“’Tis some minister,” he muttered, “come, as usual, me to bore.”
So to Cæsar turned once more.
Back to Caesar’s life returning, with a soul for ever yearning,
Towards the steps his promise-spurning prototype had trod before.
But the silence was soon broken; through the stillness came a token
Life had moved again, or spoken on the other side the door.
“Surely I’ve no trusty servant,” said he, “to deny my door
Now De Morny is no more.”
Rising, of some trespass certain, slow he draws the purple curtain,
On whose folds the bees uncertain look like wasps, and nothing more: