“Even Luc,” he said, with an accent of slight amusement, “cannot make this a crusade. We do not know exactly what we fight for—we respect our enemies as much as our allies; we think the Ministers fools, and know the generals jealous of each other. The country, that never wanted the war, is being taxed to death to pay for it; we”—he shrugged elegantly—“are ruining ourselves to keep ourselves in weariness and idleness. We get no thanks. I see not the least chance of promotion for any of us.”
“But, Monsieur,” cried the lieutenant eagerly, “you forget glory.”
“Glory!” repeated M. de Biron lightly.
Luc de Clapiers flashed a profound look at him in silence; the other captain laughed.
“We are none of us,” he remarked, “like to get much glory in Prague.”
“Oh, hear d’Espagnac on that,” returned the Duke half mockingly; “he hath not yet awakened from fairy tales.”
The exquisite young face of Georges d’Espagnac blushed into a beautiful animation.
“A soldier,” he said, “may find glory anywhere, Monsieur le Duc.”
“In death, for instance,” replied M. de Biron, with a whimsical gravity. “Yes, one might find that—any day.”
“No—I meant in life,” was the ardent answer. “Die—to die!” The young voice was scornful of the word. “I mean to live for France, for glory. What does it matter to me how long I stay in Prague—for what cause the war is? I march under the French flag, and that is enough. I fight for France—I am on the quest of glory, Monsieur.” He paused abruptly; M. de Biron took a fan of long eagle feathers from the bench and fanned the dying charcoal into a blaze.