“I was in a little way the forerunner of you, Peter Alexievitch—when you strike, Sweden will quiver to the shock!”
The Emperor fixed on him soft and lustrous eyes, tired and earnest.
“I must call a council,” he said, “but I know what to do—I will descend on Poland with my new army. Karl is likely to remain at Altranstadt?”
“There is no talk of his leaving. The English are sending an envoy to him—at least a rumor says so.”
“They are afraid he will fall on the Empire,” said Peter instantly.
“He will not,” replied Mentchikoff simply. “His design is solely against Russia.”
“He troubles himself not at all about the West?”
“Not at all, I think. He would be Alexander—Saxony is but his Thrace—Russia must be his Persia, and he thinks all his conquests little things beside that battle that must be his Gaugamela!”
“He would dethrone me, and I would break him utterly,” remarked Peter. “It only is to be seen which is the stronger man.”
He pressed Mentchikoff’s hand and left the room abruptly, seeking that comfort which never failed to soothe him in his most gloomy and bitter moods, Katherina, now his wife.