“Some help might be hoped for from the Empire, sire.”
“Not while Austria wars with France.”
“And surely, sire, the Electorate is not yet exhausted,” protested Pfingsten.
“Ravaged by the Muscovites, occupied by the Swedes, what can be hoped for from my wretched country?” exclaimed Augustus bitterly; he rose, and thinking of the only friend and confidante he now possessed, he went to an inner door concealed under a hanging of stamped and gilt leather and called a woman’s name.
Aurora von Königsmarck immediately entered the apartment.
She had remained faithful to this King who was without a throne, men, money, or friends, perhaps out of compassion, perhaps because she had no choice of a more glorious destiny; certainly she had accompanied him in all his flights and battles and distresses as closely as had Katherina the Czar, though with a colder sympathy and a more disdainful endurance of evil fortune. She was the only person besides the two envoys who knew of the embassy to Karl; she had sent even her women away, and was alone in the apartment of the King.
“Well?” she demanded dryly, seeing by the Elector’s face that it was further ill news.
Her bold glance flickered to M. Pfingsten.
“You have come on a disagreeable errand, sir,” she remarked, “but these are disagreeable times.”
She came, with her quick, graceful walk, to the fireplace, and stood before the flames looking at the downcast faces of the two men.