“Do you think that is the sole reason for the friendship of kings?” he demanded.
Mentchikoff saw his danger and fell on one knee, kissing passionately his master’s rough hand; he knew that there is nothing an absolute prince dislikes more than the insinuation that he is ruled through his vanity and adroitly influenced by flattery, even though he is seldom led by any other means or persuasion.
Peter was mollified by this act of homage.
“If you flattered me, Danilovitch, I should love you no longer,” he said.
“If I had been a flatterer,” replied Mentchikoff, “I should not have brought you this ill news, Peter Alexievitch.”
The Czar rose, raising his favorite also to his feet. He did not feel any ill-will towards the Prince for his failure to detect the secret negotiations of the Elector; all the force of his ardent soul was absorbed in fury against his faithless ally.
“Patkul must be saved,” he said. “Am I to submit to this treatment? I will appeal to England, to Holland, to the Empire!”
Mentchikoff did not voice his thoughts, which were that the name of Karl now sounded so terribly in Europe that it was doubtful if any nation would dare to interfere with him, besides the fact that the countries mentioned by Peter were engaged in a costly war with France.
He frowned at the floor and was silent; he could see no way by which Peter could come by satisfaction and vengeance save through his own genius and might.
“Patkul shall not die,” said Peter. “Karl would not dare.”