“There is one thing your Majesty can do—you can advance into Saxony with these Muscovite troops and attack the King of Sweden.”
Augustus gave the speaker a wild look.
“Take advantage, sire,” urged M. Pfingsten, “of this moment of good fortune.”
Augustus hesitated; the terms offered by Karl were so hateful that he was glad to catch at anything that seemed to promise relief from the necessity of accepting them.
At the same time his reverses had been so continuous and terrible, he had gradually lost everything and exhausted every resource, he was so convinced of the invincible genius of Karl, so worn out in this long combat with one in every respect his superior, that his spirit, by no means firm or martial, though he was, in his way, brave and ambitious, was completely broken, and his terrified imagination saw no escape from his present difficulties save by throwing himself utterly on the mercy of the man in whose hands his fate lay.
“If I could see Karl face to face,” he began in a distracted tone, “I could surely induce him to soften these terms.”
“Let your Majesty put that out of your head,” replied M. Pfingsten firmly. “The King of Sweden is as hard as one of his northern rocks—his plainness and his show of courtesy to the vanquished but mask a spirit without sentiment, a heart without feeling. Count Piper told me that his preference for Stanislaus Leczinski is but based on his temperate life—he has given that man a throne merely because he is his own body servant and sleeps on a straw mattress! He admires nothing but Spartan virtues and respects nothing but military glory.”
“Well, then,” cried Augustus, a prey to the most bitter distress and agitation, “there is nothing for me to do but to sign this cursed paper!”
“Your Majesty might strike another blow.”
“You do not understand my position—the Muscovites have defeated Mardenfeldt, they cannot defeat Karl—and if they discover that I am in negotiation with him, they will abandon, if not murder me. You do not know, Pfingsten, the ferocity of this Mentchikoff or his devotion to his master. As for my resources,” he added, with a sigh as of one who had too well calculated, often enough, his hopes and fears, “you know what they amount to—Saxony is barren both of men and money—Poland lost.”