CHAPTER IV

When M. Pfingsten returned to Poland with the articles of peace that no amount of interviews with Count Piper had served to alter, he found his master once again in Varsovia, in the midst of “Te Deums” and bell-ringings for the first victory over the Swedes that had been attained during the course of this long war.

The envoy from Saxony, almost confounded by this change of fortune, learned that the Muscovites under Prince Mentchikoff had defeated the Swedes under General Mardenfeldt who found himself in the Palatinate of Posnania with 10,000 men against the combined Saxon and Russian forces amounting to nearly 40,000.

But what surprised M. Pfingsten was the fact that the Elector had been in this battle and had irritated Karl in this manner at the very moment when he was imploring that monarch’s mercy.

He hastened through the ruined capital now being pillaged by the Muscovites to the ancient palace where Augustus was again in residence.

The Elector immediately gave him audience; it was early in the morning and he sat over a fire, for the autumn air was keen, and was drinking coffee dashed with cognac, out of a pale porcelain cup.

Some attempt at refinement and splendor still surrounded the man who had been one of the most brilliant princes in Europe; he was wrapped in a blue and gold brocade dressing-gown, wore a French peruke, diamonds in his lace cravat, and long ruffles of Mechlin at his wrists.

Elegant and beautiful articles were scattered about the room, and a cardinal of violet silk and a pair of heelless white silk slippers bespoke the presence of a woman.

But the fair face of the Elector was haggard and pale; he looked at M. Pfingsten with eyes full of a cruel distress.

“Sire,” this gentleman hastened to say, “I rejoice to find you in circumstances which can enable you to deal on terms of equality with the King of Sweden.”

“Do not mock me, Pfingsten,” replied the Elector, in a tone of agitation. “You find me in the most miserable position, and whatever the terms you have brought back I must sign them.”

“Nay, God forbid!” exclaimed the envoy.

Augustus set down his coffee cup with a shaking hand.

“Are they then so hard?”

“Sire, they are impossible.”

Augustus gave a miserable smile.

“You do not understand my position,” he said bitterly. “This victory is futile and barren and will only further serve to inflame the Swede.”

“Then, why did not your Majesty wait my return before giving battle?”

The Elector replied with the useless impatience of a weak nature.

“It was the cursed Muscovite! What was I to do? Mentchikoff would give battle, no excuse would put him off. I knew that it would mean a defeat for Sweden, they were so outnumbered. I had only a handful of Saxons, and had those savages guessed that I was in treaty with the Swede they had murdered me--cursed be the day when I was allied with such dangerous rascals!”

M. Pfingsten could say nothing; he saw that this new victory had indeed put his master in a delicate and difficult position; he was forced either to affront his dangerous allies in whose power he was or to offend the conqueror on whose mercy he had thrown himself; his was the common fate of the weak, who, lacking all qualities of resolution and daring, find that concession and subterfuge lead them into a position where no way is open to them with both safety and honor.

“I sent privately to General Mardenfeldt,” continued the Elector, pouring out another cup of the strong coffee, “warned him of his danger and my secret negotiation, and advised him to retire--but the hard-headed fool took it for a trap and would fight.”

“At least the victory was complete?”

“Yes. I was surprised myself. The Muscovites can fight as well as marauder, it seems. Mentchikoff is sending the Czar a bombastic account of it, but it is all futile,” he added peevishly.

M. Pfingsten, a man of more nerve than his master, did not entirely agree with this dispirited view.

He thought that at least Augustus could now refuse the shameful terms imposed by Karl XII.

Taking the letter from his breast-pocket he put it among the delicate coffee service on the tulip-wood table by the Elector’s elbow.

Augustus picked it up with nervous fingers, glanced at it, and fetched a groan, a look of real anguish distorting his handsome face.

Each of the four conditions were bitterly hard, the last struck at his honor as a gentleman; Patkul had been in his service, had trusted and did trust him, and was, moreover, sacred as the envoy of the Czar.

Augustus had shrunk from abandoning his ally; he felt it would be impossible to betray him by delivering to his enemy a man who was general and ambassador of Russia.

He put the letter down and sat staring into the fire.

“There was no possibility of moving the King?” he asked, in a broken voice.

“Not the faintest; he prides himself on his obstinacy and sternness. I think he is quite implacable,” replied M. Pfingsten, with dreary memories of the hardness of the young captain.

“Then there is nothing for me to do but accept these terms,” said Augustus.

This complete and instantaneous submission startled M. Pfingsten; he had not believed that Augustus would have been so subdued by his miseries and disasters as to have no spirit left with which to meet this extremity.

“There is one thing your Majesty can do--you can advance into Saxony with these Muscovite troops and attack the King of Sweden.”

Augustus gave the speaker a wild look.

“Take advantage, sire,” urged M. Pfingsten, “of this moment of good fortune.”

Augustus hesitated; the terms offered by Karl were so hateful that he was glad to catch at anything that seemed to promise relief from the necessity of accepting them.

