful; and not one asked me for alms as he passed.”

“It is very strange; and I should like to discover the mystery. A good job might, perhaps, be got out of it. The old patrician, you say, is very rich?”

“Immensely!”

“Humph! How could one manage to get in?”

“I have it! I will take off my shoes, screw up one leg like a cripple, and join the next group of queer ones that come, and go boldly in, doing as they do.”

“That will hardly succeed; depend upon it every one of these people is known at the house.”

“I am sure not, for several of them asked me if this was the house of the Lady Agnes.”

“Of whom?” asked Fulvius, with a start.

“Why do you look so?” said Corvinus. “It is the house of her parents: but she is better known than they, as being a young heiress, nearly as rich as her cousin Fabiola.”

Fulvius paused for a moment; a strong suspicion, too subtle and important to be communicated to his rude companion, flashed through his mind. He said, therefore, to Corvinus:

“If you are sure that these people are not familiar at the house, try your plan. I have met the lady before, and will venture by the front door. Thus we shall have a double chance.”

“Do you know what I am thinking, Fulvius?”

“Something very bright, no doubt.”

“That when you and I join in any enterprise, we shall _always_ have two chances.”

“What are they?”

“The fox’s and the wolf’s, when they conspire to rob a fold.”

Fulvius cast on him a look of disdain, which Corvinus returned by a hideous leer; and they separated for their respective posts.