And irritated at his reception he seated himself near the window with an air of impatience.
“I will not go to Moscow,” said the Czar, in a tone of suppressed violence. “I wish to be here—this is where I will build my city and my fort. Why cannot I be alone here? I care nothing for your news.”
“Well, then,” replied Mentchikoff exasperated, “it will not destroy your appetite, Peter Alexievitch. The King of Sweden has defeated Denmark, taken back Holstein-Gottorp, and signed a victorious peace.”
Peter stared.
“The King of Sweden!” he ejaculated.
“Yes, that boy who was to be so easily despoiled. Europe remembers nothing like it. In fifteen days he has ended the campaign.”
The Czar’s face was a ghastly color.
“This is greatness,” he said.
With the mechanical movement of one who has received a shock he continued his work, staring at the clay he continued to mold and color.
“Eighteen years old,” added Mentchikoff, “and his first campaign.”