At the same time his reverses had been so continuous and terrible, he had gradually lost everything and exhausted every resource, he was so convinced of the invincible genius of Karl, so worn out in this long combat with one in every respect his superior, that his spirit, by no means firm or martial, though he was, in his way, brave and ambitious, was completely broken, and his terrified imagination saw no escape from his present difficulties save by throwing himself utterly on the mercy of the man in whose hands his fate lay.

“If I could see Karl face to face,” he began in a distracted tone, “I could surely induce him to soften these terms.”

“Let your Majesty put that out of your head,” replied M. Pfingsten firmly. “The King of Sweden is as hard as one of his northern rocks--his plainness and his show of courtesy to the vanquished but mask a spirit without sentiment, a heart without feeling. Count Piper told me that his preference for Stanislaus Leczinski is but based on his temperate life--he has given that man a throne merely because he is his own body servant and sleeps on a straw mattress! He admires nothing but Spartan virtues and respects nothing but military glory.”

“Well, then,” cried Augustus, a prey to the most bitter distress and agitation, “there is nothing for me to do but to sign this cursed paper!”

“Your Majesty might strike another blow.”

“You do not understand my position--the Muscovites have defeated Mardenfeldt, they cannot defeat Karl--and if they discover that I am in negotiation with him, they will abandon, if not murder me. You do not know, Pfingsten, the ferocity of this Mentchikoff or his devotion to his master. As for my resources,” he added, with a sigh as of one who had too well calculated, often enough, his hopes and fears, “you know what they amount to--Saxony is barren both of men and money--Poland lost.”

“Some help might be hoped for from the Empire, sire.”

“Not while Austria wars with France.”

“And surely, sire, the Electorate is not yet exhausted,” protested Pfingsten.

“Ravaged by the Muscovites, occupied by the Swedes, what can be hoped for from my wretched country?” exclaimed Augustus bitterly; he rose, and thinking of the only friend and confidante he now possessed, he went to an inner door concealed under a hanging of stamped and gilt leather and called a woman’s name.

Aurora von Königsmarck immediately entered the apartment.

She had remained faithful to this King who was without a throne, men, money, or friends, perhaps out of compassion, perhaps because she had no choice of a more glorious destiny; certainly she had accompanied him in all his flights and battles and distresses as closely as had Katherina the Czar, though with a colder sympathy and a more disdainful endurance of evil fortune. She was the only person besides the two envoys who knew of the embassy to Karl; she had sent even her women away, and was alone in the apartment of the King.

“Well?” she demanded dryly, seeing by the Elector’s face that it was further ill news.

Her bold glance flickered to M. Pfingsten.

“You have come on a disagreeable errand, sir,” she remarked, “but these are disagreeable times.”

She came, with her quick, graceful walk, to the fireplace, and stood before the flames looking at the downcast faces of the two men.

Since she had, in the height of her pride, lowered herself before Karl XII, she had lost something of her beauty and all of her magnificence.

Like everything belonging to Augustus, she was tarnished by continual ill-fortune; nor did she care for the neatness and order possible even in poverty; she would be either splendid or careless, and disdained those shifts that labor to cover deficiency with artifice.

She who had blazed in Dresden as the most gorgeous lady of the court, now showed in a negligent undress of soiled sprigged silk over a petticoat of yellow taffetas, with her rich hair fastened in a loose knot without either art or neatness; her beauty was not of that radiant youthfulness that can overcome these disadvantages, and she looked as damaged in her fortunes, as eclipsed in her charms, as was proper to the favorite of a fallen prince.

In silence Augustus handed her the letter from Karl.

He had a great faith in her intelligence, and even now cherished a hope that her wit would point out some way of escape from his dilemma that had not occurred to either Pfingsten or himself.

Aurora read the letter and her nostrils dilated.

Not Augustus himself knew a bitterer humiliation than she experienced as she read the conqueror’s terms.

She hated Karl with all the hatred of which her passionate nature was capable.

As he had so easily resisted her fascinations, so rudely refused her advances, so completely scorned her, she did not regard him as a man, but as some soulless creature, a werlion or wertiger sent on earth to plague mankind.

She fumbled at her laces with a quivering hand and darted a keen glance at the gloomy countenance of the Elector.

“Are you going to take these terms?” she demanded impetuously.

“Do you see anything else for me to do?” asked the disheartened Prince.

“Nothing a man like you _could_ do,” she replied sharply.

“Madame,” said M. Pfingsten, “there is the Muscovite army.”

“But where is the man to lead it?” asked Aurora, with a cruel glance at Augustus.

M. Pfingsten was encouraged by her presence, which breathed energy and vitality.

“Let your Majesty,” he urged, “tear up that paper--put yourself at the head of the army now in Varsovia and march on Saxony--there is nothing more to lose and everything to be gained.”

“Sir,” said the Countess bitterly, “you discuss expedients only possible with another prince--and with another prince we should not have been brought to this pass.”

