“Patkul is a fanatic and a visionary—a rebel also. Karl is his King. I am a Swede. Hélène, I have no sympathy with these revolting Livonians.”
Hélène glanced at the vivid lovely face of the Countess and her eyes narrowed.
“The Elector would not care to hear you speak so of Sweden,” she remarked.
“The Elector expects no hypocrisy from me,” replied Aurora haughtily. “I am not his wife. He knows that a man like Karl would attract a woman like me—I have told him I should like to meet him.”
She had, in truth, heard of the austere life and cold manners of the young conqueror whose name was now so famous in Europe, and she had imagined herself subduing him with her charm; she could not resist picturing herself as the Cleopatra to this immaculate Cæsar; Augustus had been amazed with anger at the Czar’s crude suggestion that the famous beauty should be used to beguile their enemy, but the woman herself had long toyed with the idea; it would be a wonderful triumph and, she believed in her heart, an easy one. Karl was only a boy, after all, and had probably never been tempted; it was impossible that he intended to be absorbed for ever in schemes of military aggrandizement and glory; and she had never failed yet. “Perhaps I could do more in half an hour than your Patkul has done in a lifetime,” she said suddenly.
“Oh, would you speak for Livonia?” asked Hélène, then quickly and with a blush, “but no, Patkul would not like that.”
“Let him rely on his sword and his virtue,” said Aurora haughtily. “Saxony may require my services.”
“He would not wish that you should sue to Sweden for him!” exclaimed Hélène.
Aurora rose.
“Wait till King Karl has overrun Poland and is at the gates of Dresden.”