They sauntered into the somber, august interior. Above were the impressive stained glass windows, high-flung in the octagon. Kirtley's binocular, strung over his shoulders, came in handy to the others. The Germans seemed somewhat posted on stained glass (Teuton erudition!) and with Gard's binocular they went off for an inspection from the exterior.
He preferred to remain and contemplate alone the solemn scene about him. It was an hour he had looked forward to. He wanted to recall what he had read of this historic spot and the epic and romantic associations here of the most celebrated of Carolingians.
In the mosaic flooring at his feet, as he sat down, was the tombstone which (in the tradition) lies above the imperial victor who sits below waiting with his scepter in his hand and his white beard ever growing—the king of the Middle Ages. How many, many potentates, great and small, during all the intervening centuries, had bowed their heads and spoken words of reverence in the presence of the only sepulchre remaining in situ and intact of the world-conquerors of antiquity! Of all these reputed soliloquies, that of Don Carlos, in the spacious Alexandrines of Victor Hugo in "Hernani," Gard remembered as being the most famous. He had heard what a long and impressive recital it always is as one of the tests of the dramatic actor at the Théâtre Français.
His thoughts ran on. Without Charlemagne's military successes, his widespread reorganizations, the political and civil grandeur of his acts, his picturesque journeys, his union of church and state, what would the Dark Ages have been? In its mountains of fact and luring mists of fable he had stood mighty and solitary, inspiring its imagination, its legends, its superstitions, its songs. He was its compelling figure. He it was who unified medievaldom and laid the bases of what had since governed in western Europe and prevented it from remaining a vast region of large and small tribes fighting among themselves. And he alone, among the powerful military chieftains of the old, old past, had died both peacefully and undefeated.
Why, then, has he faded from view? This was an interesting question to Kirtley. Why has Cæsar so outshone Charlemagne? Why are Homer and Vergil, in comparison, coming ever more to the fore? Why has Dante become the masterly profile of medievalism?
A significant answer had before occurred to Gard. These four personages could write marvelously well while Charlemagne could scarcely even write his name. Had he been a great author, why would not his fame be burning brightly like theirs? In every institution of education their classic language is kept before both youth and professor. Their cults accordingly grow. While the Frank so largely shaped the Middle Ages and furnished leading motives for its background, the Italian merely pictured it.
And yet the latter has become its most distinct luminary. His art has surpassed in renown the medieval sword and crown. His pen is a constant self-advertiser while those emblems of state fall to the ground. Though every spot associated with the lives of Cæsar, of Vergil, of Dante, is sought by student and sage, the tomb of Charlemagne is being forgotten. Who knows that it exists or cares? And is it all because he had no literary skill? A gigantesque character, surrounded by his romantic paladins—Roland, Oliver, Ganelon and the rest—his face turned alike toward west, east and south—to France and Germany and Italy—he nevertheless has long been sinking into the ever-darker shadows of a dulled obscurity....
Gard's friend and the other two Germans presently returned and interrupted his ruminations. They had seen their fill and were anxious to escape from this gray cavern of a dim oblivion. Outdoors the party of four found the sun shining, but rain clouds were hovering in the east. The strangers had plenty of time as they were without a fixed itinerary. They were very agreeable and it was suggested that all dine together. Would not a stroll in the environs be meanwhile a suitable diversion?—out toward the attractive Lousberg and its belvedere?
Herr Furstenheimer had indicated an inquiry to Kirtley as to whether he would like to join the other two. Upon his signifying affirmatively, the four walked northward. The flat face of one of the young men Gard fancied he had seen before. It was, however, of a somewhat familiar Teuton variety and lost in the maze of all the German visages he had seen.
They idled along, recounting their exciting experiences in traveling. Gard told of the wax image in the train as the singular incident he had to offer. As it did not appear to appeal to the curiosity of his companions, he dropped the subject. The Germans are used to the grotesque and egregious.