He seated himself wearily, rested his arm on his crossed legs, and shaded his bent face with his hand.
M. Müllern signed to Count Liewin that the audience was ended; he and Poniatowski conducted the envoy from the chamber, leaving the King alone with M. Grothusen.
For a while Karl sat motionless, so uniformly cold and reserved was he, even with his intimates (and those few now with him had become of a necessity very intimate in this close, prison-like life), that this man with him now, his nearest friend, expected no confidence from him, even at this moment. But for once the inflexible pride of Karl gave way to the despair in his heart.
“Oh, Grothusen!” he cried, “how differently I dreamed it all!”
“Sire!” answered Grothusen, profoundly moved, he could say no more; the King was not to be deceived by trite comfort, and his friend knew of no real consolation.
“Peter Alexievitch has all I had—all I want!” continued Karl, in a terrible, broken voice. “The cunning Muscovite! Had I been a well man at Poltava I had broken him as he broke me!”
He rose, clapping his hand down on his sword-hilt, a fury in his blue eyes.
“But as it is, he wins—he has my provinces, my seas, my commerce, my people as his slaves, my generals as his prisoners—he wins, that drunken savage, Grothusen.”
“He too may meet his Poltava,” said Grothusen fiercely.
The King gave a short laugh, with an effort controlling his rare passion.