The Quest of Glory. Bowen Marjorie
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since Prince Lobkowitz and his Hungarian Pandours had driven the French into Prague.
Their manner was as similar as their persons: a composed gaiety, an unconscious courtesy, an absolute reserve and command of emotion were as common to each as the silver epaulettes and frogs of their blue uniforms. The four faces the charcoal flame lit were proud and delicate and much alike in feature, but one was distinguished, even in that light, by the fresh attractiveness of its youthful beauty—the beauty of dark colour, of soft eyes, of rich hair that pomade could scarcely disguise, of ardent lips and eager expression that even the formality of that universal noble manner could not conceal; a face beautiful and lovable, and one that had not yet looked on twenty years.
He was the youngest as he was the tallest. His companions were much of an age and much of a height, and nothing remarkable distinguished one from the other save that one wore the gorgeous uniform of a colonel, two that of captain; the youth’s rank was merely that of lieutenant. They were all silent; there was absolutely nothing to talk about. They had been shut up in Prague all the winter, and though they could easily have broken through the loose ranks of the unskilful besiegers, all thought of leaving the city was impossible until the spring. Bohemia was ice from end to end, and even in the encampment in Prague the Frenchmen died of cold.
The siege was almost without incident and quite without excitement; the Austrians made no attempt to take the city by storm, and the French made no sallies. News of the outside war was their one diversion: all Europe was in arms; Spain and England had been the last to march on to the universal battle-field; France was but one member of a coalition that endeavoured to wrest new possessions from the Empress-Queen, Maria Theresa, whom English gold and Magyar loyalty alone supported. France had signed the Pragmatic Sanction that left her heiress to her father’s empire, but that promise had been lightly enough broken when France saw her advantage in allying herself with Frederick of Prussia, who, after his seizure of Silesia, had become a power in Europe. No Frenchman had any personal feeling about the war; Prussian was the same as Austrian in the eyes of most, and very few troubled to follow the ramifications of the policy that had led the Ministers who ruled in Paris to side with the effete Elector rather than the gallant Queen of Hungary in this struggle for the succession of Charles V. Therefore, with no interest in the war, little news from home, enclosed in a foreign and half-barbarous town among a people strange and mostly unfriendly, the French, during the long months of the nominal siege, were utterly overcome with weariness and a dispirited lassitude from which these four standing over the charcoal pan in the Vladislav Hall were not wholly free.
The opening of the door at the farther end of the hall caused them all to turn with the expectancy born of monotony. Several figures entered the shadows, themselves dark and casting shadows by reason of the lantern the foremost held.
The officers moved forward. The light of dim lamp and swinging lantern was merely confusing to the sight; the advancing group threw fantastic blots of shade, and seemed to merge, subdivide, and merge again until there might have been ten people or two coming down the great bare aisle of the hall.
When the light above the throne at last flung its feeble illumination over them, it disclosed a stout Bohemian servant carrying a lantern, a young man in a splendid dress of scarlet and fur, and a woman rather clumsily muffled in a military cloak which was caught up so as to show her riding-boots and fantastic long spurs.
The officers saluted; the lady paused and looked at her companion, who returned the salute and said in good French, “We are prisoners, I believe.”
“Austrians?” asked the Colonel.
“No: Poles. On our way to Paris. We were captured by the Pandours, who routed our escort, and then by a Bohemian regiment, who considered us enemies”—he smiled engagingly. “But I have induced them to allow me an audience of M. de Belleisle, who, I am certain, will allow us on our way.”
“Why, doubtless,” returned the Frenchman, with disinterested courtesy; “but it is severe weather for travelling, and in time of war, with a lady.”
“My sister,” said the young Pole, “is used to the cold, for she has lived all her life in Russia.”
The lady lifted a face pale with fatigue and shadowed with anxiety; her black hair was very unbecomingly twisted tight round her head, and she wore a fur cap of fox’s skin drawn down to her ears.
“I have a good reason to wish to hasten to Paris,” she said. “I am summoned there by the Queen.”
She made an impatient gesture to the Bohemian who conducted them, and with a weary little bow followed him through the small door that had been cut in the high blank wall.
With a more elaborate courtesy her companion followed her, his heavy tread echoing in the stillness even after the door had closed behind him.
“I wish I were bound for Paris,” remarked the young Colonel, M. de Biron.
One of the captains lightly echoed his wish; the other glanced at the lieutenant and said in a very pleasing voice—
“No, M. le Duc, wish for a battle, which would suit us all better.”
M. de Biron smiled.
“You are very sanguine, Luc.”
“How sanguine, Monsieur?”
“You speak as if war was what it used to be in the days of Amathis de Gaul: forays, single combats, pitched battles, one cause—reward, honour, glory.”
The faint smile deepened on Luc de Clapiers’ face; he made no reply, but the lieutenant flushed quickly and answered—
“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