Peter perceived it and rose; little flames of wrath sparkled in his full brown eyes.
“Well, send him Aurora von Königsmarck,” he cried violently.
Augustus was utterly taken aback; he had never so been spoken to nor surrounded by other than refinement and elegance; to even hear the name of Aurora on the lips of Peter was a profanation, but to listen to her, one of the admired women of Europe, the Montespan of his Versailles, coupled, in this odious connection, with the Livonian peasant, raised by the mad caprice of Peter, made him put his hand to his sword.
“Well,” said the Czar, with dangerous softness, “why not your woman as well as mine?”
Patkul intervened.
“Leave the names of women, sire,” he said quickly and with some authority. “The King of Sweden is not, in any case, to be outwitted that way.”
Augustus recovered his composure by reminding himself that he had to deal with a man almost wholly a savage.
“At least you will leave the name of the Countess von Königsmarck, sir,” he said coldly.
Peter laughed with rude contempt; he had no respect for any woman, and the brilliant Aurora who ruled the superb court of Dresden was no better in his mind than Marpha, who stirred the kvas and drank brandy in his dirty hut or tent.
Augustus did not like this laugh and spoke again, to avoid a quarrel.