Augustus gave a miserable smile.
“You do not understand my position,” he said bitterly. “This victory is futile and barren and will only further serve to inflame the Swede.”
“Then, why did not your Majesty wait my return before giving battle?”
The Elector replied with the useless impatience of a weak nature.
“It was the cursed Muscovite! What was I to do? Mentchikoff would give battle, no excuse would put him off. I knew that it would mean a defeat for Sweden, they were so outnumbered. I had only a handful of Saxons, and had those savages guessed that I was in treaty with the Swede they had murdered me—cursed be the day when I was allied with such dangerous rascals!”
M. Pfingsten could say nothing; he saw that this new victory had indeed put his master in a delicate and difficult position; he was forced either to affront his dangerous allies in whose power he was or to offend the conqueror on whose mercy he had thrown himself; his was the common fate of the weak, who, lacking all qualities of resolution and daring, find that concession and subterfuge lead them into a position where no way is open to them with both safety and honor.
“I sent privately to General Mardenfeldt,” continued the Elector, pouring out another cup of the strong coffee, “warned him of his danger and my secret negotiation, and advised him to retire—but the hard-headed fool took it for a trap and would fight.”
“At least the victory was complete?”
“Yes. I was surprised myself. The Muscovites can fight as well as marauder, it seems. Mentchikoff is sending the Czar a bombastic account of it, but it is all futile,” he added peevishly.
M. Pfingsten, a man of more nerve than his master, did not entirely agree with this dispirited view.