The Quest of Glory. Bowen Marjorie
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spurs; her coat was open at the bosom on a mass of fine lace and linen worked with gold threads; she wore coral ornaments in her ears and a long scarlet plume in her heavy cap of fox’s fur; her hands were concealed in thick leather gloves embroidered with silk down the backs; in her sash were a short sword and a gold-mounted riding-whip.
The Marquis noticed these details instantly, also that the lady herself, in the setting of these strange Oriental garments, was pale and fair and delicate as a white violet nourished on snow. She exhaled a powerful perfume as of some Eastern rose or carnation: he had noticed it when she crossed the Vladislav Hall.
“You are travelling to Paris?” he asked.
“I told you,” she replied, with a kind of delicate directness. “My sister is maid-of-honour to the Queen Marie Leckinska, and as she is to be married I am going to take her place. But we are delayed, it seems. M. de Belleisle advises us to stay in the Hradcany till the spring.”
“Prague,” said the Marquis, “is full of travellers and refugees. No one would willingly journey this weather.”
“I would, save that we have lost our sledges, our horses, our servants, our escort. Sometimes it is colder than this in Russia.”
“You will find it dreary in Prague, Mademoiselle,” said the Marquis kindly; “but when you reach Paris you will be recompensed.”
She fixed her large, clear and light brown eyes on his face.
“I told you I had heard what you said, Monsieur. Are you usually so indifferent to eavesdroppers?”
“I said nothing that anyone might not hear—though not perhaps discuss,” he answered gently.
“You mean you will not talk of these things to a woman!” she exclaimed quickly. “And I suppose I seem a barbarian to you. But perhaps I could understand as well as that young officer.” Her voice was slow and sad. “I come from an heroic and unfortunate country, Monsieur. I also have dreamt of glory.”
Still he would not speak; her frankness was abashed before his gentle reserve.
“I came here to attend Mass,” she said hurriedly. “There is Mass here? I have not been inside a church for many weeks.”
“Service is held here and well attended,” he replied, “but it is yet too early.”
She still kept her eyes on him.
“My brother is finding lodgings—he is to meet me here. I will stay for the Mass.”
The Marquis moved just outside the bronze gates so that the light of the green lamps cast a sea-pearl glow over his person. He was looking towards the high altar, and Carola Koklinska observed him keenly.
He appeared older than his years, which were twenty-seven, and was of a delicate, though dignified and manly, bearing. A little above the medium height, he carried himself with the full majesty of youth and health and the perfect ease of nobility and a long soldier’s training. His face, in its refinement, repose, and slight hauteur of composure, was typical of his nation and his rank; his expression was given a singular charm by the great sweetness of the mouth and the impression of reserved power conveyed by the deep hazel eyes, which were of a peculiarly innocent and dreamy lustre—not eyes to associate with a soldier, incongruous, indeed, with the stiff gorgeous uniform and the pomaded curls that waved loosely round his low serene forehead.
The details of his dress were fashionable and exquisite: he wore diamonds in his neckcloth and his sword-hilt was of great beauty. His manner and whole poise were so utterly calm that the Countess Carola felt it difficult to associate him with the ardent voice that had spoken to Georges d’Espagnac. He had put her very completely outside his thoughts. She winced under it as if it were a personal discourtesy.
“I regret I intruded,” she said sincerely.
The Marquis gave her a look of astonishment; her open glance met his; he blushed, opened his lips to speak, but did not.
“I also can admire St. Wenceslas,” she added.
She pulled off her clumsy cap, and long trails of smoke-black hair fell untidily over her resplendent coat. She went on one knee before the altar, snatched off her gloves, and clasped above her head her small hands, which were white, stiff, and creased from the pressure of the leather.
“I have been discourteous,” said the Marquis, and the ready colour heightened in his delicate cheek.
The Countess Carola took no heed; she was murmuring prayers in her own language, which to his ears sounded uncouth, but not unpleasing. He moved respectfully away. An acolyte was passing before the high altar; the door was swinging to and fro as several people—French, Bavarian, and Bohemian—entered the church for vespers.
M. de Vauvenargues looked back at the figure of the Polish lady. She appeared to be praying with a real and rather sad fervour; her strange, rich, and flamboyant dress, her disarranged hair, her attitude of supplication made her a fitting figure for the sparkling chapel; she looked more like a youth than a woman; she might have been St. Wenceslas himself just before the knife of Boleslav was plunged into his back.
The Marquis passed out into the bitter sombre night, which was filled with the ringing of the bells of many churches. He made his way along the dark terraces until he stood looking over the lights of Prague below, the still more distant fires of the Austrians, the whole windy depth of the night spread before him. Immediately beneath him he could hear the rustling of the great bare trees in the Stags Ditch. Presently the organ from the cathedral silenced these sounds and rolled out gloomily and commandingly across the darkness.
M. de Vauvenargues, of ancient family and small fortune, had been nine years in the army, had served in the Italian campaign of ’32, and had as yet met with no distinction and could foresee no hope of advancement; but it never occurred to him to doubt that the great career that filled his dreams would be one day his. He never spoke of his ambitions, yet he foresaw himself a Maréchal de France, carrying the baton with the silver lilies, riding across Europe at the head of a huge army.
Sometimes, as now, this vision was so intensely vivid that a little shiver ran through his blood and his breath choked his throat and a desire for action possessed him, so passionate that it shook his heart.
He found himself chafing—and not for the first time—at this long idleness in Prague. He felt impatient with M. de Broglie for allowing himself to be forced into the city, and impatient even with M. de Belleisle for not moving before the winter set in, for now they could not move for three, perhaps four, months.
Even if the Austrians disappeared from under the walls to-morrow it would be impossible to stir from the city in this utter severity of cold. M. de Vauvenargues saw that the generalship that had brought them to lie useless in Prague was as wrong as the policy that had offered assistance to Frederick of Prussia. He did not admire the war nor the causes that had brought it about; but he was merely one of thousands of pawns that had no choice as to where they stood.
The wind was so insistently chill that he moved from his post overlooking the town and turned, still thoughtful, towards that portion of the rambling buildings of the Hradcany where his regiment was quartered.
Before he reached it he met his colonel, M. de Biron, who caught hold of his arm rather eagerly.
“A messenger from Paris,” whispered the Duke. “Came with letters to M. Belleisle—he has sent for M. de Broglie.”
The second in command was not loved by the Maréchal; that they should be in consultation seemed to both the young officers as if the news from France must be serious.
“When shall we know?” asked M. de Vauvenargues.
“Not before the morning,” sighed the colonel.
They entered the guardroom together: the chamber was full of the perfume of Virginian tobacco and pleasantly warm. Georges d’Espagnac was playing cards at a curious old table inlaid with ivory; his fair young face was flushed with