The Quest of Glory by Marjorie Bowen (epub e reader txt) đź“–
- Author: Marjorie Bowen
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“Of course—you surely never doubt?”
“No.” Georges d’Espagnac smiled dreamily. “I have done nothing yet. I
have no task, no duty, no burden; there is nothing put to my
hand—everything is so golden that it dazzles me. I think that will
clear like dawn mists, and then I shall see what I am to do. You
understand, Monsieur?”
The young captain smiled in answer.
“I brought you here to say a prayer to St. Wenceslas,” he said.
M. d’Espagnac looked up at the picture above the altar.
A prince, and young; a saint, and brave; a knight, and murdered—it was
an ideal to call forth admiration and sorrow. The lieutenant went on his
knees and clasped his hands.
“Ah, Monsieur,” he said, half wistfully, “he was murdered—a villain’s
knife stopped his dreams. Death is unjust”—he frowned, “if I were to
die now, I should be unknown—empty-handed—forgotten. But it is not
possible,” he added sharply.
He drew from the bosom of his uniform a breviary in ivory with silver
clasps, opened it where the leaves held some dried flowers and a folded
letter, then closed it and bent his head against the altar rail as if he
wept.
Luc de Clapiers went to the bronze gates and looked thoughtfully down
the vast dusky aisles of the church, so cold, so alluring yet confusing
to the senses, so majestic and silent.
He stood so several minutes, then turned slowly to observe the young
figure kneeling before the barbaric Christian altar.
Georges d’Espagnac had raised his face; his cloak had fallen open on the
pale blue and silver of his uniform; the candle glowing on the silken,
crystal-encased armour of St. Wenceslas cast a pale reflected light on
to his countenance, which, always lovely in line and colour, was now
transformed by an unearthly passion into an exquisite nobility.
He was absolutely still in his exalted absorption, and only the liquid
lustre of his eyes showed that he lived, for his very breath seemed
suppressed.
The young captain looked at him tenderly. “Beautiful as the early
morning of spring,” he thought, “are the first years of youth.”
M. d’Espagnac rose suddenly and crossed himself.
“I would like to keep vigil here, as the knights used to,” he said—his
breath came quickly now. “How silent it is here and vast—and holy; an
outpost of heaven, Monsieur.”
His companion did not reply; he remained at the opening of the gates,
gazing through the coloured lights and shadows. The world seemed to have
receded from them; emotion and thought ceased in the bosom of each; they
were only conscious of a sensation, half awesome, half soothing, that
had no name nor expression.
The weary campaign, the monotonous round of duties, the sordid details
of the war, the prolonged weeks in Prague, the fatigues,
disappointments, and anxieties of their daily life—all memory of these
things went from them; they seemed to breathe a heavenly air that filled
their veins with delicious ardour, the silence rung with golden voices,
and the great dusks of the cathedral were full of heroic figures that
lured and beckoned and smiled.
A divine magnificence seemed to burn on the distant altar, like the
far-off but clearly visible goal of man’s supreme ambitions, nameless
save in dreams, the reward only of perfect achievement, absolute
victory—the glamour of that immaculate glory which alone can satisfy
the hero’s highest need.
To the two young men standing on the spot where the saintly prince fell
so many generations before, the path to this ultimate splendour seemed
straight and easy, the journey simple, the end inevitable.
The distant mournful notes of some outside clock struck the hour, and M.
d’Espagnac passed his hand over his eyes with a slight shiver; he was on
duty in another few minutes.
“Au revoir, Monsieur,” he said to the captain. Their eyes met; they
smiled faintly and parted.
M. d’Espagnac walked rapidly and lightly towards the main door of the
cathedral. He noticed now that it was very cold, with an intense,
clinging chill. He paused to arrange his mantle before facing the outer
air, and as he did so, saw suddenly before him a figure like his own in
a heavy military cloak.
The first second he was confused, the next he recognized the Polish lady
he had lately seen in the Vladislav Hall. He voiced his instinctive
thought.
“Why, Madame, I did not hear the door!”
“No,” she answered. “Did you not know that there was a secret passage
from the palace?” She added instantly—
“What is the name of your companion, Monsieur?”
He glanced where she glanced, at the slight figure of the young captain
standing by the bronze gates of the Wenceslas Chapel. He felt a shyness
in answering her; her manner was abrupt, and she seemed to him an
intruder in the church that had inspired such a religious mood in him.
She evidently instantly perceived this, for she said, with direct
haughtiness—
“I am the Countess Carola Koklinska.”
M. d’Espagnac bowed and flushed. He gave his own name swiftly.
“I am the Comte d’Espagnac, lieutenant in the régiment du roi; my
friend is Luc de Clapiers, Monsieur le Capitaine le Marquis de
Vauvenargues, of the same regiment, Madame la Comtesse.”
She laughed now, but in a spiritless fashion.
“Very well—I will speak to M. de Vauvenargues.”
The lady waited until M. d’Espagnac had left the church, then turned
directly to the gates of the Wenceslas Chapel, loosening, as she moved,
the heavy folds of her great cloak.
