“Well,” said the Prince, “he is something to be reckoned with—and I hear from Stockholm that he is angry with the four envoys you have sent. He thinks that when you are at war you should drop the pretense of peace—he is of a rigid honor.”
“Oh!” said Peter.
He glanced up at the toy he had made; it represented an old woman in cap and shawl, the cone being her skirt and the upper part being cunningly fashioned of clay.
“That is what I can do,” he added fiercely.
The Prince swung on his heel with some impatience. “You should be in Moscow,” he declared. “Will you wait till the Swede is over the frontier?”
The Czar did not reply.
“The Saxons have left Livonia,” continued Mentchikoff goadingly. “Patkul has proved a poor statesman and the treaty of Préobrapenskoè a failure—you can go on building Cronstadt and St. Petersburg, for this war is over.”
The Czar gave his friend an ugly look; his hands trembled on his knees.
“Do you think that this boy has vanquished me?” he cried.
“I think that he may, Peter Alexievitch.”