“He knows,” returned Peter, “something of the life of the King of Sweden—bring him here, Danilovitch.”
Mentchikoff was reluctant to do this; he felt that it was morbid for Peter to be so interested in the habits of his rival and a certain slight to his own dignity, but he did not dare refuse, and the Pole, a tall, thin fellow with red eyes and sandy hair, was brought before the Emperor. Peter eyed him gloomily.
“Prince Mentchikoff tells me that you discovered nothing at Altranstadt,” he said.
“Sire,” replied the Pole, with a movement as if he would prostrate himself before the Czar, “how can one discover the secrets of a King who has no confidants?”
“I think he has no secrets either,” remarked Peter, “his design is clear enough. He wishes to dethrone me.”
“Yet that is not clear, sire,” answered the spy earnestly. “All the princes of Europe have envoys at his camp trying to find out his plans, each begging for his favor and alliance. And he is dumb to all.”
The Czar glanced at his friend.
“A proud position, Danilovitch!” he said. “A proud position!”
“They wonder,” resumed the spy, eager to show that he had not been altogether useless, “why he lingers so long in Saxony—there are many comments as to that. He cannot,” added the Pole, who knew that he might safely speak of the humiliation of Augustus to Peter, “further lower the Elector who has even written a letter of congratulation to Stanislaus Leczinski.”
“May every ill overtake him for it!” exclaimed Peter in a loud voice, and with a suffused face.