The Quest of Glory - Marjorie Bowen (most interesting books to read txt) 📗

have dreamt of you so often,” he said gravely; his lips were

quivering and his eyes filled with tears. “You could never understand—”

 

He laid his hand very lightly on her cloak; she looked up suddenly and

said almost fiercely—

 

“Do not kiss me—do not touch me.”

 

He would as soon have thought of trying to clasp the rainbow or press

his lips to a moonbeam. He started, and flushed, and winced.

 

“Not you,” she continued. “I could so easily hate you if you were to

bring it to that. I also have had my dreams.”

 

She was suddenly stripped of glory; her voice was even a little harsh;

her attitude of shrinking distaste had nothing of the divine in it. Luc

stared at her with a sudden terror; she seemed to be changing under his

very eyes.

 

She rose again, drooping yet stately, and drew her cloak about her.

 

“Nothing has happened!” she exclaimed vehemently. “Do you hear—nothing

has happened!”

 

“Why do you deny yourself?” cried Luc. “Why are you lying to me?”

 

“Nothing has happened!” she repeated; “nothing. Keep your dreams.”

 

It seemed to Luc that she, while she spoke, was looking beyond him at

some one else, and with a throbbing brain he turned and gazed towards

the gloomy back of the house.

 

There was, as he had expected, a man coming slowly towards them.

 

Luc stiffened and narrowed his eyes.

 

“This is the man who will be useful to you,” said Carola, in an ordinary

tone.

 

The stranger, who wore a black velvet mantle and a hat with a high white

plumage fastened by a steel loop and button that glittered in the strong

sun, approached at an easy gait. When he uncovered to the Countess, Luc

recognized, with an angry heart, M. de Richelieu.

 

The Duke marked him with instant and unmistakeable surprise.

 

“Is this your friend, Madame?” he said, in no pleased tone.

 

“You know each other?” asked Carola.

 

“We have a slight acquaintance,” answered the Duke grandly.

 

“One I shall not presume on, Monsieur,” said Luc, burning to think that

perhaps M. de Richelieu thought he wished to solicit the benefits he had

once refused.

 

“You did not expect to see me nor I you,” replied M. de Richelieu,

absolutely composed and courteous, “but our previous knowledge of each

other need not interfere with the matter on hand now.”

 

Luc bowed, not at all satisfied. He did not desire any favour, direct or

indirect, from M. de Richelieu; he did not like to see him on these

terms of intimacy with the Countess; he did not wish such a man

introduced into his life.

 

The only thing that kept him from proudly taking his leave was the

conviction that both Carola and the Duke had been quite innocent of

planning the situation, she being ignorant that M. de Richelieu and he

had met before, and the Duke being unaware that her protégé was M. de

Vauvenargues.

 

Therefore Luc felt that his refusal to listen to their proposals would

be ungrateful to Carola, and put him in a foolish position towards the

Duke, who had already gracefully carried off the encounter.

 

The Countess on her part appeared confused; she obviously wondered when

these two had met, and why Luc had not mentioned his acquaintance with

the Duke.

 

“You know M. le Maréchal!” she exclaimed. “Then my task—to bring you to

an understanding of each other—is the lighter.”

 

“I understand M. de Vauvenargues perfectly,” answered M. de Richelieu;

and, as if unwilling to prolong the conversation, he turned back towards

the house.

 

Luc, regarding him with an habitually keen observation, noticed that he

was considerably older than he had appeared on either of the two

previous occasions on which Luc had seen him.

 

In the lurid lights of the barn, in the shadowed softness of his own

luxurious apartment, he had seemed in his first youth; but now the

direct sunbeams that showed the red powder on Carola’s fine skin

revealed the face of M. de Richelieu as that of a man of middle age,

despite his slender, upright figure and careful dressing. His charm was

none the less; his slightly broad countenance wore the same expression

of almost irresistible daring gaiety and serene self-confidence. Luc

smiled at him in his heart, and so was half won.

 

The three entered the house by a side door and ascended a back

staircase. Luc thought the place seemed little used, a great mansion

often shut up. He neither saw nor heard servants.

 

Carola went ahead with M. de Richelieu; he, as if disdainful of being

overheard, said in a voice hardly lowered—

 

“You have chosen the wrong man, Madame; but if you wish to go on with

the comedy, I shall not interfere.”

 

Carola’s reply was such a mere murmur that Luc did not hear; nor did he

care what she said. He was content to leave this doubtful adventure in

her hands—whichever way it ended, he would come to some issue with her

before he left.

 

They entered upon a long wide corridor, the heavy candelabra and

gilt-legged furniture covered with linen on which the dust lay thickly;

the floor was of black and white squares of marble, the windows were

shuttered, the air struck musty and yet chill.

 

Carola opened a high door half-way down this corridor, and the two men

followed her into an ornately furnished room, where the sun streamed in

a melancholy fashion over silk screens, silk-hung walls, carved chairs,

and Eastern rugs. The room had an air of having been long deserted or

only used casually; the sunbeams showed dust everywhere, and one of the

wings of the elaborate shutters was still closed.

