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>man’s approval and confidence.

 

“Of course—you surely never doubt?”

 

“No.” Georges d’Espagnac smiled dreamily. “I have done nothing yet. I

have no task, no duty, no burden; there is nothing put to my

hand—everything is so golden that it dazzles me. I think that will

clear like dawn mists, and then I shall see what I am to do. You

understand, Monsieur?”

 

The young captain smiled in answer.

 

“I brought you here to say a prayer to St. Wenceslas,” he said.

 

M. d’Espagnac looked up at the picture above the altar.

 

A prince, and young; a saint, and brave; a knight, and murdered—it was

an ideal to call forth admiration and sorrow. The lieutenant went on his

knees and clasped his hands.

 

“Ah, Monsieur,” he said, half wistfully, “he was murdered—a villain’s

knife stopped his dreams. Death is unjust”—he frowned, “if I were to

die now, I should be unknown—empty-handed—forgotten. But it is not

possible,” he added sharply.

 

He drew from the bosom of his uniform a breviary in ivory with silver

clasps, opened it where the leaves held some dried flowers and a folded

letter, then closed it and bent his head against the altar rail as if he

wept.

 

Luc de Clapiers went to the bronze gates and looked thoughtfully down

the vast dusky aisles of the church, so cold, so alluring yet confusing

to the senses, so majestic and silent.

 

He stood so several minutes, then turned slowly to observe the young

figure kneeling before the barbaric Christian altar.

 

Georges d’Espagnac had raised his face; his cloak had fallen open on the

pale blue and silver of his uniform; the candle glowing on the silken,

crystal-encased armour of St. Wenceslas cast a pale reflected light on

to his countenance, which, always lovely in line and colour, was now

transformed by an unearthly passion into an exquisite nobility.

 

He was absolutely still in his exalted absorption, and only the liquid

lustre of his eyes showed that he lived, for his very breath seemed

suppressed.

 

The young captain looked at him tenderly. “Beautiful as the early

morning of spring,” he thought, “are the first years of youth.”

 

M. d’Espagnac rose suddenly and crossed himself.

 

“I would like to keep vigil here, as the knights used to,” he said—his

breath came quickly now. “How silent it is here and vast—and holy; an

outpost of heaven, Monsieur.”

 

His companion did not reply; he remained at the opening of the gates,

gazing through the coloured lights and shadows. The world seemed to have

receded from them; emotion and thought ceased in the bosom of each; they

were only conscious of a sensation, half awesome, half soothing, that

had no name nor expression.

 

The weary campaign, the monotonous round of duties, the sordid details

of the war, the prolonged weeks in Prague, the fatigues,

disappointments, and anxieties of their daily life—all memory of these

things went from them; they seemed to breathe a heavenly air that filled

their veins with delicious ardour, the silence rung with golden voices,

and the great dusks of the cathedral were full of heroic figures that

lured and beckoned and smiled.

 

A divine magnificence seemed to burn on the distant altar, like the

far-off but clearly visible goal of man’s supreme ambitions, nameless

save in dreams, the reward only of perfect achievement, absolute

victory—the glamour of that immaculate glory which alone can satisfy

the hero’s highest need.

 

To the two young men standing on the spot where the saintly prince fell

so many generations before, the path to this ultimate splendour seemed

straight and easy, the journey simple, the end inevitable.

 

The distant mournful notes of some outside clock struck the hour, and M.

d’Espagnac passed his hand over his eyes with a slight shiver; he was on

duty in another few minutes.

 

“Au revoir, Monsieur,” he said to the captain. Their eyes met; they

smiled faintly and parted.

 

M. d’Espagnac walked rapidly and lightly towards the main door of the

cathedral. He noticed now that it was very cold, with an intense,

clinging chill. He paused to arrange his mantle before facing the outer

air, and as he did so, saw suddenly before him a figure like his own in

a heavy military cloak.

 

The first second he was confused, the next he recognized the Polish lady

he had lately seen in the Vladislav Hall. He voiced his instinctive

thought.

 

“Why, Madame, I did not hear the door!”

 

“No,” she answered. “Did you not know that there was a secret passage

from the palace?” She added instantly—

 

“What is the name of your companion, Monsieur?”

 

He glanced where she glanced, at the slight figure of the young captain

standing by the bronze gates of the Wenceslas Chapel. He felt a shyness

in answering her; her manner was abrupt, and she seemed to him an

intruder in the church that had inspired such a religious mood in him.

She evidently instantly perceived this, for she said, with direct

haughtiness—

 

“I am the Countess Carola Koklinska.”

 

M. d’Espagnac bowed and flushed. He gave his own name swiftly.

 

“I am the Comte d’Espagnac, lieutenant in the régiment du roi; my

friend is Luc de Clapiers, Monsieur le Capitaine le Marquis de

Vauvenargues, of the same regiment, Madame la Comtesse.”

 

She laughed now, but in a spiritless fashion.

 

“Very well—I will speak to M. de Vauvenargues.”

CHAPTER III # CAROLA KOKLINSKA

The lady waited until M. d’Espagnac had left the church, then turned

directly to the gates of the Wenceslas Chapel, loosening, as she moved,

the heavy folds of her great cloak.

