The Quest of Glory by Marjorie Bowen (epub e reader txt) 📖
- Author: Marjorie Bowen
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a cloud of delusion; and when you have pierced the cloud, you find there
is nothing there but the blankness of despair.”
“No!” cried Luc, with energy. “No!”
The painter shook his head in contradiction with a ghastly smile and
closed the door on the Marquis, who heard immediately the bolts being
slipped into place.
Luc heard that the King and M. Amelot had returned to Paris early the
same morning that he had been in converse with the young painter. There
was now nothing to keep him in Versailles: he had not seen the Countess
Carola, and yesterday M. de Biron, who was now rejoining his regiment,
could tell him nothing of her. She was probably still in Paris.
Versailles, at least, had no attractions for Luc; he was more than ever
anxious to see M. Amelot, as a second crisis had arisen between France,
Austria, and the advancing power of Prussia. Now Fleury was dead,
greater things were hoped from the diplomats of Paris, and Luc believed
that he might find this a favourable moment for obtaining employment in
politics.
A few days before he came to Versailles he had heard from his father; he
re-read the letter now, and it revived the sense of the dead weight of
the chains of home. His father was waiting eagerly for news of his
success; his mother wanted him back, and sent anxious inquiries after
his health; Joseph and all his friends would have been so happy if he
would have returned after his hardships at the war and settled down in
Aix—
Why could he not do it? He loved them all; he often felt ill and lonely.
Why not go back and forget these vain visions that M. de Biron so
laughed at? Why not marry Mademoiselle de Séguy and take up the life his
father and his brother were leading? His sense of responsibility towards
his parents was heavy’: they had done everything for him, he nothing for
them; he grudged even the money his stay in Paris was costing. Joseph
had never been able to afford to come to Court.
That they should be indulgent, even making sacrifices for him, was the
last intolerable chain; how could he proceed on his way fettered by
obligation, burdened by affection and sentiment? He wept a little over
this love that was so rare and precious, and yet so useless!
He almost wished that he was penniless, friendless—_Master_ of himself,
with no one to care if he lived or died; a state that was supposed to be
the epitome of human misery. But the man so situated was at least free.
Other thoughts instantly checked and thrust this aside, but it had been
formed.
After all, what all these conflicting emotions amounted to was that he
must in some way justify himself; must obey the passionate impulse
within him, and obtain a scope for his energies.
He left his chamber, and walked near the great park where he had met the
beautiful young noble in the peach-coloured light of the pavilion last
night. One sentence of his kept recurring to Luc; it was the only moment
when he had shown any glimpse of feeling, and it was when Luc had said,
“Those who brought you up have something to answer for,” and the young
man had answered, in a moved tone, “God judge them—I think they have!”
Luc felt sorry for him, but contemptuous too; he wondered if he should
see him again entering the house in the Rue du Bac, or if the adventure
of the coffin had caused him to abandon his place of rendezvous. Somehow
Luc did not think he would risk the narrow street again after dark. How
extraordinary cowardice was—
The Marquis could not remotely conceive the fear of death as an active
factor in anyone’s life.
As he sat over his dinner in an inn near the populous market square, he
thought of the young painter whose quest for glory had brought him to
despair, even to madness. Glory—what was it that so many, in this
frivolous age, pursued with panting breath and staring eyes? The great
sceptic Voltaire, even as the great believer Bossuet, had been swept on
to achievement by the desire of it; the blue-eyed noble who might have
had it by lifting his finger sat inert and melancholy; the obscure young
artist was livid with anguish because he had missed it. Where was it,
what was it? A kind of frenzy, a wordless exaltation; perhaps the only
sign there is of the godlike in man; the gateway to the infinite; the
talisman that would turn the world to gold and heaven into a reality;
the pursuit of the San Graal; the journey to the land of Canaan; the
search for El Dorado, for the Islands of the Blest—under all these
symbols had the quest of glory been disguised. Luc trembled in his
heart, for who had yet found the Fortunate Isles?
By the time he returned to his lodgings, his servant had packed his
portmanteau and had the horses ready for their return to Paris. It was
considerably past midday, and later than he had intended; he thought of
the artist, and asked Jean if he had seen him go out.
The man answered “No,” and Luc crossed the landing and knocked on the
door opposite.
There was no answer, and after waiting a little, Luc, who was already in
his riding-cloak, turned the handle and entered the sombre,
old-fashioned bedchamber where he had found himself in that morning’s
dawn.
He then saw that his servant had been mistaken, for the painter had
certainly gone out; the room was empty.
