The Quest of Glory - Marjorie Bowen (most interesting books to read txt) 📗
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with ink; his neckcloth was coarse, though newly washed and folded
neatly; his stockings were thick and woollen, his shoes heavy. He wore
no wig, and his hair was long again, and tied with a black ribbon, but
colourless and grey about the front, as if it had been powdered. Joseph
marked the absence of sword, watch, and ring. He did not mark the fine
freshness of the rough attire, nor reflect on the effort this decent
cleanliness meant to the man who lived alone, half blind, and in such
poverty.
“My father!” he murmured. “My father!”
“Did he send you?” asked Luc.
“No.”
“Has he ever spoken of me?”
“No.”
“Nor my mother?”
“No.”
“You—think they are right?”
“Yes.”
“Why are you here?” asked Luc patiently.
“Because,” was the fierce answer, “I cannot endure a de Clapiers to die
in a hospital, and be buried at the expense of public charity.”
The elder brother lifted his ruined face and smiled. “What do you want
of me?” he asked.
“You must come to my hotel—”
Luc interrupted.
“You cannot coax back when dying the man you have cast out,” he said
gently. “Nor would it soothe your pride if he should expire on your
hearth. You think I am disgraced, accursed. You perhaps even hate me.”
“I think I do,” breathed Joseph heavily.
Luc rose.
“Then leave me. I have so little time left for anything; none at all for
hate. I want to die alone. Go your way, Joseph. When I left Aix
something broke that is past mending.”
“I think the Devil possesses you,” cried Joseph. “But you are Luc de
Clapiers, and you shall not live in beggary among the scum of Paris.”
“I am Luc de Clapiers,” replied the Marquis—“remember it. I am not
what I look, but what I was born: a gentleman of quality, who upholds
his own honour—as well here as in Aix, as well here as in Bohemia. Be
content; I shall not disgrace you.”
Joseph half laughed.
“Disgrace! I think you deny God?”
“And the Devil—and all you believe, perhaps, Joseph,”—his voice had an
exalted yet tender note,—“but maybe I shall sleep well just the same
in my unconsecrated grave.”
The younger man stepped back, clenched his strong right hand, and struck
his breast.
“For the honour of our nobility, for the respect you once bore our
mother, in the name of the God you outrage, I conjure you come with me.
Let a priest shrive you—”
Luc broke in with a sudden flash of vitality.
“Do you think I am going to be false to all I believe—now? Now,”—he
dropped into his chair again; his strength was slipping from him, but he
beat the words out with a great labour of his breath,—“now—when I
have—so nearly won?”
“You! You who have failed in everything you have undertaken!”
Luc put a thin, trembling hand on the book—a small humble volume—and
the loose sheets of paper lying on the table.
“I have administered to the truth within me,” he said, and, still
keeping his hand on the book, he forced himself to raise his head, that
had sunk, through sheer bodily weakness, into his bosom, until he looked
his brother in the face.
“You have dishonoured a noble house,” said Joseph hoarsely; “and I shall
never forgive you, dead or living.”
“Ah!” answered Luc softly, regretfully. “The pity of such words as
those!” His head drooped a little again.
“The pity,” he added wistfully, “of all our fierce passions, our curses,
our hatreds, our wrongs to one another, when there is so little any of
us can do, and so little time to do it in. And we waste our few chances.
Do not hate me—Joseph. I shall always love you.”
The younger brother was silent. It might be his heart prompted him to
forgive; that old affection stirred. But the wrong against his religion,
his pride, his order was too strong; the offences he raged against were
unforgivable; the wrath, the disgust, the shame he had nourished in his
heart since Luc’s departure from Aix were rather fanned than mollified
by the sight of the dying man who had aroused these emotions.
Luc took advantage of his silence to speak again.
“Since you have come, Joseph,” he said, “let us part in friendship. We
are the two last of our family, and—after all—that is something.”
“Will you leave this?” demanded the younger man, not kindly, but with a
suppressed violence. “Will you come with me?”
“No,” replied Luc. “This is my place now. And it is easier for me to
refuse you, Joseph, because I know that pride, not love, asks this.”
“Pride!” echoed Joseph. “You have the damnable pride of the Devil. You
prefer your garret—your accursed book “—he snatched the thin volume
from under Luc’s frail fingers, and cast it on the ground—“your
outcast friends—to your family, your honour, your home.”
The Marquis made a faint gesture of sorrow and protest. “This is not
needful,” he murmured. But Joseph’s vigorous voice overbore his feeble
ones.
“Very well, then,” he continued; “die in the miserable loft your
dishonourable conduct has brought you o, and leave us to endure your
disgrace—as we have endured it since you left Aix!”
Luc got to his feet again, and stood holding on to the edge of the
table.
“You will be able to blot me from your annals very completely soon,” he
said. “When I am dead, no one will speak of me, and you can forget.”