Augustus flushed but could find no answer in his own defense.

“What is it that you propose to do?” she added sharply.

“To sign that paper and go to Saxony to entreat Sweden to soften these terms,” replied the unfortunate Elector; he was indeed so absorbed in the contemplation of his own misery as to hardly wince under Aurora’s scorn.

She tapped her foot in an angry silence; she saw this was the fatal way of weakness, which would have neither the dignity of defiance nor the advantage of concession, since she knew well enough that Karl would be merely irritated by any attempt to dispute his terms.

But she also knew the man with whom she had to deal, and that it was hopeless to expect even the semblance of heroism from a Prince like Augustus, overwhelmed by six years of a disastrous war that had stripped him of everything, even faith in himself.

“Well, you must sign,” she said.

There was a little silence, then the Countess added in a hard tone:

“Mdle. D’Einsiedel came here last night--hurrying from Dresden to beg for General Patkul’s release.”

“My God!” broke from Augustus, as he realized the baseness of the action he contemplated.

“And she has been to Prince Mentchikoff, who is going to ask for the Livonian’s release in the name of the Czar.”

Augustus stood in a wretched silence.

“I never understood why Patkul was arrested,” continued Aurora, in a curious tone.

An uneasy flush stained the Elector’s distressed face; he did not look up.

“Was it because you foresaw this emergency?” added the Countess.

M. Pfingsten was startled to hear her express the same question as had Karl.

He knew that General Patkul had been arrested, on some flimsy pretext of having exceeded his duties, immediately after the Czar’s departure for Astrakan, and that he had been kept in easy and honorable captivity at Sonnenstein, but not even when Karl had flung his sneer had he thought for a moment that there was any connection between the arrest of the Livonian and the position of Augustus before the conqueror.

Now, as he heard the sharp words of the Countess and looked at the stricken figure of Augustus, it occurred to him as at least strange that the very man, on the surrender of whom depended the peace, should be so completely in the Elector’s power--so that no warnings by his friends, no protection from the Czar, his master, could save him from being delivered to Sweden.

“If you had not had Patkul at Sonnenstein,” said Aurora, “you could not have surrendered him to Karl, and there would have been no pacifying this victor. You are fortunate.”

Goaded, Augustus turned on her with a flash of impotent anger.

“You talk so much of General Patkul, Madame--you do not seem to attach any importance to the fact that I shall have to surrender Poland!”

It was M. Pfingsten who replied--with great earnestness.

“Sire, your Majesty, by the fortunes of war, may easily regain the crown of Poland, but you can never regain what you lose if you surrender General Patkul.”

“You are a poor diplomat,” returned the Elector angrily. “Are there not ways of saving General Patkul? I can appeal to the King of Sweden personally.”

His hedging weakness angered Aurora; it was true that she had suggested the surrender of Patkul and even broached the subject to Karl, but that had been while there had been something to gain by concession; now that her side was thoroughly beaten her blood was up, and, if she had been Augustus, she would have cast Sweden’s terms in his face. Also she was naturally generous, and once she realized what the delivery of Patkul to Karl meant she could not put her hand to it; she saw that Augustus would yield, had always meant to yield, and she despised him for it, as women will despise men for weaknesses and meannesses of which they are capable themselves.

“Very well,” she said, “sign those terms.”

She came quickly up to him, putting her lovely hand on his brocaded sleeve.

“Patkul must escape,” she added, gazing into the trembling face of Augustus. “Send an order to the Governor of Sonnenstein to let him, secretly, go at once.”

Augustus was relieved by this suggestion that seemed to suit both his convenience and his honor, yet he hesitated; to do this would be to play a trick on the man on whose mercy his very existence would depend; if Karl, who would be already sufficiently irritated by the victory of Kalisz, knew of this fresh attempt to fool him, he would undoubtedly refuse any possible concession in the harshness of his demands.

But Aurora had pushed pen and paper under the reluctant hand of Augustus.

“He trusted you,” she said, “and to give him to Karl is to give him to a cruel death.”

“Sweden might be merciful,” muttered Augustus.

Aurora ignored this feeble futility and resorted to another argument, more powerful to influence the distracted Elector than the last.

“Sire, Prince Mentchikoff will demand Patkul, Mdle. D’Einsiedel will rouse Russia--better, at least, compromise.”

Augustus seized the pen and hastily wrote an order for the secret and immediate release of Patkul; Aurora von Königsmarck took it from him and left the room.

Everything was lost, but the brilliant and wayward woman did not think of that; she went to her bed-chamber, threw on a mantle, and hastened to a little closet in her suite of apartments, now all dismantled and in confusion.

A pale girl stood with locked hands at the window, staring out at the chill September morning.

The Countess thrust into her hands the order for General Patkul’s release.

“That goes to-day, dear, by our fleetest courier.” In the evening Augustus signed the terms dictated by Karl XII.