“After you have secured a victorious peace—a peace that will leave the Duke of Holstein-Gottorp restored to his estate, you master of the Baltic Provinces, Denmark silenced, Saxony and Russia punished. Sire,” added the minister with a smile, “I think no young prince could desire greater glory than this.”
This hurt the secret pride of the King, which hid itself under such an aspect of stern modesty.
“I do not fight for glory,” he said haughtily, “but to dethrone these villains.”
Count Piper was silenced; in these words he read the wild dreams of unpractical youth, the mad schemes of a man who believed war the only profession for a prince, the only occupation worthy of a gentleman, and who would consider nothing beside his ambition.
“Sweden does not need this war,” he said, “nor can she afford it.”
But this argument was entirely lost on the King, who loved to achieve the impossible; the difficulty and magnitude of the enterprise were what gave it, in his eyes, its great attraction.
And Count Piper now began to experience the force of the King’s extraordinary qualities, his hard obstinacy, his blind fortitude.
The King rose, and crushed his gloves in his strong white hands.
“I would as soon,” he said, with as much violence and impatience as he ever showed, “be in my coffin as in Stockholm. I should feel as confined in one as in the other.”
“Does your Majesty never intend to see your capital again?” asked Count Piper sorrowfully.