“What does Marlborough know of my designs?” he demanded.
“It is the common thought that you march on Russia.”
Karl rose with an impatient movement.
“Let be this matter,” he said sharply. “What I do, I do, and am accountable to no one.”
This was what the Count had expected; he bowed gravely.
He felt a sad certainty that the next subject he had to broach would be received with even more displeasure by the King; he resolved that it should not be on his conscience that he had not made the attempt.
“I would presume to ask one other thing,” he said, with a certain effort.
“Ask what you will,” replied the King, who had now regained his icy composure, “but it is useless, Count, to touch on my future designs.”
“I would only speak on a small subject, sire—that of Patkul.”
The King flashed him an ugly glance.