The Quest of Glory by Marjorie Bowen (epub e reader txt) 📖

CHAPTER VII # THE HOME AT AIX

The winter of the year 1742 had been the coldest, in every part of

Europe, that had been known since 1709, and the following spring was

also remarkable—for heat and sunshine and rainless days and nights.

 

By early April the chestnuts outside the residence of the Clapiers

family in Aix were in perfect bloom and the white, golden-hearted

flowers sprang from the wide bronze-green leaves and expanded to the

summer-like sun; beneath the trees was a deep rich-coloured shade that

lay up the double steps of the house and across the high door with its

fine moulding of handsome wood. The shutters were closed against the

heat; the whole street was empty of everything save the perfume of the

lilac, roses, and syringa growing in the gardens of the mansions.

 

This languid peace of afternoon was broken by the arrival of a gentleman

on horseback followed by a servant; he drew rein under the chestnut

trees, dismounted, gave his horse to the man, and rather slowly ascended

the pleasant shaded steps. Without knocking he opened the door and

stepped at once into the dark, cool hall. A clock struck three, and he

waited till the chimes had ceased, then opened a door on his left and

entered a large low room full of shadow that looked out on to a great

garden and a young beech covered with red-gold leaves in which the sun

blazed splendidly.

 

Luc de Clapiers stood gazing at the home he had not seen for nine years.

Nothing was altered. On just such a day as this he had left it; but he

remembered that the beech tree had been smaller then and not so prodigal

of glorious foliage.

 

There were the same dark walls, the same heavy mahogany furniture, the

same picture of “The Sacrifice of Isaac” opposite the window, the same

carved sideboard bearing silver and glass, the candlesticks and

snuffers, the brass lamp and the taper-holders. Above the mantelpiece

were, deep carved, the de Clapiers arms, still brightly coloured, fasces

of argent and silver and the chief or—and on the mantelpiece the same

dark marble clock.

 

Luc crossed to the window that was not far above the ground and looked

down the garden; in the distance were two gentlemen—one young and one

old—followed by three bright dogs.

 

Luc put his hand to his eyes, then unlatched the window, that opened

casement fashion. The sound, slight as it was, carried in the absolute

stillness; the two gentlemen who were approaching the house glanced up.

 

They beheld, framed in the darkness of the room, the slim figure of a

young soldier in a blue and silver uniform, wearing a light grey

travelling cloak.

 

“Luc!” cried the younger, and the other gave a great start.

 

Luc stepped from the window and crossed to his father. He went simply on

his knees before him and kissed his hands, while the old Marquis

murmured, “You never wrote to me! You never wrote to me!”

 

“No,” added the younger brother reproachfully, “you never wrote to us,

Luc.”

 

Luc admitted that he had not, beyond the first letter that told of his

return from Bohemia.

 

“I did not know if I should be able to come to Aix,” he said, “forgive

me, Monseigneur.”

 

“You have got leave now, my child?” cried the old Marquis, grasping his

shoulder.

 

“Yes, my father, I have some leisure now,” he answered rather sadly.

 

“Come into the house,” said his brother, who was much moved. “I can

hardly believe it is you—you have changed a great deal in nine years.”

 

They entered the house—the Marquise was abroad; the servants were

roused. Luc heard the orders for the preparation of his chamber and the

stabling of his horse with a thrill of pure pleasure; it seemed that he

had been very long away from home.

 

His father made him sit by his right at the long black table that was

now covered with wine glasses and dishes of fruit, and kept his eyes

fixed on him with an earnest look of affection.

 

“You are very pale and thin,” he said.

 

The brother touched the young soldier’s hand lovingly. “Have you been

ill, Luc?” he asked.

 

Luc blushed; he was conscious of his frail appearance, of his occasional

cough, of his languid movements.

 

“Yes, I was ill at Eger,” he admitted reluctantly, “after the retreat

from Prague.”

 

The other two men were silent. By that retreat M. de Belleisle’s name

had become accursed through France: in ten days he had lost nearly

twenty-two thousand men. The scandal and horror of it had brought M. de

Fleury to patch a hasty peace with Austria.

 

“And do you recall,” added Luc sadly, “Hippolyte de Seytres, Marquis de

Caumont, whom I wrote of to you very often? He was my ‘sous lieutenant.’

I heard last week that he had died in Prague just before the garrison

capitulated in January.”

 

“I am sorry for de Caumont!” exclaimed the old Marquis, thinking of the

father.

 

“He was only eighteen,” said Luc, “and a sweet nature. M. d’Espagnac,

also, who came from Provence, died in my arms. I became delirious with

death.”

 

“It was very terrible?” questioned his father gravely.

 

“Ah, it was of all campaigns the most disastrous, the most unfortunate.

Let me not recall those black nights and days—those marches with hunger

and cold beside us, the disorder, the misery—the poor remnant of a

glorious army that at last reached the frontier of France—leaving our

blood and bones thick on the fields of Germany.” His eyes and voice

flashed and a clear colour dyed his cheek. “Belleisle is punished,” he

added. “His pride is cast down, his war ended in failure. But is he

humiliated enough for all the lives he so wantonly flung away?”

 

“They say Cardinal Fleury cannot sleep at night because of it,” remarked

the old Marquis, “that he always sees snow and blood about him. But you

have returned to us, my son.”

 

Luc gave him a long, soft, mournful look, then glanced at his brother

Joseph.

 

“Yes, I lived,” he said thoughtfully; “but I have not come home

gloriously.”

 

“There is time ahead of you,” answered his father proudly. “I know