The Quest of Glory. Bowen Marjorie
Читать онлайн книгу.
they made the first steps on the terrible, difficult route, with the snow-filled blackness before them and their poor light showing only death and horror, the Marquis said to his companion—
“If I could have spared you, Mademoiselle, any of this——”
She broke in upon his speech—
“We shall never forget each other all our lives, Monsieur.”
Then in silence they followed in the blood-stained track of the army towards Eger.
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 that promotion is slow. But M. de Biron told me he had no fault to find with you.”
Luc sat silent. He was gazing intently at the fine figure and noble face of the old man in his murrey-coloured velvet and delicate lawn cravat, powdered peruke, and long embroidered satin waistcoat, his firm right hand with the white cornelian signet ring that rested on the table. His delicate features and steady eyes, his pose and movements were all instinct with tradition, nobility of race, and nobility of nature. He belonged to the pure stock of the provincial aristocracy that had never waited at any court or been favoured by any king, but who had been “grand seigneur” at the time of the Crusades.
The younger brother was like him and like Luc: sweetness and dignity mingled in his features. He was dressed richly, but far from extravagantly, and in a fashion some years old. His handsome brown hair hung in natural curls round his face, unconfined by any ribbon. His expression was at once more simple and less ardent than that of the young captain, at whom he gazed with affection, respect, and admiration.
Luc