“Surely it is time we joined Mentchikoff for dinner,” and he glanced patiently at the cold winter day beyond the window.
“You are very fond of your dinner,” said Peter, who turned from the French cooking provided by Augustus to devour half-cooked greasy meat and parboiled vegetables soaked in vinegar.
The King-Elector, perfectly master of himself, turned easily to Patkul.
“General,” he said, “escort His Majesty to the dining-hall.”
And with that he left the room, gathering up gracefully his hat, gloves, and whip.
“He is a silly fribble and a besotted rake,” said Peter angrily, as the door closed.
“He has a fine army, sire,” replied Patkul quietly; he was used to managing both these men, so utterly different and both so necessary to his great schemes.
“Yes,” admitted the Czar sullenly, with envy in his eyes.
“The sort of army that is needful to defeat Sweden—come here, sire,” he beckoned Peter to the window and pointed out, in the courtyard of the modest house, the Saxon guard who had been appointed to attend on Peter during his residence at Birsen. “Are they not splendid fellows? And those passing, of the Brandenbourg regiment—and Augustus has thousands of such men.”
Peter’s haggard eyes lit with professional enthusiasm.