The Quest of Glory by Marjorie Bowen (book recommendations based on other books .txt) 📕

of her who comes from Bohemia!” It was a coincidence curious and

distasteful that the wretched magician’s last words should have been

these; doubtless they referred to some intrigue of his patron, but to

Luc they recalled the Countess Carola, and he did not care to think of

her in any such connexion.

 

Her dark, gorgeous image, resolute among the snows, against the sombre,

pure background of silver firs and frozen skies, came before him

suddenly. He felt swiftly heartened as he pondered upon her; she was a

vision of mingled fire and ice that passed the allurement of the senses

and exquisitely attracted the spirit.

 

Luc shook off the depression of yesterday’s sordid adventure, and his

dreams all rushed back to his heart. His modest confidence that

something would come of his interview with the Governor occupied him

anew; he even allowed himself to picture his father’s pleasure at his

return with news of success.

 

Early in the afternoon Jean reappeared with a courteous note from M. de

Richelieu’s secretary: His Highness was departing for Versailles

to-morrow, but would M. le Marquis wait on him to-night at eight of the

clock?

 

Luc sent the servant back with his answering thanks for the appointment,

and went upstairs to unpack his finest suit; it was plain enough, and

the work of a country tailor, but Luc attired himself gravely, with no

thought for the fashion, and went out to find a barber to powder and

dress his hair. When this was done, it was already dusk.

 

He could scarcely eat any dinner, and reluctantly admitted to himself

that he was nervous. His natural reserve made him shrink from waiting on

the great, and inherited pride made him shrink from asking a favour;

neither had his long soldier’s training fitted him for dealing with a

courtier like M. de Richelieu.

 

He felt he would be at a disadvantage with such a man, and the old

powerful longing for the army, for the career on which he had set his

heart, and to which he had devoted his best energies and earliest youth,

assailed him; but he angrily controlled this weakness, and broke his

thoughts by opening a little volume of Pascal he always carried in his

pocket.

 

At the appointed time he rode up to the Governor’s residence and gave

his name. He was at once ushered into a great painted antechamber with a

domed ceiling and white walls covered with a confusion of cupids,

wreaths of flowers, tambourines, flutes, masks, and garlands all very

elegantly drawn and coloured.

 

In each panel of the wall hung an oval mirror which had above it a gilt

sconce of perfumed wax candles; the chairs were of delicate ash-wood and

Aubusson tapestry. On a low green marble-topped table by one of the

windows was a portfolio of prints and a book bound in calf; the name of

the author caught Luc’s eye—it was M. de Voltaire.

 

Luc was not insensible to the charm and elegance of the apartment; he

was keenly sensitive to all beauty. The taste that he had never been

able to cultivate was accurate; he knew that paintings, furniture, and

every detail of the chamber were the most exquisite possible, and his

spirit expanded in the atmosphere; he did not even notice that he was

being kept waiting longer than was courteous.

 

Turning presently, thinking that he heard some one approach, Luc caught

sight of himself nearly full length in one of the oval mirrors. He saw a

slight, pale young man, with a serene and delicate face, thoughtful

hazel eyes, and a clear complexion, precise grey curls, and a plain suit

of violet cloth trimmed with silver, a rich lace cravat tied very

carefully, a simple sword, and a black ribbon round his throat.

 

The strange surroundings made his own person appear strange; he looked

at himself as he might have looked at a mere acquaintance, critically,

yet almost disinterestedly.

 

He was still searching his own face when the folding-doors at the end of

the room opened, and a black page wearing a scarlet tunic and turban

silently motioned him to advance.

 

The Marquis followed him into the next room, and the beauty of the

little apartment was such as he had never seen; it steeped his soul in

sudden pleasurable languor. The page disappeared, and Luc looked about

him eagerly.

 

The walls were of pale ash-wood, smooth and watered like satin; the

carpet was of the same hue, but scattered with a design of dull pink

roses; the chairs were gilt and violet velvet; and the window was hung

with curtains of pale mauve and pink heavily fringed with gold, and

looped so as to show the ivory satin lining. One entire side of the wall

was covered by an exquisite piece of tapestry in a hundred melting hues,

showing the legend of Europa and the Bull; on the pale carved wood

mantelpiece stood a clock and candlesticks of rock crystal and enamel,

and a fine china bowl of lilacs, camellias, tuberoses, and white

syringa.

 

The whole was faintly lit by a silver and crystal lamp that hung by

slender chains from the ceiling, which was covered by drawn grey silk.

 

A cabinet of beautiful workmanship inlaid with painted china plaques, a

desk of marquetry and ormolu covered with rich articles, and an

exquisite lute of ivory and ebony tied with jade green ribbons completed

the furniture.

 

In one corner a white, violet, and gold brocade curtain was half drawn

away from a low couch that stood in an alcove; as Luc glanced at this he

saw with a start that a man was lying there, asleep or dozing, with his

head turned towards the wall.

 

He wore a soft blue satin dressing-gown and a cravat of flimsy lace that

hung in a cloud to the ground; his hair, which was curling and

unpowdered, flowed over his bosom and shoulders; his breeches,

waistcoat, and stockings were white; his feet thrust into gold slippers.

 

His whole figure was considerably in shadow, but by his even breathing

he was certainly asleep.

 

Luc was first amused and then vexed; he made no doubt that this was the

Governor.

 

“M. de Richelieu,” he said, in a firm voice. “Your Highness—”

 

The sleeper stirred lightly, raised his head, and sat up. Luc was

looking at the “Monsieur Armand” of last night’s sordid happenings.