Caelius know that Clodia's roses are loveliest at dusk, when
the first stars alone keep watch?"

III

About seven o'clock on a clear evening of early November Catullus
arrived in Rome. With the passage of the weeks his jealous grief had
learned to dwell with other emotions, and a longing to be with Lesbia,
once more admitted, had reassumed its habitual sway. Coming first
in guise of the need of comfort, it had impelled him to leave Verona,
and on the journey it had grown into a lover's exclusive frenzy.
To-morrow he might examine the structure of his familiar life which
had been beaten upon by the storm of sorrow. To-night his ears rang
and his eyes were misty with the desire to see Lesbia. He had written
her that he would call the following morning, but he could not wait.
Stopping only to dress after his journey, fitting himself, he shyly
thought, to take her loveliness into his arms, he started for the
Palatine. The full moon illumined the city, but he had no eyes for
the marvel wrought upon temples and porticoes. Clodia's house stood
at the farther end of the hill, her gardens stretching towards the
Tiber and offering to her intimates a pleasanter approach than the
usual thoroughfare. To-night he found the entrance gate still open
and made his way through the long avenue of cypress trees, hearing
his own heart beat in the shadowed silence. The avenue ended in a
wide, open space, dominated by a huge fountain. The kindly moonlight
lent an unwonted grace to the coarse workmanship of the marble Nymphs
which sprawled in the waters of the central basin, their shoulders
and breasts drenched in silvered spray. Upon the night air hung the
faint scent of late roses. It had been among summer roses under a
summer moon that Catullus had once drunk deepest of Lesbia's honeyed
cup. This autumn night seemed freighted with the same warmth and
sweetness. He was hurrying forward when he caught sight of two
figures turning the corner of a tall box hedge. His heart leaped and
then stood still. A woman and a man walked to the fountain and sat
down upon the carved balustrade. The woman unfastened her white cloak.
The man laughed low and bent and kissed her white throat where it
rose above soft silken folds. Clodia loosened the folds. Caelius
laughed again.

Catullus never remembered clearly what happened to him that night
after he had plunged down the cypress avenue, his feet making no sound
on the green turf. In the mad hours he fo