Gavin, who was lying on the sofa with his leg on a chair, endeavoured to rise, as St. Arnaud did, when the King entered; but Frederick good-naturedly ordered him to keep still.
“I shall not take advantage of your helplessness to speak disrespectfully of the Empress Queen,” he said, laughing; and motioning St. Arnaud to be seated, drew a chair up to the fire.
“The fact is,” he continued, with a slight laugh, as musical as his delightful voice, “I never speak disrespectfully of her Majesty. It has been my misfortune to be much disliked by two ladies—the Czarina of Russia and the Empress Queen—and, consequently, I have led a bad life of it for several years. These two ladies, between them, and with the assistance of the Dauphiness of France, have leagued against me populations amounting to a hundred millions of souls. There are not five millions of Prussians; but we have tried to give a good account of ourselves.”
“And your Majesty has certainly done so,” replied St. Arnaud. “Luckily for us, your Majesty does not command everywhere.”
“No; and I have Winterfeld no longer.”
St. Arnaud had perfect control of his countenance, and it was design, and not inadvertence which made him, at the mention of Winterfeld, fix his clear eyes upon Frederick’s, equally clear, and piercing in their power of expression. He remembered that General Winterfeld, who had been called the King’s only friend, had lost his life at the beginning of the Prince of Bevern’s unfortunate campaign, and it had been said that Frederick held Bevern’s faulty arrangements partly accountable for Winterfeld’s death.
After a pause, St. Arnaud spoke:
“General Winterfeld was under the command of the Prince of Bevern, to whom I am indebted for the opportunity of seeing your Majesty at this time.”
A smile, faint but full of meaning and not altogether pleasant, appeared in the comers of Frederick’s mouth and shone in his eyes.
“Yes,” he said, tapping his breast. “I have Bevern’s letter here. I have read it attentively. Be sure you tell him that.”