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The first car bore, written in very clear characters, the word "Erimus," the second "Sumus," and the third "Fuimus" that is, "We shall be," "We are," and "We have been." The song began, "The years fly on...."
Brotteaux's mind was fixed on recalling the lines of the poet of nature: Sic ubi non erimus.... Bound as he was and shaken in the vile, jolting cart, he preserved his calm and even showed a certain solicitude to maintain an easy posture.
Shall we be no more with you, for ever? Non erimus tecum ultra in aeternum?... And from that instant, the thing you well know, and still another thing, will be forbidden you for ever for eternity...." Eternity! Dread word. Augustin shook with fear. Then, calming himself, he said to them: "I know you; I know you too well!
"To-morrow! Wait a little yet! Shall we be no more with you, for ever? Non erimus tecum ultra in aeternum?..." What a dismal sound in these syllables, and how terrifying for a timid soul! They fell, heavy as bronze, on the soul of Augustin. An end had to be put to it somehow. What was needed was some one who would force him out of his indecision.
At such times Brotteaux would retire discreetly to the staircase and, sitting on a step, would draw from the pocket of his plum-coloured surtout his little Lucretius and read, by the light of a lantern, some of the author's sternly consolatory maxims: "Sic ubi non erimus.... When we shall have ceased to be, nothing will have power to move us, not even the heavens and earth and sea confounding their shattered fragments...." But, in the act of enjoying his exalted wisdom, Brotteaux would find himself envying the Barnabite this craze that veiled the universe from his eyes.
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