The Quest of Glory - Marjorie Bowen (most interesting books to read txt) 📗
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manner that the young officer suspected he was in truth deeply troubled.
“Very well, Monsieur,” he answered. “I suppose we may look for some
relief with the dawn?”
“I think the orders will be to march at daybreak,” answered de Broglie.
He touched his beaver and rode on, first adding gravely, “Pray God it
does not snow again.”
The Marquis remained holding the lantern and looking at the huddled
shape of men and horses. A vast pity for the waste and unseen courage of
war gripped his heart; none of these men complained, the horses dropped
silently, the very mules died patiently—and what was the use of it? The
war was wanton, unprovoked, expensive, and, so far, a failure; it had
nothing heroic in its object, which was principally to satisfy the
ambitious vanity of M. de Belleisle and the vague schemes of poor old
well-meaning Cardinal Fleury who had never seen a battle-field in his
life.
The end seemed so inadequate to the sacrifice asked. The Marquis had
seen the soldiers suffer and die in Prague with secret pangs, but this
seemed a sheer devastation. It was impossible to stand still long in
that cold; it was obvious that nothing could be done till the dawn. He
pulled out his silver filigree watch, but it had stopped.
Slowly he moved through the camp. Now the snow had ceased, several
pitiful little fires were springing up in sheltered spots; and the men
were moving about in their heavy wraps, and the surgeons coming in and
out the groups of wounded and sick.
A dog barked in a home-sick fashion; there was not a star visible. A
Hussite pastor came within range of the Marquis’s lantern; he was
carrying a limp child, and murmuring, in the strange Bohemian, what
seemed a prayer.
Soon the flickering orbit of light fell on a Catholic priest kneeling
beside a dying man whose face was sharp and dull. He too prayed, but the
familiar Latin supplications were as outside the Marquis’s sympathy as
the Hussite’s appeal; he was tolerant to both, but his thoughts just
touched them, no more. A strange haughty sadness came over his heart; he
felt disdainful of humanity that could be so weak, so cruel, so patient.
His lantern had evidently been near empty of oil, for it began to
flicker and flare, and finally sank out.
He put it from him and felt his way over a pile of rocks that rose up
suddenly sheer and sharp.
Nothing could be done till the dawn; it was doubtful even if he could
find his way back to his own regiment. He seated himself on the rock,
wrapped his cloak tightly about him, and waited.
He thought that he must be in some kind of shelter, for he did not feel
the wind, and here the cold was certainly less severe.
His sombre mood did not long endure; he ceased to see the darkness
filled with weary, dispirited, wounded men; rather he fancied it full of
light and even flowers, which were the thoughts, he fancied, and
aspirations of these poor tired soldiers.
Obedience, courage, endurance, strength blossomed rich as red roses in
the hearts of the feeblest of these sons of France—and in the bosom of
such as Georges d’Espagnac bloomed a very glory, as of white passion
flowers at midsummer; and in his own heart there grew enough to render
the bloodstained night fragrant.
He smiled at his conceit, but it was very real to him. He had not eaten
since early the previous day; he wondered if he was beginning to grow
light-headed, as he had done once before in Italy when he had been
without food and several hours in the sun.
The reflection brought back a sudden picture of Italy, hard,
brightly-coloured, gorgeous, brilliant; he shivered with a great longing
for that purple sunshine that scorched the flesh and ran in the blood.
In particular he recalled a field of wheat sloping to a sea which was
like a rough blue stone for colour, and huge-leaved chestnut trees of an
intense reddish green that cast a bronze shadow growing near, and the
loud humming of grasshoppers persistently—no, he thought, that did not
come in the wheat, but in the short dried grass, burnt gold as new clay
by the sun; the sun—that sun he had scarcely seen since he left Paris.
A shuddering drowsiness overcame him; his head fell on his bosom, and he
sank to sleep.
When he woke it was with a sense of physical pain and the sensation that
light was falling about him in great flakes; his clearing senses told
him that this was the dawn, and that he was giddy. He sat up, to find
himself in a natural alcove of rock overgrown with a grey dry moss
frozen and glittering; a jutting point partially shut off his vision,
but he could see enough of dead men and horses and painfully moving
troops in the strip of ravine immediately below him. He unfolded his
cloak from his stiff limbs, and by the aid of his sword rose to his
feet. As he did so, he raised his eyes, and then gave an involuntary cry
of wonder and pleasure.
Immediately behind him was a silver fir, perhaps a hundred feet high, as
high at least as a village steeple, rising up, branch on branch, till it
tapered to a perfect finish; and in the flat topmost boughs the sun,
struggling through frowning blank grey clouds, rested with a melancholy
radiance.
