The Quest of Glory by Marjorie Bowen (epub e reader txt) 📖
- Author: Marjorie Bowen
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alarmed, he did not show it. His face expressed wonder and even
amusement.
“It was only a jest last night,” he said lightly, “a common amusement.”
“It cost a man his life,” answered Luc wearily. “But I pray your
Highness not to speak of it.”
“Well,” returned the Duke, with utter callousness, “he was a knave, and
deserved it. He was cheating, and I had him brought from Venice on
purpose.”
Luc did not answer; he felt tired, disappointed, and downcast. His one
desire was to get away from this house and from Avignon.
“I can make yesterday’s meeting fortunate for both of us,” continued the
Duke. “I liked you from the first. I require another secretary—”
“I must refuse,” interrupted Luc. “I will take nothing, Monseigneur.”
M. de Richelieu looked at him narrowly.
“Where have you lived all your life?” he asked abruptly. “In Aix and in
camp,” replied Luc. His dreamy eyes brightened. “I have been ten years
with the army.”
“Why did you leave?”
“Because my health broke,” said Luc briefly. “There were not many of us,
Monsieur, who survived the retreat from Prague.”
“And now you wish to become a politician,” said M. de Richelieu. “I
suppose you are an idealist?”
Luc smiled to think of the utter hopelessness of endeavouring to express
his aspirations to this man.
“I have ideas,” he answered simply. “I think I could succeed in
statecraft.”
“Tell me some of your ideas—tell me something of what you would do were
you in power.”
The Duke was standing now in front of the many-coloured tapestry; his
slight figure, his elegant features, and rich dressing-gown gave him an
almost feminine appearance. A faint mockery curved his nostrils and
touched his speech.
“I would not have men like M. de Richelieu Governor over any province
of, France,” answered Luc calmly.
Again that look of great haughtiness hardened the face of the Duke.
“You know nothing about M. de Richelieu,” he said.
He seated himself on the slender-legged chair under the tapestry and
began turning over a tray of engraved gems that stood on a little
tulip-wood table; yet absently, and with his brown eyes on Luc.
The two men whose lives, characters, and experiences were so absolutely
different that an impassable gulf existed between them looked at each
other as they might have gazed across the borders of some strange
country that they would never penetrate. M. de Richelieu’s career had
blazed high above the heads of men for all to see, but it was unknown to
Luc, who was ignorant of all the scandals and gossip of his time; and
Luc, to the Governor, was a man who came from absolute obscurity, who
was interestingly novel, but mainly to be noticed because he held an
uncomfortable knowledge of an unfortunate incident the Duke wished
forgotten. As he gazed at Luc, he was considering what to do. Though he
had been involved in many affairs as doubtful and as dangerous as that
of last night, though careless recklessness was the keynote of his
character and he was confident in his great position and powerful name,
yet a creditable witness to a murder connected with an unlawful ceremony
to which his confessor was privy was not to be too lightly suffered to
depart. The Duke had enemies; if they knew of this, they could make a
story of it that the King would not dare disregard. From a spark like
this might rise a flame that would burn the very foundations of his
greatness.
Malice was not in his nature, and he felt no unkindness towards the cold
young officer who so manifestly disliked him, but rather a curiosity to
know more of him and a half-amused liking.
“Monsieur,” he said at length, “this must be adjusted some way between
us. You seem to refuse my advances. Perhaps you think I am setting some
snare for you, but it is not so.”
This had never entered Luc’s thoughts. His outlook was so simple that
the other could never have guessed it; he merely wished to get away, to
forget it all, and try another road to success.
“Monseigneur,” he answered wearily, because his head was aching, and the
rosy light of the room and the scent of the flowers, that had at first
so pleased, now oppressed his senses, “we have nothing to fear or gain
from each other. Permit me to take my leave.”
With his stiff military bow he moved towards the door. M. de Richelieu
stepped forward and, with an almost affectionate gesture, caught his
arm.
“Be reasonable,” he said. “I lost my temper last night; but after all
the fellow was of no account—‘tis over now.”
“So I wish it to be, your Highness,” replied Luc.
“But there is no need,” continued the Duke, “that it should prevent me
from doing you the service you came to request.”
Luc was silent; he was not insensible to M. de Richelieu’s beautiful
grace, to the complete attraction of his person and features that his
life, whatever it had been, had not in the least coarsened or spoilt.
Such was the power of this charm, delicate, manly, strong, that Luc,
though he despised the Duke without affectation, yet felt his scorn
overwhelmed in this physical nearness.
“Secretary to the Governor of Languedoc is not a post easily obtained,”
insisted M. de Richelieu. “And I think we should work well together,
Monsieur.”
“It is not in your power to give me what I seek, Monsieur,” replied Luc
sadly. “Indeed it is impossible.” The Duke drew back a step.
