“I have found that there is no such thing as glory on earth. And I have no belief in any heaven.”
As he spoke these words his face took on another tinge of pallor and a certain rigidity came over his features, giving them a look of death.
“You are unfortunate,” said Luc; “but you cannot say glory is not there because you have not achieved it with a paint-brush and a few yards of canvas.”
The painter broke into long and harsh laughter.
“That is good, very good!” he cried. “And you still believe in it, though you have failed to gain it with your sword and your cannon and all your noisy details of war?”
The Marquis rose and paced up and down the waxed, uneven floor. The painter’s laughter ended suddenly.
“If you could question the god, the creature, the beast who made me,” he said fiercely, “you would see that I commenced my life searching for the ideal—the ideal love, the ideal work, the ideal reward at the end of it; and though my heart was pure, my courage high, and my industry enormous, I failed in everything—the world played me false every time, every time; and now I am a moral bankrupt, who does not even possess the asset of hope.”
“You have had terrible experiences, to make you speak like this,” answered the Marquis, in a moved tone.
“I have had all experiences, and I have found out that glory is only the lure used to beguile us to our wretched, our solitary ends.”
“I think,” said Luc, “you never discovered the true meaning of it.”