The Quest of Glory by Marjorie Bowen (book recommendations based on other books .txt) 📕
- Author: Marjorie Bowen
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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 bâton 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 warmth and animation and showed dazzling through the smoke
wreaths.
Maréchal de Belleisle lay full length on a couch of saffron-coloured
satin with his head raised on a pile of silk cushions.
His room was one of the royal apartments in the Hradcany, and was most
splendidly furnished with his own luxurious belongings: the floor was
covered with a silk carpet; the walls hung with bright tapestry; the
chairs were gilt and ash-wood; the many small tables held all manner of
rich articles of gold, tortoiseshell, porcelain, and enamel, books
richly bound, and caskets of sweets and preserved fruits. The light came
entirely from crystal lamps suspended from gilt chains and supported by
the ivory figures of flying cupids. A great clear fire burnt on the
hearth, and near it was an ormolu writing-desk, on which were a few
papers and a number of extravagant articles of gold and precious stones.
The Maréchal was a man of middle life with an appearance denoting great
pride and energy. He wore a white and scarlet brocade dressing-gown over
black breeches and waistcoat of the extreme of fashion; his feet and
legs were bandaged to the knee; the upper part of his person glittered
with jewels—in the seals at his watch-chain, in the heavy lace at his
throat, and on his strong, smooth fingers. His face was unnaturally pale
and expressed a cold despair; his full brown eyes stared in absorbed
trouble across the beautiful little room; and in his right hand he
tightly grasped a letter from which swung the seals of France. He moved
his head with a quick breath as his valet open the door and announced—
“Monsieur le Duc de Broglie.”
M. de Belleisle compressed his lips and his head sank back on the
pillows again. M. de Broglie entered; the door closed behind him; he
bowed and crossed to the fire.
“Be seated,” said the Maréchal, with a bitter kind of courtesy.
M. de Broglie brought his handkerchief to his lips with a little cough.
He was splendidly attired in full uniform, but wore his bright chestnut
hair unpowdered and tied with a turquoise ribbon. He was by some years
younger than the Maréchal and a man of great charm in his appearance.
“You have heard from Paris?” he asked, glancing at the letter the other
held. “From M. de Fleury, Monsieur?” As he named the Minister who
guided the affairs of France the Maréchal groaned. “From M. de Fleury?”
he repeated, and looked sternly at the careless figure of M. de Broglie.
He, the Maréchal de Belleisle, restless, ambitious, capable, confident,
had planned this war. It was he who, dazzled by visions of acquiring for
France a large portion of the possessions of the seemingly helpless
Queen of Hungary, had travelled from court to court of the little states
of Germany animating them against Maria Theresa; it was he who had
persuaded Cardinal Fleury to offer the alliance of France to Frederick
of Prussia when that prince seized Silesia; and it was he who had
marched the French auxiliaries across the Rhine and successfully
counter-moved Prince Lobkowitz and his Hungarians during several months
of uneventful warfare.
From the first he had never liked M. de Broglie; his feeling became
bitter contempt when his illness left M. de Broglie in command and that
General’s first action was to allow himself and almost the entire French
force to be cornered in Prague.
M. de Belleisle, though unable to stand or ride, had insisted on being
carried into the city and reassuming his authority. Since then the
relations of the two, in their open enmity, had been matter for comment
to the whole army.
M. de Broglie saw, however, to-night a stronger passion than aversion to
himself in the Maréchal’s haggard face—saw, indeed, an expression that
caused him to check the careless courtesies with which he was generally
ready to vex his superior.
“I see this is serious,” he remarked; “but you leave me, Monsieur,
utterly at a loss.”
The Maréchal made a restless movement on his sumptuous couch and half
sat up, resting on his elbow. The long powdered curls that fell over
his black solitaire and embroidered shirt were no more colourless than
his face; his lips quivered and his eyes were narrowed as if he
restrained pain.
“M. de Broglie,” he said strongly, “you had better have been dead than
have brought the army into Prague.”
The younger General paled now; but raised his eyebrows haughtily; his
right hand closed over the smooth red silk tassels of his sword.
“This is an old subject, Monsieur,” he answered coldly. “I am ready to
answer for my conduct at Versailles—I have told you so before.”
“Versailles!” exclaimed the Maréchal grimly. “There are not many of us,
Monsieur, who will see Versailles again.”
M. de Broglie rose to his feet; the powerful firelight lent a false
colour to his face.
“What is your news from France, Maréchal?” he asked softly.
With a fierce gesture M. de Belleisle cast down the letter he held.
“This—we are to vacate Prague and join Maillelois at Eger—on the
instant.”
“It is not possible,” stammered M. de Broglie. The Maréchal interrupted
him passionately—
“My orders are there. The old man is in his dotage. Thirty leagues to
Eger along unbroken ice—a retreat in this weather, when the men are
dying under my eyes even in shelter.”
The Duc de Broglie was startled and shocked beyond concealment.
“It cannot be done!” he ejaculated.
“There are my orders,” answered the Maréchal bitterly. “How many men
does the Cardinal think I shall get to Eger? My God, it will be a
disaster to make Europe stare—and the end of the war.”
As he thought of the proud ambitions with which he had first meddled in
the affairs of Austria, the difficulty he had had in wringing authority
from Versailles for this alliance with Frederick of Prussia, the trouble
to persuade that crafty King himself to accept the dangerous protection
of France—as he thought of the splendid army he had poured into
Bohemia, and saw now the end of that army and of the war in a
catastrophe that would make France groan—and through no fault of his
own, but because of the ignorant blunder of a foolish old priest in
Paris—two haughty tears forced from his eyes and rolled down his thin
cheeks.
M. de Broglie was breathless as a tired runner; he put out his hand
mechanically and grasped an enamelled snuffbox that lay among the
frivolous trifles on the gilt desk.
“M. de Fleury does not know,” he whispered, “either a Bohemian winter or
the route from here to Eger.”
The Maréchal fixed him with fierce wet eyes.
“You are answerable for this, M. le Duc—you and you alone—and I must
pay for your careless folly.”
“Monsieur,” answered the other General, “I made Prague a shelter. I did
not imagine that any sane man would order a retreat from it—in
midwinter.”
From the table near his couch M. de Belleisle took a map rudely drawn
and coloured; he stared at the cross he had himself drawn which denoted
Eger, the quarters of M. de Maillelois.
“Sane!” he said furiously; “no one will think we are sane. King
Frederick will laugh at us and curse too. Oh, if I were in Versailles or
the old Cardinal here!”
He rang the elegant bell on the table and his valet instantly appeared.
“Draw the curtains,” ordered the Maréchal.
The man pulled back the soft straw-coloured silk from the blackness of
the window.
“Open the casement.”
The valet obeyed; a blast of frozen air set the lamp flickering.
“What manner of night is it?” asked the Maréchal. “Snowing,
Monseigneur,” shivered the valet.
The heavy flakes whirled in out of the darkness and settled on the
polished floor; the Maréchal looked at them in a bitter absorption.
“Close the window,” cried M. de Broglie; he was blenching in the deep
cold that had in an instant chilled the luxurious little chamber.
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