The Quest of Glory by Marjorie Bowen (book recommendations based on other books .txt) 📕

the exquisite pleasures of youth and

carelessness—there was probably no one there who could have brought a

keener delight to the enjoyment of the fair things of life—but Luc had

too fine a nature to be satisfied by sensation at second hand. Because

every one else affected light-heartedness, because the coloured lamps

were lit in the trees, because all were rich and presumably happy, his

soul could not keep festival.

 

M. de Biron soon left him. He felt as lonely as he had done when

standing on the Pont Neuf, and as serene. As soon as he could disengage

himself from the crowd he made his way from the terraces, arbours, and

fountains in front of the great château, and turned down one of the

magnificent alleys that opened mysteriously and alluring into dusky

vistas lit only by occasional beams from the young moon.

 

He walked rapidly, his spirits rising with the solitude. He had soon

passed the garlands of rich lights swung from tree to tree, the couples

walking slowly with swish of silk, soon completely lost sight of the

wonderful palace raised up luminous against the spring sky, and

distanced the fine strains of music from the violins and hautboys.

 

He reached a beautiful glade across which deer were wandering; the

silence was so marvellous that he caught his breath. Regardless of where

he was, of Ministers, of M. de Biron, he continued his way through the

spring night. The trees were almost in full leaf, and not a tremble

disturbed their dignity. Luc crossed the glade and came into a little

grove of elms, beyond which a small lake lay argent and motionless.

 

A sudden gust of perfume made him shiver with pleasure. All round the

water were planted thick rose bushes full in flower; the long trails of

foliage and blossom fell over and touched the smooth surface of the

lake. A little bridge of twisted rustic wood led to a pavilion that

shone, shaded with delicate trees, from a tiny island on the bosom of

the water.

 

A peach-coloured light issued from the windows and open door of this

pavilion and fell in long, still reflections across the water.

 

In a thicket of white thorn beyond a nightingale was singing, and there

were clouds of a pearl-blue colour lying softly about the moon.

 

Luc paused by the bridge; the exquisite enchantment of the place and

hour captivated his senses. He drew a sigh and bent over the roses;

their perfume came and went like the drawing of a breath. The

nightingale halted in his importunate song and was still. Luc could not

stay his feet; he softly crossed the little bridge and approached the

door of the pavilion that seemed the centre of this magic spot.

 

The flood of tremulous pink-gold light showed more roses clustering

close about the doorstep: white roses these, turned now to all hues of

soft amber and ivory and shimmering away into the luminous shadow that

concealed the walls of the pavilion.

 

Luc supposed that this was but one of the lavish festal arrangements; he

had seen several pavilions in the park, though none as remote as this.

As there was not a sign of movement nor any whisper of voices he thought

the place empty.

 

With his usual light step unconsciously still further subdued he entered

the pavilion.

 

It was one room, oval shaped, with white walls and ceiling and four

windows shaded with peach-tinted silk and open on the lake.

 

On the panels between the windows hung delicate drawings in pastel

framed by gilt ribbons, and in front of one window was a small table of

kingswood, which bore some tall Venetian wineglasses and a blue enamel

dish of bonbons. The furniture consisted of a low couch covered with

pale rich satin cushions all embroidered with garlands and coronals of

flowers, several chairs of the most delicate shape and make, and a gold

clavichord and harp, both wreathed with natural white roses.

 

The light came from a silver lamp shaded with silk that hung from the

ceiling.

 

In one corner was a pink satin screen, and as Luc’s first glance was

satisfying him that he was alone in this delicious apartment, a

gentleman came round this screen and stepped to the nearest window,

evidently without seeing the Marquis, who was, indeed, half in the

shadow of the outer air. This gentleman was of an appearance befitting

the occupier of such an exquisite place. He wore a white velvet coat so

embroidered with gold and pearl that the skirts stood stiff about him;

his waistcoat was pale violet silk glittering with crystal flowers; his

sword-hilt was gold and diamond; and there were diamonds in the black

cravat which fell over the gorgeous lace on his bosom. This much and the

extreme grace of his tall person Luc noticed in an instant; in the next

he was aware that he looked at the man whom he had seen a few days

before in the Rue du Bac cowering before the black coffin. Even though

he could only see a profile and the long grey curls that flowed beside

it he was sure.

 

Almost immediately the gentleman turned and was looking at him with a

pair of great dark blue eyes of a marvellous colour and lustre. The face

proved as fascinatingly beautiful as Luc had believed from his brief

glimpse. The expression was now reserved, haughty, and melancholy; the

perfect mouth with the dark upper lip, that showed how deep-hued his

hair was beneath the powder, was set firmly, the cleft chin slightly

raised. Handsome as the face was in line of feature, the most noticeable

thing about it was the superb colour of the eyes—literally a sapphire

blue, soft and yet flashing and vivid as the tint of a summer sky at

even. Luc had read of such eyes in poetry, but had never thought to see

them looking at him from a human face. With one hand, half hidden in the

delicate lace at his wrist, holding back the fine silk curtain that

concealed the silver lake, the gentleman stood, very much at his ease,

and addressed Luc.

