Читать книгу The Quest of Glory - Bowen Marjorie - Страница 3

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The Austrian guns had ceased with the early sunset, and the desolate city of Prague was silent, encompassed by the enemy and the hard, continuous cold of a Bohemian December: in the hall of Vladislav in the Hradcany, that ancient palace of ancient kings that rose above the town, several French officers wrapped in heavy cloaks were walking up and down, as they had done night after night since the dragging siege began. In the vast spaces of the huge pillarless hall with the high arched Gothic roof, bare walls and floor, imperfectly lit by a few low-placed lamps, their figures looked slight to insignificance, and the sound of their lowered voices was a mere murmur in the great frozen stillness. At one end of the hall rose a tall carved wooden throne and rows of benches divided from the main hall by a light railing; these, which had once been the seats of the King and nobility of Bohemia, were now decayed and broken, and behind the empty chair of state was thrust a Bourbon flag tied with the blue and white colours that the French carried in compliment to the Elector of Bavaria, whom they, for many intricate reasons,—some wise, and some foolish, and none just,—were seeking to place on the Austrian throne as Charles II.

These officers, who were the unquestioning instruments of this policy of France, ceased talking presently and gathered round the degraded throne before which burnt a handful of charcoal over an iron tripod. The only near light was a heavy lamp suspended before the window; a stench of rank oil and powder filled even the cold air, which rasped the throat and the nostrils and had no freshness in it but only a great lifeless chill.

There were four of these officers, and as they stood round the struggling flame that leapt and sank on the brazier, the cross lights of fire and lamp showed a great similarity in their persons. It was noticeable how totally different they were from their surroundings; no one ever would have thought that they were of the breed that had built this vast barbaric hall or carved the bold monsters on the rude throne: in every line they stood confessed foreign, alien to this crude grandeur and of another nation, another civilization, old and thrice refined.

They were all slight men, though two were tall; they all wore under their cloaks the uniforms of the famous régiment du roi; and they all had their hair as carefully powdered and curled and their linen as fresh and elaborate as if they were at Versailles: yet it was now several months 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 worth the achieving.”

M. d’Espagnac smiled brilliantly and rose. “It is splendid to think there are difficulties 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.”