The Quest of Glory. Bowen Marjorie
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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 man’s approval and confidence.
“Of course—you surely never doubt?”
“No.” Georges d’Espagnac smiled dreamily. “I have done nothing yet. I have no task, no duty, no burden; there is nothing put to my hand—everything is so golden that it dazzles me. I think that will clear like dawn mists, and then I shall see what I am to do. You understand, Monsieur?”
The young captain smiled in answer.
“I brought you here to say a prayer to St. Wenceslas,” he said.
M. d’Espagnac looked up at the picture above the altar.
A prince, and young; a saint, and brave; a knight, and murdered—it was an ideal to call forth admiration and sorrow. The lieutenant went on his knees and clasped his hands.
“Ah, Monsieur,” he said, half wistfully, “he was murdered—a villain’s knife stopped his dreams. Death is unjust”—he frowned, “if I were to die now, I should be unknown—empty-handed—forgotten. But it is not possible,” he added sharply.
He drew from the bosom of his uniform a breviary in ivory with silver clasps, opened it where the leaves held some dried flowers and a folded letter, then closed it and bent his head against the altar rail as if he wept.
Luc de Clapiers went to the bronze gates and looked thoughtfully down the vast dusky aisles of the church, so cold, so alluring yet confusing to the senses, so majestic and silent.
He stood so several minutes, then turned slowly to observe the young figure kneeling before the barbaric Christian altar.
Georges d’Espagnac had raised his face; his cloak had fallen open on the pale blue and silver of his uniform; the candle glowing on the silken, crystal-encased armour of St. Wenceslas cast a pale reflected light on to his countenance, which, always lovely in line and colour, was now transformed by an unearthly passion into an exquisite nobility.
He was absolutely still in his exalted absorption, and only the liquid lustre of his eyes showed that he lived, for his very breath seemed suppressed.
The young captain looked at him tenderly. “Beautiful as the early morning of spring,” he thought, “are the first years of youth.”
M. d’Espagnac rose suddenly and crossed himself.
“I would like to keep vigil here, as the knights used to,” he said—his breath came quickly now. “How silent it is here and vast—and holy; an outpost of heaven, Monsieur.”
His companion did not reply; he remained at the opening of the gates, gazing through the coloured lights and shadows. The world seemed to have receded from them; emotion and thought ceased in the bosom of each; they were only conscious of a sensation, half awesome, half soothing, that had no name nor expression.
The weary campaign, the monotonous round of duties, the sordid details of the war, the prolonged weeks in Prague, the fatigues, disappointments, and anxieties of their daily life—all memory of these things went from them; they seemed to breathe a heavenly air that filled their veins with delicious ardour, the silence rung with golden voices, and the great dusks of the cathedral were full of heroic figures that lured and beckoned and smiled.
A divine magnificence seemed to burn on the distant altar, like the far-off but clearly visible goal of man’s supreme ambitions, nameless save in dreams, the reward only of perfect achievement, absolute victory—the glamour of that immaculate glory which alone can satisfy the hero’s highest need.
To the two young men standing on the spot where the saintly prince fell so many generations before, the path to this ultimate splendour seemed straight and easy, the journey simple, the end inevitable.
The distant mournful notes of some outside clock struck the hour, and M. d’Espagnac passed his hand over his eyes with a slight shiver; he was on duty in another few minutes.
“Au revoir, Monsieur,” he said to the captain. Their eyes met; they smiled faintly and parted.
M. d’Espagnac walked rapidly and lightly towards the main door of the cathedral. He noticed now that it was very cold, with an intense, clinging chill. He paused to arrange his mantle before facing the outer air, and as he did so, saw suddenly before him a figure like his own in a heavy military cloak.
The first second he was confused, the next he recognized the Polish lady he had lately seen in the Vladislav Hall.
He voiced his instinctive thought.
“Why, Madame, I did not hear the door!”
“No,” she answered. “Did you not know that there was a secret passage from the palace?” She added instantly—
“What is the name of your companion, Monsieur?”
He glanced where she glanced, at the slight figure of the young captain standing by the bronze gates of the Wenceslas Chapel. He felt a shyness in answering her; her manner was abrupt, and she seemed to him an intruder in the church that had inspired such a religious mood in him. She evidently instantly perceived this, for she said, with direct haughtiness—
“I am the Countess Carola Koklinska.”
M. d’Espagnac bowed and flushed. He gave his own name swiftly.
“I am the Comte d’Espagnac, lieutenant in the régiment du roi ; my friend is Luc de Clapiers, Monsieur le Capitaine le Marquis de Vauvenargues, of the same regiment, Madame la Comtesse.”
She laughed now, but in a spiritless fashion.
“Very well—I will speak to M. de Vauvenargues.”
CHAPTER III
CAROLA KOKLINSKA
The lady waited until M. d’Espagnac had left the church, then turned directly to the gates of the Wenceslas Chapel, loosening, as she moved, the heavy folds of her great cloak.
She came so directly towards him that the Marquis could not avoid opening the gate and waiting as if he expected her, though in truth he found her sudden appearance surprising.
“This is a famous chapel, is it not?” she remarked as she reached him. She stepped into the deep glitter of the jewelled dusk, and the Marquis felt the frozen air she brought in with her—cold even in the cold. He smiled and waited. She stood a pace or two away from him, and he could see her frosty breath.
“I am Carola Koklinska,” she added. “I have been in the church some time, and I overheard what you said to your friend, M. de Vauvenargues.”
He still was silent; his smile deepened slightly. She moved towards the altar and stood in the exact spot where M. d’Espagnac had knelt; with a broken sigh she shook off her mantle and cast it down on the gorgeous pavement. She was dressed in a fantastic and brilliant fashion: her long blue velvet coat, lined and edged with a reddish fur, was tied under the arms by a scarlet sash heavy