She came so directly towards him that the Marquis could not avoid
opening the gate and waiting as if he expected her, though in truth he
found her sudden appearance surprising.
“This is a famous chapel, is it not?” she remarked as she reached him.
She stepped into the deep glitter of the jewelled dusk, and the Marquis
felt the frozen air she brought in with her—cold even in the cold. He
smiled and waited. She stood a pace or two away from him, and he could
see her frosty breath.
“I am Carola Koklinska,” she added. “I have been in the church some
time, and I overheard what you said to your friend, M. de Vauvenargues.”
He still was silent; his smile deepened slightly. She moved towards the
altar and stood in the exact spot where M. d’Espagnac had knelt; with a
broken sigh she shook off her mantle and cast it down on the gorgeous
pavement. She was dressed in a fantastic and brilliant fashion: her long
blue velvet coat, lined and edged with a reddish fur, was tied under the
arms by a scarlet sash heavy with gold fringings; her crimson skirt came
scarcely below her knees and showed embroidered leather riding-boots and
long glimmering spurs; her coat was open at the bosom on a mass of fine
lace and linen worked with gold threads; she wore coral ornaments in her
ears and a long scarlet plume in her heavy cap of fox’s fur; her hands
were concealed in thick leather gloves embroidered with silk down the
backs; in her sash were a short sword and a gold-mounted riding-whip.
The Marquis noticed these details instantly, also that the lady herself,
in the setting of these strange Oriental garments, was pale and fair and
delicate as a white violet nourished on snow. She exhaled a powerful
perfume as of some Eastern rose or carnation: he had noticed it when she
crossed the Vladislav Hall.
“You are travelling to Paris?” he asked.
“I told you,” she replied, with a kind of delicate directness. “My
sister is maid-of-honour to the Queen Marie Leckinska, and as she is to
be married I am going to take her place. But we are delayed, it seems.
M. de Belleisle advises us to stay in the Hradcany till the spring.”
“Prague,” said the Marquis, “is full of travellers and refugees. No one
would willingly journey this weather.”
“I would, save that we have lost our sledges, our horses, our servants,
our escort. Sometimes it is colder than this in Russia.”
“You will find it dreary in Prague, Mademoiselle,” said the Marquis
kindly; “but when you reach Paris you will be recompensed.”
She fixed her large, clear and light brown eyes on his face.
“I told you I had heard what you said, Monsieur. Are you usually so
indifferent to eavesdroppers?”
“I said nothing that anyone might not hear—though not perhaps discuss,”
he answered gently.
“You mean you will not talk of these things to a woman!” she exclaimed
quickly. “And I suppose I seem a barbarian to you. But perhaps I could
understand as well as that young officer.” Her voice was slow and sad.
“I come from an heroic and unfortunate country, Monsieur. I also have
dreamt of glory.”
Still he would not speak; her frankness was abashed before his gentle
reserve.
“I came here to attend Mass,” she said hurriedly. “There is Mass here? I
have not been inside a church for many weeks.”
“Service is held here and well attended,” he replied, “but it is yet
too early.”
She still kept her eyes on him.
“My brother is finding lodgings—he is to meet me here. I will stay for
the Mass.”
The Marquis moved just outside the bronze gates so that the light of the
green lamps cast a sea-pearl glow over his person. He was looking
towards the high altar, and Carola Koklinska observed him keenly.
He appeared older than his years, which were twenty-seven, and was of a
delicate, though dignified and manly, bearing. A little above the medium
height, he carried himself with the full majesty of youth and health and
the perfect ease of nobility and a long soldier’s training. His face, in
its refinement, repose, and slight hauteur of composure, was typical of
his nation and his rank; his expression was given a singular charm by
the great sweetness of the mouth and the impression of reserved power
conveyed by the deep hazel eyes, which were of a peculiarly innocent and
dreamy lustre—not eyes to associate with a soldier, incongruous,
indeed, with the stiff gorgeous uniform and the pomaded curls that waved
loosely round his low serene forehead.
The details of his dress were fashionable and exquisite: he wore
diamonds in his neckcloth and his sword-hilt was of great beauty. His
manner and whole poise were so utterly calm that the Countess Carola
felt it difficult to associate him with the ardent voice that had spoken
to Georges d’Espagnac. He had put her very completely outside his
thoughts. She winced under it as if it were a personal discourtesy.
“I regret I intruded,” she said sincerely.
The Marquis gave her a look of astonishment; her open glance met his; he
blushed, opened his lips to speak, but did not.
“I also can admire St. Wenceslas,” she added.
She pulled off her clumsy cap, and long trails of smoke-black hair fell
untidily over her resplendent coat. She went on one knee before the
altar, snatched off her gloves, and clasped above her head her small
hands, which were white, stiff, and creased from the pressure of the
leather.
“I have been discourteous,” said the Marquis, and the ready colour
heightened in his delicate cheek.
The Countess Carola took no heed; she was murmuring prayers in her own
language, which to his ears sounded uncouth, but not unpleasing. He
moved respectfully away. An acolyte was passing before the high altar;
the door was swinging to and fro as several people—French, Bavarian,
and Bohemian—entered
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