 

“Do I know you?” he asked languidly.

 

It seemed to Luc an extraordinary question.

 

“No,” he answered on a smile. “I am, like yourself, one of His

Majesty’s guests.”

 

The other seemed to consider that answer with a kind of cold reflection;

his superb eyes travelled over Luc’s person with an open scrutiny which

the Marquis resented.

 

“I break upon your leisure, Monsieur,” he said.

 

“Stay,” answered the handsome gentleman calmly; “I am tired of being

alone. Perhaps you are amusing.”

 

Luc smiled again.

 

“Are you in want of amusement, Monsieur,” he asked, “on such a night—in

such a spot?”

 

The blue eyes stared.

 

“Such a night?” their owner repeated blankly.

 

“Do you,” asked Luc, “see no difference ‘twixt one night and another?”

 

The beautiful face smiled.

 

“Why, you are amusing.”

 

Luc laughed out loud.

 

“I never was thought to be so before,” he answered.

 

The gorgeous stranger moved the pink screen behind him and revealed a

small gilt table covered with cards. “Do you play?” he asked.

 

“I never had the time or the money,” said the Marquis simply. “You do?”

 

“I was the finest gambler in France, they say, before I was ten years

old,” was the listless reply; as he spoke he took the white chair before

the card table.

 

“Why, those who brought you up have something to answer for,” smiled

Luc. He took off his hat and seated himself on the corner of the sofa,

an elegant dark figure in his deep blue velvet against the light

background.

 

The other man was silent a moment, then he said in an even voice—

 

“God judge them—I think they have.”

 

He interested Luc intensely, by reason of his great beauty, his tragic

melancholy, and something indefinable in his manner that Luc could not

place. He was obviously a noble—possibly a great noble—but his air was

the air of some class Luc had never met. He was as much puzzled by it as

if he had suddenly found himself talking to some shopkeeper of the Rue

St. Honoré in disguise as a gentleman, or some foreigner passing as a

Frenchman; yet he could not have named what this man did or said that

was out of the ordinary.

 

“Monsieur,” he said, “you seem to me very melancholy, and yet, methinks,

you appear one of fortune’s favourites.”

 

“In what way?” was the almost wondering answer.

 

Luc was near moved to laughter again, then to a great pity.

 

“You have youth and health, I know, Monsieur, and, I think, money and

leisure—probably a great name and power. Am I right?”

 

“I have all those,” answered the other wearily. “But what have those

things to do with content?”

 

“There are men,” smiled Luc, “who have neither money nor health nor

power, only great ambitions—unsatisfied.”

 

“Ambitions!” The blue eyes widened.

 

“If you have power you can gratify your ambitions, doubtless, Monsieur,”

remarked the Marquis dryly; “but you seem to me one who hath known

nothing but ease.”

 

The other leant forward a little; his gaze was fixed on Luc in an

interested fashion.

 

“Who are you?”

 

Luc’s shyness returned.

 

“I was a soldier,” he said briefly; “I am now merely M. de Vauvenargues,

who has still his use to find.”

 

“What do you wish to do?”

 

“To serve the King,” answered Luc without affectation. “The King! I

suppose it is a profitable employment to serve the King.”

 

The sneer was so manifest that Luc replied with some warmth—

 

“No, Monsieur; but it is honourable, and I look for honour.”

 

“Then,” returned the gentleman with even deeper scorn, “you are unique

in France.”

 

Luc flushed to his brow and his reserve vanished again. “If you think

that,” he replied earnestly, “it is clear that you have never been with

the army.”

 

“The army!” repeated the other with an air of cynical haughtiness, and

Luc began to be impatient with the gloomy voluptuary who appeared to be

sunk in such a sloth of mind that he was incapable even of appreciation.

 

“Had you been with us during the retreat from Prague, Monsieur, you

would know how real heroism can be; there was neither profit nor glory

for many thousands there who lay down to die in the snow—content to

serve the King.”

 

The stranger gazed at him without a change of expression.

 

“What do you hope for at Court?” he asked.

 

“I have nothing to offer but my zeal,” replied Luc, “and I expect

nothing but some scope in which to serve His Majesty.”

 

He was answered by a short laugh.

 

“I repeat that you are quite unique, Monsieur.”

 

“There are more men in France than you or I could count, Monsieur, who

feel as I,” returned Luc proudly, “and you are unfortunate that you have

spent your life in such a fashion as never to have met them.”

 

The other narrowed his eyes with that superb insolence that seemed to

Luc at variance with his obvious high breeding.

 

“I can assure you,” he said, “you are unique—at least in my

experience,” he added, with no softening in his voice, which was as

beautiful as his person, but marred with an inflexion of gloom and

scorn.

 

Luc rose; he longed to be out in the night again, alone with his own

aspirations.

 

“We waste time very foolishly,” he said. “Pardon me that I intruded on

you, Monsieur.” He turned towards the door and looked with joy on