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

>“Pardon me, Monsieur, but it seems to me like that still.” The young

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