The Quest of Glory by Marjorie Bowen (epub e reader txt) đź“–
- Author: Marjorie Bowen
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Duke seated himself on one of the wooden benches and crossed his slender
feet.
“Even Luc,” he said, with an accent of slight amusement, “cannot make
this a crusade. We do not know exactly what we fight for—we respect our
enemies as much as our allies; we think the Ministers fools, and know
the generals jealous of each other. The country, that never wanted the
war, is being taxed to death to pay for it; we”—he shrugged
elegantly—“are ruining ourselves to keep ourselves in weariness and
idleness. We get no thanks. I see not the least chance of promotion for
any of us.”
“But, Monsieur,” cried the lieutenant eagerly, “you forget glory.”
“Glory!” repeated M. de Biron lightly.
Luc de Clapiers flashed a profound look at him in silence; the other
captain laughed.
“We are none of us,” he remarked, “like to get much glory in Prague.”
“Oh, hear d’Espagnac on that,” returned the Duke half mockingly; “he
hath not yet awakened from fairy tales.”
The exquisite young face of Georges d’Espagnac blushed into a beautiful
animation.
“A soldier,” he said, “may find glory anywhere, Monsieur le Duc.”
“In death, for instance,” replied M. de Biron, with a whimsical gravity.
“Yes, one might find that—any day.”
“No—I meant in life,” was the ardent answer. “Die—to die!” The young
voice was scornful of the word. “I mean to live for France, for glory.
What does it matter to me how long I stay in Prague—for what cause the
war is? I march under the French flag, and that is enough. I fight for
France—I am on the quest of glory, Monsieur.” He paused abruptly; M. de
Biron took a fan of long eagle feathers from the bench and fanned the
dying charcoal into a blaze.
“A long quest,” he said, not unkindly. He was thinking that he had been
ten years in the army himself, and only obtained his colonelcy by reason
of his rank and great influence at Court; Georges d’Espagnac, of the
provincial nobility, with no friend near the King, had no bright
prospects.
A little silence fell, then Luc de Clapiers spoke.
“A short or easy quest would be scarcely worth the achieving.”
M. d’Espagnac smiled brilliantly and rose. “It is splendid to think
there are difficulties in the world when one knows one can overcome
them—fight, overcome, achieve—chase the goddess, and clasp her at
last! To ride over obstacles and mount on opposition—nothing else is
life!”
His dark hazel eyes unclosed widely; he looked as magnificent, as
confident, as his words sounded. His cloak had fallen apart, and the
last blaze of the charcoal flame gave a red glow to the silver pomp of
his uniform; his face, his figure, his pose were perfect in human
beauty, human pride transformed by spiritual exaltation; his soul lay
like holy fire in his glance. So might St. Sebastian have looked when he
came the second time to deliver himself to martyrdom.
“I give you joy of your faith,” said M. de Biron.
“Oh, Monsieur, you shall give me joy of my achievement one day. I know
that I am going to succeed. God did not put this passion in men for them
to waste it.” He spoke without embarrassment as he spoke without
boasting, and with a pleasing personal modesty, as if his pride was for
humanity and not for himself.
Luc de Clapiers was looking at him with eyes that shone with
understanding and sympathy.
“Keep that faith of yours, d’Espagnac,” he said softly; “it is the only
thing in the world worth living for. Indeed, how could we live but for
the hope of glory—some day?”
“I trust you may both die a Maréchal de France,” remarked M. de Biron.
The charcoal sank out beyond recovery; a sudden cold blast of wind blew
through the upper part of the window that had been smashed by an
Austrian shell. M. de Biron rose with a shudder.
“It is warmer in the guardroom,” he declared.
Luc de Clapiers spoke to the Lieutenant.
“Will you come with me to the church?”
The young man answered readily. “Certainly, Monsieur.”
The Duke put his hand on the shoulder of the other captain.
“I do believe”—he smiled—“that Luc is on the same quest of glory.”
CHAPTER II # THE CHAPEL OF ST. WENCESLAS
The two young men left the palace and proceeded rapidly, by reason of
the intense cold, through the ways, covered and uncovered, that led from
the royal residence to the other buildings that, ringed by half
destroyed fortifications, formed the Hradcany. The night was moonless,
and heavy clouds concealed the stars; lanterns placed at irregular
intervals alone lit the way, but Luc de Clapiers guided his companion
accurately enough to the entrance of the huge, soaring, unfinished, and
yet triumphant cathedral of St. Vitus.
“You have been here before?” he asked, as they stepped into the black
hollow of the porch. Though they were of the same regiment, the two had
never been intimate.
“No, Monsieur,” came the fresh young voice out of the dark, “and you?—I
have heard you reason on the new philosophy and speak as one of those
who follow M. de Voltaire—as one of those who do not believe in God.”
“I do not believe that He can be confined in a church,” answered Luc
quietly. “Yet some churches are so beautiful that one must worship in
them.”
“What?” asked M. d’Espagnac, below his breath. “Glory, perhaps?”
