The Ink-Stain | Page 8

had been thinking about it
for the last week, as I wanted him to help my Junian Latins out of a
mess. I am acquiring a passion for that interesting class of freedmen.
And really it is only natural. These Junian Latins were poor slaves,
whose liberation was not recognized by the strict and ancient laws of
Rome, because their masters chose to liberate them otherwise than by
'vindicta, census, or testamentum'. On this account they lost their
privileges, poor victims of the legislative intolerance of the haughty
city. You see, it begins to be touching, already. Then came on the scene
Junius Norbanus, consul by rank, and a true democrat, who brought in
a law, carried it, and gave them their freedom. In exchange, they gave
him immortality. Henceforward, did a slave obtain a few kind words
from his master over his wine? he was a Junian Latin. Was he
described as 'filius meus' in a public document? Junian Latin. Did he

wear the cap of liberty, the pileus, at his master's funeral? Junian Latin.
Did he disembowel his master's corpse? Junian Latin, once more, for
his trouble.
What a fine fellow this Norbanus must have been! What an eye for
everything, down to the details of a funeral procession, in which he
could find an excuse for emancipation! And that, too, in the midst of
the wars of Marius and Sylla in which he took part. I can picture him
seated before his tent, the evening after the battle. Pensive, he reclines
upon his shield as he watches the slave who is grinding notches out of
his sword. His eyes fill with tears, and he murmurs, "When peace is
made, my faithful Stychus, I shall have a pleasant surprise for you. You
shall hear talk of the Lex Junia Norband, I promise you!"
Is not this a worthy subject for picture or statue in a competition for the
Prix de Rome?
A man so careful of details must have assigned a special dress to these
special freedmen of his creation; for at Rome even freedom had its
livery. What was this dress? Was there one at all? No authority that I
know of throws any light on the subject. Still one hope remains: M.
Flamaran. He knows so many things, he might even know this.
M. Flamaran comes from the south-Marseilles, I think. He is not a
specialist in Roman law; but he is encyclopedic, which comes to the
same thing. He became known while still young, and deservedly; few
lawyers are so clear, so safe, so lucid. He is an excellent lecturer, and
his opinions are in demand. Yet he owes much of his fame to the works
which he has not written. Our fathers, in their day, used to whisper to
one another in the passages of the Law School, "Have you heard the
news? Flamaran is going to bring out the second volume of his great
work. He means to publish his lectures. He has in the press a treatise
which will revolutionize the law of mortgages; he has been working
twenty years at it; a masterpiece, I assure you." Day follows day; no
book appears, no treatise is published, and all the while M. Flamaran
grows in reputation. Strange phenomenon! like the aloe in the
Botanical Gardens. The blossoming of the aloe is an event. "Only
think!" says the gaping public, "a flower which has taken twenty

springs, twenty summers, twenty autumns, and twenty winters to make
up its mind to open!" And meanwhile the roses bloom unnoticed by the
town. But M. Flamaran's case is still more strange. Every year it is
whispered that he is about to bloom afresh; he never does bloom; and
his reputation flourishes none the less. People make lists of the books
he might have written. Lucky author!
M. Flamaran is a professor of the old school, stern, and at examination
a terror to the candidates. Clad in cap and gown, he would reject his
own son. Nothing will serve. Recommendations defeat their object. An
unquestioned Roumanian ancestry, an extraction indisputably Japanese,
find no more favor in his eyes than an assumed stammer, a sham
deafness, or a convalescent pallor put on for the occasion. East and
west are alike in his sight. The retired registrar, the pensioned usher
aspiring late in life to some petty magistrature, are powerless to touch
his heart. For him in vain does the youthful volunteer allow his uniform
to peep out beneath his student's gown: he will not profit by the
patriotic indulgence he counted on inspiring. His sayings in the
examination-room are famous, and among them are some ghastly
pleasantries. Here is one, addressed to a victim: "And you, sir, are a law
student, while our farmers are in want of hands!"
For