 

On a long crimson-striped sofa lay Carola’s hat, gloves, and cane. She

seated herself near on a fantastic chair of a Chinese pattern; behind

her was a picture covered by a faded pink curtain.

 

Luc looked at her and at nothing else. The presence of M. de Richelieu

was no longer anything to him; he was waiting for the explanation of

this mystery,—Carola Koklinska,—an explanation that had seemed on the

point of being revealed in the garden. What was she?—did she or did she

not fulfil his ideal of the spiritual power of perfect woman?—did he

love her as he knew he was capable of loving? He stood against the

closed shutter with his grave hazel eyes on her face. She was colourless

save for the false blush on her cheeks: he disliked that artificial

glow, and thought of her as she was among the Bohemian snows, haggard

and disfigured, yet more pleasing to him then than now.

 

M. de Richelieu glanced from one to the other with an eye of hawk-like

brightness.

 

“Do you wish me to speak?” he asked Carola, and cast his hat on to a

little tulip-wood table.

 

She bent her head, and the Duke turned with a quiet magnificence of

manner to Luc.

 

“Monsieur le Marquis, may I have—for a little—your attention?”

 

With an effort Luc took his eyes from Carola; he was not concerned with

what M. de Richelieu had to say.

 

In an even voice, with the air of one who courteously, but without

conviction, discharges a duty, the Duke began speaking. He related, from

the inside, politics that Luc knew already from the outside; he gave

details of the present state of affairs between the Courts of France,

Austria, England, and Prussia; he indicated the web of intrigues that

was continually being spun beyond the scrutiny of the public eye. Luc

listened without interest; he had already guessed that M. de Richelieu

intended, through the influence of the Countess, to offer him some

adventurous chance in politics, and he had already resolved to

refuse—he began, in fact, to understand.

 

Even while the Duke was speaking, Luc’s mind was still busy with the

problem of Carola. Once or twice he allowed his glance to rest on her:

she was seated with her pallid face supported between her long ringless

hands; her cloak had fallen apart, and a crystal heart that hung round

her neck by a thin silver chain swung and twinkled above her knees.

 

M. de Richelieu proceeded to unfold a plan for the confusion of Maria

Theresa. A young man had been prepared and instructed for the principal

rôle in this intrigue, but unfortunately had lost his life in a duel;

and Madame la Comtesse having declared she knew of some one to take his

place—The Duke paused.

 

“What is the task you wish me to undertake, Monsieur?” asked Luc,

without raising his head; while the Duke was speaking, a great many

things had become slowly plain.

 

M. de Richelieu told him with an almost crude brevity. He was to go to

the Austrian Court and proclaim himself neglected by his country; he was

to offer to serve Maria, the unfortunate Empress-Queen; he was to creep

into her confidences, and forward them to the French Ministers. “Madame

la Comtesse is going to Austria,” finished the Duke; “you would work in

collusion.”

 

An extraordinary calmness came over Luc. He slightly moved his attitude

against the shutter.

 

“In what capacity, Madame, are you going to the Court of Austria?” he

asked.

 

She made no answer.

 

The Duke looked steadily at Luc.

 

“You refuse, of course?” he said.

 

The Marquis smiled.

 

“I thank you, Monsieur, for the compliment. Your position is

awkward—and I am grateful for your courtesy.” He pressed his

handkerchief to his pale but firm lips.

 

The Duke gave a little bow.

 

“You did not understand?”

 

“No—but now I do.”

 

Carola, still holding her head in her hands, looked with great tragic

eyes from one to another. M. de Richelieu crossed over to her and laid

his hand on her shoulder.

 

“I always promised you, Madame, that you should have your own way in

your whims—and I have done what you asked me to. Unfortunately,

Monsieur de Vauvenargues .refuses.”

 

“He has had no time to consider,” she said, without changing her

attitude.

 

Luc stepped from the window.

 

“One word, M. le Duc—this is your house?”

 

“Yes,” answered M. de Richelieu, with the slightest lift of his delicate

brows.

 

“You know that,” breathed Carola; “from the first you must have known—”

 

“No,” said Luc. “I am from the provinces.”

 

The Duke’s clear glance went from one to another; he spoke very gravely,

with an even pride.

 

“I told Madame she had made a mistake. Perhaps Madame will explain?”

 

He picked up his hat.

 

“Shall I leave you to explain?” he insisted, looking full at Carola.

 

“Leave me to solve my enigma,” said Luc, with a smile. “Give me five

minutes, M. le Duc—”

 

“Are you so quick?” responded M. de Richelieu. “I will give you half an

hour in which to weary of guessing your riddle.”

 

His charming face relaxed into a soft and fleeting smile, he bowed low

to the haggard lady on the sofa, and left her alone with Luc.