Peter was still at Marli, superintending the building of his new capital which was rising out of the filled dykes and drained marshes of the desolate flats of the banks of the Neva.
Mentchikoff was almost beside himself with fury at the news he brought, but his rage was as nothing beside that of the Emperor.
Peter glared at his friend with a wrath he could hardly sustain; but contrary to his use, he made a terrible effort to control himself that he might hear the tale to the full.
He had been, at first, vexed at seeing Mentchikoff, thinking that he should not have left the newly regained Varsovia, but now he admitted that the Prince had done right to bring news so tremendous himself.
He sat on a gilt leather arm-chair, in the little front room of his cottage, dressed in a rough green frieze riding suit, his boots muddy and a riding switch in his hand; he had just returned from a visit of inspection of St. Petersburg, where streets, shops, palaces, and churches were already covering the outlines of the city.
Mentchikoff stood before him in the rich costume of a Russian general, European in cut, but Eastern in color and embroidery, a diamond in his sword hilt, a star on his breast, lace at his throat and wrists.
His long brown and lean face, with the sharp bright black eyes and thick lips, was pale with the intense passion of a fierce and uncivilized nature.
“This is what he did, Peter Alexievitch! I put him back in Varsovia; he did not want to give battle at Kalisz—one knows why now! And one morning he was gone—gone! With his woman and his valets—gone! To Altranstadt—to the camp of the Swede!”
“You were properly fooled,” muttered the Czar, in a stifling voice.
Mentchikoff made not the least attempt to deny this.