 

She came so directly towards him that the Marquis could not avoid

opening the gate and waiting as if he expected her, though in truth he

found her sudden appearance surprising.

 

“This is a famous chapel, is it not?” she remarked as she reached him.

She stepped into the deep glitter of the jewelled dusk, and the Marquis

felt the frozen air she brought in with her—cold even in the cold. He

smiled and waited. She stood a pace or two away from him, and he could

see her frosty breath.

 

“I am Carola Koklinska,” she added. “I have been in the church some

time, and I overheard what you said to your friend, M. de Vauvenargues.”

 

He still was silent; his smile deepened slightly. She moved towards the

altar and stood in the exact spot where M. d’Espagnac had knelt; with a

broken sigh she shook off her mantle and cast it down on the gorgeous

pavement. She was dressed in a fantastic and brilliant fashion: her long

blue velvet coat, lined and edged with a reddish fur, was tied under the

arms by a scarlet sash heavy with gold fringings; her crimson skirt came

scarcely below her knees and showed embroidered leather riding-boots and

long glimmering spurs; her coat was open at the bosom on a mass of fine

lace and linen worked with gold threads; she wore coral ornaments in her

ears and a long scarlet plume in her heavy cap of fox’s fur; her hands

were concealed in thick leather gloves embroidered with silk down the

backs; in her sash were a short sword and a gold-mounted riding-whip.

 

The Marquis noticed these details instantly, also that the lady herself,

in the setting of these strange Oriental garments, was pale and fair and

delicate as a white violet nourished on snow. She exhaled a powerful

perfume as of some Eastern rose or carnation: he had noticed it when she

crossed the Vladislav Hall.

 

“You are travelling to Paris?” he asked.

 

“I told you,” she replied, with a kind of delicate directness. “My

sister is maid-of-honour to the Queen Marie Leckinska, and as she is to

be married I am going to take her place. But we are delayed, it seems.

M. de Belleisle advises us to stay in the Hradcany till the spring.”

 

“Prague,” said the Marquis, “is full of travellers and refugees. No one

would willingly journey this weather.”

 

“I would, save that we have lost our sledges, our horses, our servants,

our escort. Sometimes it is colder than this in Russia.”

 

“You will find it dreary in Prague, Mademoiselle,” said the Marquis

kindly; “but when you reach Paris you will be recompensed.”

 

She fixed her large, clear and light brown eyes on his face.

 

“I told you I had heard what you said, Monsieur. Are you usually so

indifferent to eavesdroppers?”

 

“I said nothing that anyone might not hear—though not perhaps discuss,”

he answered gently.

 

“You mean you will not talk of these things to a woman!” she exclaimed

quickly. “And I suppose I seem a barbarian to you. But perhaps I could

understand as well as that young officer.” Her voice was slow and sad.

“I come from an heroic and unfortunate country, Monsieur. I also have

dreamt of glory.”

 

Still he would not speak; her frankness was abashed before his gentle

reserve.

 

“I came here to attend Mass,” she said hurriedly. “There is Mass here? I

have not been inside a church for many weeks.”

 

“Service is held here and well attended,” he replied, “but it is yet

too early.”

 

She still kept her eyes on him.

 

“My brother is finding lodgings—he is to meet me here. I will stay for

the Mass.”

 

The Marquis moved just outside the bronze gates so that the light of the

green lamps cast a sea-pearl glow over his person. He was looking

towards the high altar, and Carola Koklinska observed him keenly.

 

He appeared older than his years, which were twenty-seven, and was of a

delicate, though dignified and manly, bearing. A little above the medium

height, he carried himself with the full majesty of youth and health and

the perfect ease of nobility and a long soldier’s training. His face, in

its refinement, repose, and slight hauteur of composure, was typical of

his nation and his rank; his expression was given a singular charm by

the great sweetness of the mouth and the impression of reserved power

conveyed by the deep hazel eyes, which were of a peculiarly innocent and

dreamy lustre—not eyes to associate with a soldier, incongruous,

indeed, with the stiff gorgeous uniform and the pomaded curls that waved

loosely round his low serene forehead.

 

The details of his dress were fashionable and exquisite: he wore

diamonds in his neckcloth and his sword-hilt was of great beauty. His

manner and whole poise were so utterly calm that the Countess Carola

felt it difficult to associate him with the ardent voice that had spoken

to Georges d’Espagnac. He had put her very completely outside his

thoughts. She winced under it as if it were a personal discourtesy.

 

“I regret I intruded,” she said sincerely.

 

The Marquis gave her a look of astonishment; her open glance met his; he

blushed, opened his lips to speak, but did not.

 

“I also can admire St. Wenceslas,” she added.

 

She pulled off her clumsy cap, and long trails of smoke-black hair fell

untidily over her resplendent coat. She went on one knee before the

altar, snatched off her gloves, and clasped above her head her small

hands, which were white, stiff, and creased from the pressure of the

leather.

 

“I have been discourteous,” said the Marquis, and the ready colour

heightened in his delicate cheek.

 

The Countess Carola took no heed; she was murmuring prayers in her own

language, which to his ears sounded uncouth, but not unpleasing. He

moved respectfully away. An acolyte was passing before the high altar;

the door was swinging to and fro as several people—French, Bavarian,

and Bohemian—entered

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