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I was well aware, before I saw him, that in the royal presence, like the dead soldier in Lucan, whom the mighty necromancing witch tortures back into a momentary life, I must have no voice except for answers: "Vox illi linguaque tantum Responsura datur."
Nor is it reputation or glory; only a Frenchman could mean that. Glory is such an uncertain thing, and, if you look at it closely, of so little value. Besides it never corresponds to the effort you have made: Responsura tuo nunquam est par fama labori. Nor, again, is it exactly the pleasure it gives you; for this is almost outweighed by the greatness of the effort.
And recollecting that fresco of Signorelli's, you feel as if this vast, tall canvas at S. Maria dell' Orto, where topple and welter the dead and the quick, were merely so much rhetorical rhodomontade by the side of the old hymn of the Last Day "Mors stupebit et natura Quum resurget creatura Judicanti responsura."
In all, he had remained in the church for the space of ten minutes. Over those heads full of worldly cares and profane desires the Dies iræ rumbled like a storm: "Mors stupebit et natura, Quum resurget creatura Judicanti responsura." "Tell me, Dutil, how could that little Nanteuil, who is pretty and intelligent, get herself mixed up with a dirty mummer like Chevalier?"
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