The captain did not answer; he gently pushed open a small door to one
side of the porch. A thin glow of pale-coloured light fell over his dark
cloak and serene face; beyond him could be seen a glimmer like jewels
veiled under water. He pulled off his beaver and entered the cathedral,
followed softly by his companion. For a moment they stood motionless
within the door, which slipped silently into place behind them.
The air was oppressive with the powerful perfume of strong incense, and
yet even more bitterly cold than the outer night; the light was dim,
flickering, rich, and luxurious, and came wholly from hanging lamps of
yellow, blue, and red glass. In what appeared the extreme distance, the
altar sparkled in the gleam of two huge candles of painted wax, and
behind and about it showed green translucent, unsubstantial shapes of
arches and pillars rising up and disappearing in the great darkness of
the roof, which was as impenetrable as a starless heaven.
The church was bare of chair or pew or stool; the straight sweep of the
nave was broken only by the dark outlines of princely tombs where lay
the dust of former Bohemian kings and queens: their reclining figures so
much above and beyond humanity, yet so startlingly like life, could be
seen in the flood of ruby light that poured from the lamps above them,
with praying hands and reposeful feet, patient faces and untroubled
pillows on which the stately heads had not stirred for centuries.
“This is very old, this church, is it not?” whispered M. d’Espagnac.
“Old? Yes, it was built in the days of faith. This is the legend “—he
turned to the left, where two lights of a vivid green cast an unearthly
hue over huge bronze gates that shut off a chapel of the utmost
magnificence and barbaric vividness. A brass ring hung from one of these
gates, and the Frenchman put out his fair hand and touched it.
“This is the chapel of St. Wenceslas,” he said. “He was a prince, and he
built this church; but before it was finished his brother murdered him
as he clung to this ring—and the church has never been completed.”
He pushed the heavy gate open, and the two stood surrounded by the pomp
and grave splendour of Eastern taste. From floor to ceiling the walls
were inlaid with Bohemian jewels set in patterns of gold; the ceiling
itself was covered with ancient but still glowing frescoes; the altar
was silver and gold and lumachella, the marble which holds fire, and
contained vessels of crude but dazzling colour and shape in enamel,
painted wood, and precious stones.
A mighty candelabrum which showed a beautiful and powerful figure of
Wenceslas stood before the altar, and lit, by a dozen wax candles, the
cuirass and helmet of the murdered saint, preserved in a curious case of
rock crystal which rested on the altar cover of purple silk and scarlet
fringing.
Above the altar hung a Flemish picture showing the murder of the Prince
by the fierce Boleslav; the colours were as bright as the gems in the
walls, and the faces had a lifelike look of distorted passion. A pink
marble shell of holy water stood near the entrance, and the lieutenant,
with the instinct of an ingrained creed, dipped in his fingers and
crossed himself. Luc de Clapiers did not perform this rite, but passed
to the altar rails and leant there thoughtfully, a figure in strong
contrast to his background.
“M. d’Espagnac,” he said, in a low, composed voice, “I liked the way
you spoke to-night. Forgive me—but I too have thought as you do—I also
live for glory.”
At hearing these words the youth flushed with a nameless and
inexpressible emotion; he came to the altar also and lowered his eyes to
the mosaic pavement that sparkled in the candlelight. He had only been a
year in the army and one campaign at the war; every detail of his life
still had the intoxication of novelty, and these words, spoken by his
captain amidst surroundings exotic as an Eastern fairy tale, fired his
ardent imagination and caught his spirit up to regions of bewildering
joy.
“You have everything in the world before you,” continued Luc de
Clapiers, and his voice, though very soft, had a note of great inner
strength. “If anyone should laugh or sneer because you desire to give
your life to glory, you must only pity them. M. de Biron, for
instance—those people cannot understand.” He moved his hand delicately
to his breast and turned his deep hazel eyes earnestly on the youth.
“You must not be discouraged. You are seeking for something that is in
the world, something that other men have found—and won—in different
ways, but by the light of the same spirit—always.”
M. d’Espagnac sighed, very gently; his whitened hair and pure face were
of one paleness in the ghostly, dim, mingled light of coloured lamp and
flickering candle.
“I want to achieve myself,” he said simply. “There is something within
me which is great; therefore I feel very joyful. It is like a flame in
my heart which warms all my blood; it is like wings folded to my feet
which one day will open and carry me—above the earth.” He paused and
added, “You see I am speaking like a child, but it is difficult to find
a language for these thoughts.”
“It is impossible,” answered Luc de Clapiers under his breath; “the
holiest things in the world are those that have never been expressed.
The new philosophy is as far from them as the old bigotry, and Prince
Wenceslas, who died here five hundred years ago, knew as much of it as
we do who are so wise, so civilized—so bewildered, after all.”
The youth looked at him reverently; until to-day he had hardly noticed
the silent young soldier, for Luc de Clapiers had nothing remarkable
about his person or his manner.
“Monsieur, you think, then, that I shall achieve my ambitions?” Hitherto
he had been indifferent to encouragement; now he felt eager for this
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