It seemed as if Count Piper’s worst forebodings were to come true, and the exploits of Karl XII would lose all that Karl X had won by the Peace of Brömsebro and the Peace of Roskilde, and Karl XI consolidated by the Battle of Lund.
M. Fabrice, steeped in the politics of Europe, and whose main interest in life was the fortune of the realm over which his young master was one day to ride, looked with amazement at the fortitude of Karl in face of events so untoward and a future so uncertain.
Yet in his own heart he felt a certain spark of hope inspired by the sheer strength of this strange character.
It was Karl who broke the thoughtful silence.
“Go to King Stanislaus, my dear Fabrice,” he said quietly, “and tell him never to abandon his claims, for I never shall, nor make any peace with our mutual enemies. And that if I live, all will be different.”
“If only your Majesty would return to Stockholm!” exclaimed the envoy.
Karl gave his ugly smile.
“That I shall never do,” he replied, “until I can return victorious. But perhaps it is time I went North.”
By which M. Fabrice concluded that the King had now resigned all hopes of that Turkish army for which he had waited and Poniatowski intrigued for nearly four years.
The envoy from Holstein-Gottorp wondered where Karl hoped to find the means to carry out these defiances he still hurled at his enemies; the task seemed to him fairly hopeless, and yet, as he stood in the presence of this man, he could not feel disheartened.