The Marquis had seen many such trees in Bohemia, and there was nothing
extraordinary that he should, unwittingly, have slept under one; yet his
breath was shaken at the sight of the tall, unspoilt beauty of this
common silver fir with the sun in the upper branches, and he could not
tell why.
He supported himself against the trunk and closed his eyes for a moment;
his body was stabbed with pain, and his head seemed filled with restless
waves of sensation. He had never been robust, and it had often been a
keen trouble to him that he could not support hardship like some men,
like most soldiers. He set his teeth and with an effort opened his eyes.
The first sight they met was that of a woman riding a white horse coming
round the fir tree.
He knew her instantly for the Countess Koklinska, and she evidently knew
him, for she reined up her horse, which she rode astride like a man, and
looked down at him with a direct glance of recognition.
“I have forgotten your name,” she said, “but I remember you, Monsieur.
You are ill,” she added.
He blushed that she should see his weakness, and mastered himself
sufficiently to step to her stirrup.
“I found a lodging in Pürgitz,” she said, “and food; but there has been
great suffering among your men.”
Her attire was the same as when he had seen her last—barbaric and
splendid, dark furs, scarlet powdered with gold, turquoise velvet and
crimson satin; her face was pinched and sallow, but her eyes were clear
and expressive under the thick long lashes.
“I wish we had no women with us,” said the Marquis faintly.
She dismounted before he had divined her intentions, and drew a silver
flask from her sash, and held it out to him in her white fur gloved
hands.
“Only a little poor wine,” she murmured humbly, and she had the cup
ready and the red wine poured out.
He thanked her gravely and drank with distaste; their heavy gloves
touched as he handed the horn goblet back to her and again their eyes
met.
In the pale, clear winter morning he looked dishevelled, pallid, and
sad, but his eyes were steady, and held the same look as had lightened
them in the chapel of St. Wenceslas.
“If there are no more storms, we shall do very well,” he remarked
quietly. “I think there are no more than twenty leagues to Eger, and M.
de Saxe took this route last year with but little loss.”
“Not in this weather,” returned the Countess Carola. “And M. de
Belleisle is not Maurice de Saxe.”
Both her remarks were true, but the Marquis would not confirm them; he
bowed gravely, as if displeased, and passed down the rocky path.
She remained beside the silver fir looking after him. The cold clouds
had closed over the feeble sun and the wind blew more icy; all the
sounds of a moving camp came with a sharp clearness through the pure,
glacial air.
The Marquis made his way up the ascent to where his regiment bivouacked.
His progress was slow; the sky became darker and lower as he ascended,
and his way was marked by the frozen dead and the unconscious dying. He
turned a point of rock to see the figure of Georges d’Espagnac standing
at the edge of a little precipice fanning some glimmering sticks into a
flame. Then the snow began; suddenly a few flakes, then a dense storm
that blended heaven and earth in one whirl of white and cold.
The snow fell without a break for three days; on the morning of the
fourth it ceased a little, and by the time M. de Belleisle had reached
Chiesch stopped.
The army had now been a week on the road, and the Maréchal hoped by a
forced march to reach Eger, on the borders of Bavaria, with those who
remained of the thirty thousand men who had marched out of Prague.
The famous régiment du roi, reduced to half their number, had fallen
out of the vanguard, and stumbled along as best they might through the
rocky ravines and high mounting roads. There was no longer any order in
the army; the retreat had been one horror of death; men fell every
moment, and were quickly buried in the silent snow; the wretched
refugees died by the hundred. The waste of life was appalling; M. de
Vauvenargues felt sick and delirious from the constant spectacle of this
helpless agony; men dropped to right and left of him, he passed them at
every step on the route; two of his fellow-officers had died the same
night; it was like a shrieking nightmare to the Marquis to have to leave
them, carrion in the snow; and now the strength of young Georges
d’Espagnac began to fail; both had long ago lost their horses; M. de
Biron himself was walking; there was indeed scarcely an animal left in
the army; gun carriages and wagons had been abandoned all along the
route as the mules died.
As the sombre evening obscured the awful sights along the line of march,
the thing that the Marquis had been dreading for the last two days
happened: Georges d’Espagnac lurched and fell insensible by his side. M.
de Biron looked over his shoulder.
“Poor child,” he murmured; then, to the Marquis, “It is death to stop;
you can do no good. Come on.”
But M. de Vauvenargues shook his head and drew the wasted young figure
out of the ghastly march.
A wagon with a broken wheel rested close by with two dead mules still in
the traces and the corpse of a fair-haired woman flung across them, just
as she had crawled out of the way. The Marquis wondered vaguely why they
should have dragged this wagon so far; the covering at the back was
open, and the heavy canvas flaps rose and fell sluggishly in the bitter
wind, while from the interior had fallen a silver dessert
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