“I implore you allow me to depart,” continued the Marquis. “We shall
never understand each other.”
M. de Richelieu twisted his fingers in the curls on his bosom.
“What object have you in keeping silence about last night?” he asked
shortly.
“What object,” returned Luc proudly, “have I in speaking?”
“Oh, you seem to have a great sympathy with heretics and charlatans and
the baser sort. And what of your servant?”
“He did not see your Highness in the full light. Besides, he was a
soldier, and is devoted to the house of de Clapiers; you may,
Monseigneur, be assured he will not speak.”
“That means that I have taken two obligations from you—my sword last
night and your promise now,” said the Duke very proudly. “It is
impossible, Monsieur le Marquis, that you should refuse to take anything
from me.”
“I want nothing of your Highness,” replied Luc; for he thought of the
Duke’s offers as so many bribes, nothing more.
M. de Richelieu was galled and angry; it was the first time in his life
that he had felt himself obliged to anyone. He was an adept in bestowing
favours, but had never before received one save from the King. His
breeding, however, took the defeat gracefully.
“I hope,” he said coldly, “that some day I may be able to balance this.”
“There is nothing to balance,” returned Luc earnestly, for the whole
interview was irritating him. “Let your Highness forget it all and
forget me.”
“Will you go to Paris?” asked the Duke abruptly.
“Perhaps,” said Luc. His plans were all dashed to the ground, and he had
not yet formed others.
“Come to me, then, if you ever need help,” said M. de Richelieu, with
sudden and characteristic recklessness. “A Puritan like you is like to
get into trouble some way.”
“I am no Puritan,” returned Luc, flushing slightly, “but an atheist.”
M. de Richelieu crossed himself and, at the same time, laughed.
“Some day I must introduce you to Monsieur de Voltaire. As for me, I see
I can do nothing with you. I wish you success, Monsieur, but I am not
very hopeful.”
He did not hold out his hand, but bowed very grandly and rang a little
bell that stood near the tray of gems.
Luc returned the bow in silence, glad to take his departure; the black
page appeared, and conducted him from the mansion. Luc passed through
the beautiful apartments without any sense of pleasure now; he felt
exhausted, and even faint. He longed to be out in the night and under
the stars.
When he was on the threshold of the street door another page
breathlessly overtook him.
“Monseigneur, you left your glove,” he said.
Luc took the riding gauntlet, and felt something heavy in the palm. The
colour throbbed in his face; he shook out on to his hand a diamond ring
of exceptional beauty and remarkably set with sapphires.
“Yes, it is my glove,” he said to the page, who was hurrying away, “but
take this back to M. de Richelieu—it is a mistake.” He held out the
ring.
“Monseigneur said the jewel was yours,” returned the page.
“Well, then,” replied M. de Vauvenargues proudly, “take it as your
guerdon for bringing me the glove.”
He flung it on the carpet at the boy’s feet and left the Governor’s
house.
Luc was back at Aix in the peace, the confinement, the even atmosphere
of his own home.
He told his father that M. de Richelieu had not been able to do anything
for him, and the old Marquis advised him to give up all thoughts of any
further career and settle down in Aix.
Luc listened patiently, but no advice could have shown less
understanding of his character; even while he listened his heart was
throbbing and his blood tingling with the desire of life, of liberty, of
action, of glory. The very moment he had stepped across the threshold of
his father’s house he had felt the ordered, sluggish days fall round him
like a chain; he saw the years stretch ahead in an uneventful avenue,
with an undistinguished tomb at the end, and every nerve in his being
cried out against it. His fruitless journey, the heavy disappointment
caused by coming into actual contact with one of the men ruling France
and finding him like M. de Richelieu, the persecution, the degradation,
the misery he had witnessed in riding through Languedoc were but so many
goads to urge him to a further attempt on fortune.
Paris blazed even brighter in his visions, and he thought long and often
on the name of M. de Voltaire.
To please his parents, he still retained the forms of Christianity, and
never hinted that he held that doctrine of free-thinking which his
father so abhorred. But this reserve was another chain: he desired to be
with those with whom he could exchange ideas, from whom he could gain
wisdom, experience, and encouragement; not to have to be for ever
deferring to those opinions, habits, and traditions that he no longer
shared nor admired.
Hence the very affection that surrounded him at Aix, and which he had
often longed for when with the army, became first a useless thing to
him, and then another burden, another chain to hamper and clog him.
As, gradually and day by day, his father’s love made insidious demands
on him, as almost imperceptibly he found his native sweetness giving way
on many little points of difference, as he perceived affection laying
hands on the most secret sensations of his soul, he began to revolt
against this obligation of affection, of duty, of respect; he longed to
stand, a free man, with his own life to make according to his own
standards, unhindered by this fear of giving pain to those who loved
him—the fear which had already made him deny his beliefs, and which now
urged him to abandon his
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