He lifted his hand and let it fall. The little pile of silver pieces was
knocked over by the gesture, and the money rolled across the floor to
the feet of the younger brother.
“Is this Voltaire’s charity?” he cried.
Luc lifted his head, and smiled.
“No. I sold my sword this morning. So you see I can pay for my own
coffin, Joseph.”
He sat down again and hid his face in his two hands, as if he was
greatly fatigued, and wished to compose his thoughts. There was a
dignity about this movement and pose, as if he had withdrawn himself into
final silence. Joseph had no more weapons; his wrath flared impotently.
He stared fiercely at his brother, and set his scarlet heel on the book
he had flung on the floor; then, in white haughtiness and bitter
speechlessness, left the garret.
“I am tired,” said Luc to himself; “tired—tired.”
He dropped his hands, and rose and looked round for the crushed volume
Joseph had spurned with his foot. As he stooped to pick it up he heard a
soft yet swelling crash of music.
“Soldiers,” he murmured, “going to the—war.”
The music gathered in strength until it culminated in an almost
intolerable crescendo of passionate exaltation. It seemed to be very
near, almost in the room. Luc found himself on his knees, quivering in
the sound of it. The music began to paint pictures in the garret, and
Luc’s blindness did not prevent his seeing them: gorgeous banners draped
the bare rafters, and a procession with flags, shields, and drums
crossed the humble floor, and broke away the mean walls, and let in the
great clouds and the strong sunbeams, and showed a vast span of pure
light that dazzled into the infinite distance.
A company with sublime tread was passing over this bridge, and they
smiled at Luc.
He felt the clouds closing round him and the light enveloping him. One
of the martial figures was a woman who looked at him with royal eyes.
Luc rose. He felt himself straight and strong. He held out his arms
towards the rolling golden clouds that entered through the broken walls,
towards the procession that crossed the arc of light.
“O God of mine, whom I have laboured not to offend, take me back whence
I came!” he cried.
As he spoke, he felt himself drawn into the company with the flags and
swords, and with immortal light on his face he set his foot on the end
of the dazzling arc.
*
M. de Voltaire, that evening, found him lying across the floor, with his
head on his book, his right hand where his sword should have been, and
the silver pieces scattered about him sparkling in the cold spring
moonlight that fell through the high, open garret window.
A girl in a straight white muslin gown, and a cap with green ribbons,
was seated on the brim of a fountain in the garden of a house in Aix,
listening dutifully to an old man, who, with the self-absorption of
extreme age, was talking of the past in a low, slightly fretful voice.
Clémence de Fortia disguised a wandering attention. She had a letter in
the bosom of her gown that she wished to read and re-read in private—a
letter from a young deputy in Paris, full of the wonders, the scandals,
the terrors of these last years of the century and first years of the
French Republic.
It was midsummer, and the garden was knee-deep in flowers, all coloured
by the sun and shaken by the warm breeze. The old man sat on a wicker
chair under the tree that shaded the fountain with a rug about his
knees. He must have been over eighty years of age, and he was dressed in
the fashion of that period that was now completely over, and in the
style of that aristocracy that had lately fallen, terribly and for ever.
“Your grandmother was betrothed to my elder brother once, Mademoiselle
Clémence,” he said, taking up his broken talk after a pause.
“Why, I did not know that you ever had a brother, Monsieur,” she
answered, interested.
A look of distress and regret passed over the fine old face.
“He died fifty years ago,” he murmured, “in Paris—in the arms of M. de
Voltaire. Fifty years! I have lived too long.”
“Ah, no!” smiled the young girl brightly. “The times have been very
terrible, but I cannot help thinking that all is very new and glorious
now.”
“Your grandmother would never have said that.” The old Marquis de
Vauvenargues fixed her with sad eyes. “But you are a child of your
generation, despite the blood in your veins.”
“Things have changed so!” she said, humouring him.
“Ah, yes!—things have changed!” he repeated. And his chin sank on the
lace ruffles on his breast. “I meant that when I said I had lived too
long. I should have wished to die before I saw the things I have seen in
France.”
Clémence de Fortia laid her warm pink fingers over his dry white hands.
“I know,” she said. “But here we escaped the worst; and—somehow—” She
paused; she was thinking of the letter near her heart. What did changing
dynasties matter after all, was her reflection, when the essential
things were the same? Aloud she finished her sentence with a smile: “It
is so pleasant in the garden, Monsieur, that I cannot help being happy!”
The old man smiled also, but his eyes were dim with memories.
“Here is my father!” cried Mademoiselle de Fortia, springing to her
feet. “And you will want to talk to him!”
She ran across the sunny grass to meet a man of middle age, dressed in
the fashion of the Revolution.
“M. de Vauvenargues is sad to-day,” she whispered. “I tried to comfort
him, but he is so very, very old. And I
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