She had felt keenly the failure of her ruse to secure the release of Patkul; day and night she was haunted by the last glimpse she had had of Hélène D’Einsiedel, as, half-crazed by horror and fear, she had set out on her wild journey to the Russian camp.
“You could keep him,” she persisted. “It was one of his madman’s whims to come.”
“He has an army, an invincible army, at the gates,” replied Augustus.
“Ah, you have not the courage,” replied the Countess, who had become sharp-tongued in adversity. “But why do I speak to you? If you had had courage you never would have signed the peace.”
“God save me from your railing!” replied the harassed Elector. “Between you and the King of Sweden I have had a merry life these last seven years!”
Aurora shrugged the fair shoulders that rose out of her ruffled lace gown, and flung herself into a chair.
“At least endeavor to save Patkul,” she said bitterly.
She suddenly turned and looked at him over her shoulder, her beautiful eyes fierce.
“If Patkul dies—that way,” she flung out, “I shall never forgive you.”
The Elector did not answer; hastily dressed and red in the face he flung open the folding doors that led into the room where the King of Sweden waited.