The Quest of Glory by Marjorie Bowen (book recommendations based on other books .txt) 📕
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
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blushed defiantly.
“What do they say in Paris?” asked the Marquis de Fortia.
“They say General Bonaparte is going to marry Madame de Beauharnais.
But she is not young, and he is quite well thought of, is he not?”
“I will relieve you of your post,” smiled her father. “Go and read your
gossip, child.”
She laughed, and ran away into the rose garden with her hands at her
bosom.
M. de Fortia went to the old man, who was staring before him at the
water that dripped by the river deity into the basin of the fountain
from the mouth of the urn. He looked up as his friend approached, and
said abruptly, in his high voice—
“Do you think Voltaire. a great man?”
“Certainly—one of the greatest.”
“He thought my brother had genius.”
“Your brother?”
“My elder brother—” He paused, seemed to make an effort of memory.
“Luc—yes, his name was Luc. I have not spoken that name for half a
hundred years. Luc—I believe we were fond of each other. He used
to—write.”
He nodded at the fountain.
“Well, I have his manuscripts and his book upstairs. I thought of them
last night. I am an old man, and the last of a family that has been very
proud, as you know, my friend, very proud.”
He paused again.
“But perhaps, when I am dead, our name will not suffer—in these
days—when things are so different, and who is to remember us?” His
voice sank, and an expression of profound melancholy clouded his face.
“What do you wish me to do?” asked M. de Fortia, bending over him.
The last of the de Clapiers drew a key from his pocket, and presented it
with a trembling hand.
“You will find the box in my desk. When I am dead, publish my brother’s
writings—with his name. We used to think he had disgraced our blazon;
but now—perhaps—his book might even keep alive—in the new era
coming—the noble name”—pride lit the dim eyes—“of Vauvenargues.”
THE END
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