“I come, as you bade me, to dine with your Majesty,” said the favorite.
Peter did not even look round; he took a pinch of clay from a board on top of the stove and began to model it on to the fir cone.
The Prince was vexed by this reception; he had begun to think he could do what he liked with the Czar, who had raised him from the position of a pastry cook’s lad to that of greatest noble in all the Russias.
“Well, Peter Alexievitch,” he said drily, “there is some news that you must hear. But I would keep it till after dinner.”
Peter turned now; one side of his face twitched in a slight convulsion.
“Why did not this news come to me?” he asked sullenly.
Mentchikoff saw that whatever his potations had been he was now sober, and went warily accordingly; the Czar sober was not so easy as the Czar drunk.
“Who dares to come to your Majesty when you are withdrawn into your solitude? Therefore the dispatches from Moscow were brought to me.”
“Is it bad news?” asked the Czar gloomily; he turned again to his work, and began coloring the clay with his finger dipped in rough pigment which he had arranged on the same board as the clay.
“Well,” said Mentchikoff, “I certainly think that your Majesty should be at Moscow.”