Deceived more and more by the feigned tranquillity of Mezentius, the credulous Lausus flattered himself that he should very soon see his duty accord with his inclination, and nothing in the world, in his opinion, was easier than to reconcile them. The treaty of peace which he had meditated, was reduced to two articles: to restore to the King of Praeneste his crown and his territories, and to make his marriage with the princess the bond of union between the two powers. He communicated this project to Lydia. The confidence he placed in it, the advantages he saw accruing from it, the transports of joy which the idea alone inspired him with, surprised the lovely captive into a smile, mingled with tears. “Generous Prince,” said she to him, “may Heaven fulfill the wishes you pour out for my father! I shall not be sorry that I am made a pledge of peace and the token of gratitude.” This touching reply was accompanied with a look still more touching. The tyrant was informed of all. His first transport would have hurried him to sacrifice his rival, but his son was the only support of his crown, the only barrier between the people and him: the same stroke would have rendered him completely odious to his subjects and have taken from him the only defender whom he could oppose to the public hatred. Fear is the ruling passion of tyrants. Mezentius resolved to dissemble. He ordered his son into his presence, talked to him with good humor and bade him prepare to set out the next day for the frontiers of his territory, where he had left his army. The prince endeavored to conceal the grief which wrung his soul, and set out without having time to take leave of Lydia.

The very day of Lausus’ departure, Mezentius had caused honorable conditions of peace to be proposed to the King of Praeneste, the first article of which was his marriage with the daughter of the vanquished monarch. That unfortunate monarch hesitated not to consent, and the same ambassador that offered him peace brought back his agreement for an answer.

Lausus had in the court a friend, who had been attached to him from his infancy. A remarkable resemblance to the young prince had been the means of making the fortune of the young man, who was called Phanor, but they resembled each other still more in their disposition than their figure; the same inclinations, the same virtues. Lausus and Phanor seemed to have but one soul. Lausus at parting had confided to Phanor his passion and his despair. The latter was therefore inconsolable on hearing of the marriage of Lydia with Mezentius: he thought it his duty to acquaint the prince with it. The situation of the lover at this news cannot be described; his heart was troubled, his reason forsook him, and in the distraction of blind sorrow, he wrote to Lydia the warmest and most imprudent letter that love ever dictated. Phanor was charged with the delivery of it. He went to her at the hazard of his life, if he should be discovered. He was so. Mezentius, enraged, ordered him to be laden with irons and dragged to a frightful prison.

However, everything was prepared for a celebration of this unhappy marriage. We may justly conclude that the feast was suitable to the character of Mezentius. Wrestling, the cestus, gladiators, combats between men and animals bred up to carnage, everything that barbarity has invented for its amusements was to have graced the pomp: nothing was wanting to this bloody spectacle but persons to fight against the wild beasts; for it was customary to expose to these fights none but criminals condemned to die, and Mezentius, who on any suspicion was always eager to put the innocent to death, retarded still less the punishment of the guilty. There remained in the prisons none but the faithful friend of Lausus. “Let him be exposed,” said Mezentius; “let him fall a prey to devouring lions: the traitor deserves a more cruel death, but this best suits his crime, and my vengeance, and his punishment is a feast worthy of injured love!”

Lausus having in vain expected the answer of his friend, impatiently gave way to affright. “Should we be discovered,” said he, “should I have lost my friend by my fatal imprudence! Lydia herself! Ah, I tremble! No, I cannot live any longer in this dreadful uncertainty.”

He set out; he disguised himself carefully. He arrived, and heard the reports spread among the people; learned that his friend was in chains, and that the next day was to unite Lydia with Mezentius. He learned that they were preparing the feast which was to precede the festival; they were to see the unhappy Phanor a prey to wild beasts. He shrunk at this recital; a deadly chillness spread through all his veins; he came again to himself, but lost in distraction he fell upon his knees and cried out, “Great gods, restrain my