the ballad of a street-singer, who celebrates the last murder that
excited the mob of this town.--Am I the first artist who has attempted to
represent your face?"

"No," said Balbilla, with a laugh. "Five Roman artists have already
experimented on my head."

"And did any one of their busts satisfy you?"

"Not one seemed to me better than utterly bad."

"And your pretty face is to be handed down to posterity in five-fold
deformity?"

"Ah! no--I had them all destroyed."

"That was very good of them!" cried Pollux, eagerly. Then turning with a
very simple gesture to the bust before him he said: "Hapless clay, if
the lovely lady whom thou art destined to resemble will not sacrifice
the chaos of her curls, thy fate will undoubtedly be that of thy
predecessors."

The sleeping matron was roused by this speech. "You were speaking," she
said, "of the broken busts of Balbilla?"

"Yes," replied the poetess.

"And perhaps this one may follow them," sighed Claudia. "Do you know
what lies before you in that case?"