The Marquis was leaving again when he noticed on the dark table between
the windows where the brass lamp and hourglass stood a folded piece of
paper. He approached, and saw it was addressed to himself. It contained
only a few lines, and was unsigned.
“MONSIEUR,—I am unfortunately obliged to leave you on a journey I have
long contemplated. As you were courteous enough to wish to see some of
my work, you will find my first and last masterpiece on the bed—I call
it ‘The End of the Quest of Glory.’ It has the merit of truth, at
least.”
Luc glanced round the room: not a thing had been disarranged—some
clothes even still lay across a chair; a portmanteau stood, loosely
unstrapped, at the foot of the bed. Luc felt an absolute conviction that
no one had left this room since he had himself, several hours
before—save one way—
“Suicide,” he said, and folded the letter across. Then, with a
callousness that surprised himself, he went to the bed and pulled aside
the heavy blue brocade curtains, which were drawn closely together as
they had been before.
He saw what he had expected to see: the young painter, prone and still,
with fixed open eyes and a sneer on his stiff lips.
Luc stood gazing; his serene brows contracted with an expression of
pity, anger, and regret. He stooped and laid his hand on the dulled hair
of the young suicide, damp with the death-agony.
The coverlet was slightly disturbed by the last struggle of departing
life, the dead man’s limbs slightly contracted, as if he had died in the
convulsion of a shudder. His left hand and arm lay across his breast,
showing that his final action had been to draw the curtains about him.
Luc thought of the bitter sarcasm of the letter, and the hand he laid on
the painter’s forehead quivered. There was no mark of any violence; the
young painter had evidently made an end of himself with poison.
Luc moved away from the bed; he checked an almost mechanical impulse to
lay the melancholy crucifix hanging above the bed on the dead man’s
breast, and, moving to the canvases piled against the wall, turned the
first two or three round. They were marked and defaced by a knife, which
had completely disfigured the original paintings.
Luc looked no more. A sword lay across a chair, and near it an open
snuffbox filled with gold pieces. The Marquis felt a blankness of all
sensation save weariness and aversion. He left the room and called the
servant of the house, and soon the chamber of the dead was filled with
people, with question, curiosity, wonder.
Nothing, it appeared, was known of the dead man. He had come a few days
before by the coach from Paris; he had given his name as Henri de Bèze;
the day before he had paid for his week’s lodging. He had received no
letters while in Versailles, nor, as far as could be known, had he sent
any. No one had visited him, but he had been much from the house.
Nor did a search among his effects provide any further information. If
he had had any papers, he had destroyed them. He had died with his
story, which might have been common or tragical, wrapped at least in the
dignity of silence.
There was enough money in the snuffbox to pay for his decent burial. A
manifest suicide, and one who had died without absolution or any of the
offices of the Church, his grave would be in the lonely strip of land
outside consecrated ground where play-actors and vagabonds and Jews were
laid.
Luc returned to his own room, his head sick with fatigue, and seated
himself by the window. In the commotion, his departure for Paris had
been delayed; he wondered if he should return to-day. A slackness had
fallen on his thoughts.
While he was answering the respectful questions of the master of the
house concerning his brief acquaintance with the dead man, he had been
recalling his short stay in the painter’s chamber during the dawn of
this same day. Evidently the painter had drunk the poison before he had
asked for company, and Luc had been talking to a dying man who was
measuring his life by the grains of sand in an hourglass; for Luc
recalled how .he had taken up the hourglass, and seeing that the sands
were nearly run through, had abruptly ended the interview.
Luc found himself picturing what had happened in the room after he had
left it. He had heard the door bolted—but afterwards the dying man had
altered that with some change of thought, probably when the idea of his
ironical letter occurred to him.
“He had a bitter humour,” thought Luc, with a sweet amaze. As for
himself, the melancholy, the disgust, and the pity roused in him by the
hopeless cynicism of the young painter’s sudden end had not extinguished
or even for a second damped the fires of his own ardour; they only burnt
the clearer and brighter in contrast with the gloom he had just
witnessed in two other human beings—the luxurious, soulless youth and
worn-out painter. He felt like a man walking on an upland in the full
light of the sun, while below him others struggled through the mists and
morasses, shadows and sloughs of a dismal valley, and never lifted their
eyes to the sun. He might look down on these blinded people, he might
pity, though he could not comfort them; but they could not long trouble
him nor put a shade across his bright path.
As he sat at the window watching the clean empty street, a very handsome
equipage swept round the corner, swinging on its leathers.
With a faint flush Luc recognized the liveries and arms of Carola
Koklinska, and when the coach drew up before the door his
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