“I will forgive you your women, sire, and your chase, and your wine—if you will but keep Sweden great—and make her greater.”
But the glow of energy had passed from the King’s strange face, the broad lids dropped over the wide blue eyes.
“Talk to me later,” he muttered, and turned his head away on the dark cushions of the chair.
Count Piper hesitated a moment, then, seeing that the young man was falling into a heavy sleep, he, with a little bitter shrug, left the cabinet, gently closing the door behind him, frowning as he did so with an annoyance that he could, for all his training, scarcely control.
He went straight to the apartments of the Duchess of Gottorp, the King’s sister, whose husband had been the first victim of the league against Sweden.
She was in her hood and cloak, ready for some poor diversion of a ride or walk, a sad, anxious lady beneath her air of princely reserve.
The dreary air of the old palace, which was both dull and unhomelike, pervaded these apartments of the fugitive princess; she looked and felt like an exile as she drew off her gauntlet and gave her bare hand to Count Piper.
She knew that he was her ally and could be of more use to her husband than any man in Sweden, but she was surprised at seeing him now as she had just been with the Queen Dowager and had heard in what condition the King had left the table; therefore she had hoped for nothing to-day, which she had already put aside as another space of wasted time.
“Madame,” said Count Piper, “you have a lady in your service named Viktoria?”
The Duchess frowned, instantly cold.