The Elector immediately gave him audience; it was early in the morning and he sat over a fire, for the autumn air was keen, and was drinking coffee dashed with cognac, out of a pale porcelain cup.
Some attempt at refinement and splendor still surrounded the man who had been one of the most brilliant princes in Europe; he was wrapped in a blue and gold brocade dressing-gown, wore a French peruke, diamonds in his lace cravat, and long ruffles of Mechlin at his wrists.
Elegant and beautiful articles were scattered about the room, and a cardinal of violet silk and a pair of heelless white silk slippers bespoke the presence of a woman.
But the fair face of the Elector was haggard and pale; he looked at M. Pfingsten with eyes full of a cruel distress.
“Sire,” this gentleman hastened to say, “I rejoice to find you in circumstances which can enable you to deal on terms of equality with the King of Sweden.”
“Do not mock me, Pfingsten,” replied the Elector, in a tone of agitation. “You find me in the most miserable position, and whatever the terms you have brought back I must sign them.”
“Nay, God forbid!” exclaimed the envoy.
Augustus set down his coffee cup with a shaking hand.
“Are they then so hard?”
“Sire, they are impossible.”