The Quest of Glory. Bowen Marjorie
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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