Yet Cleopatra’s name blended with most of the words uttered by the broken-spirited man.  Sometimes it was associated with the most furious reproaches, but more frequently with expressions of boundless delight and wild outbursts of fervent longing, and this was what inspired Lucilius with the hope that the Queen’s influence would be effectual with his friend.  Therefore he repeated some especially ardent words, to which Cleopatra listened with grateful joy.

Yet, when Lucilius paused, she remarked that doubtless the misanthropist had spoken of her, and probably of Octavia also, in quite a different way.  She was prepared for the worst, for she was one of the rocks against which his greatness had been shattered.

This reminded Lucilius of the comment Antony had made upon the three women whom he had wedded, and he answered reluctantly:  “Fulvia, the wife of his youth—­I knew the bold, hot-blooded woman, the former wife of Clodius—­he called the tempest which swelled his sails.”

“Yes, Yes!” cried Cleopatra.  ’So she did.  He owes her much; but I, too, am indebted to the dead Fulvia.  She taught him to recognize and yield to woman’s power.”

“Not always to his advantage,” retorted Lucilius, whose resentment was revived by the last sentence and, without heeding the faint flush on the Queen’s cheek, he added:  “Of Octavia he said that she was the straight path which leads to happiness, and those who are content to walk in it are acceptable to gods and men.”

“Then why did he not suffer it to content him?” cried Cleopatra wrathfully.

“Fulvia’s school,” replied the Roman, “was probably the last where he would learn the moderation which—­as you know—­is so alien to his nature.  His opinion of the quiet valleys and middle course you have just heard.”

“But I, what have I been to him?” urged the Queen.

Lucilius bent his gaze for a short time on the floor, then answered hesitatingly: 

“You asked to hear, and the Queen’s command must be obeyed.  He compared your Majesty to a delicious banquet given to celebrate a victory, at which the guests, crowned with garlands, revel before the battle—­”

“Which is lost,” said the Queen hurriedly, in a muffled voice.  “The comparison is apt.  Now, after the defeat, it would be absurd to prepare another feast.  The tragedy is closing, so the play (doubtless he said so) which preceded it would be but a wearisome repetition if performed a second time.  One thing, it is true, seems desirable—­a closing act of reconciliation.  If you think it is in my power to recall my husband to active life, rely upon me.  The banquet of which he spoke occupied long years.  The dessert will consume little time, but I am ready to serve it.  When I asked permission to visit him he refused.  What plan of meeting have you arranged?”