CHAPTER V

Karl was conducted to Demotica, a little town some leagues from Adrianople; a few of his suite were allowed to be with him and the rest of the Swedes were kept in prison.

Through Poniatowski’s able negotiations the Sultan was apprised of the King of Sweden’s side of the story, and the Grand Vizier Soliman was dismissed, the Khan and Ismail Pasha banished.

But, despite the efforts of the French ambassador and various secret friends whom Karl had in Constantinople, the Porte showed him no favor, and so far from obtaining the succor of which he had dreamed he was treated as a prisoner, and not allowed even to communicate with Ahmed.

Despite this, Karl, who had by no means so completely relinquished hope of Turkish help as his friends had supposed, refused to return to Sweden, preferring captivity to the humiliation of returning to his realm a defeated and stripped fugitive.

The new vizier having sent for him to be present at a conference with the French ambassador with a view to an alliance against Muscovy, the King, deeply wounded in his pride, sent Müllern, and himself feigned sickness, keeping himself for months enclosed in his chamber, so fearful was he that the Turks might in some way force him to compromise his dignity. He lived now in the simplest style, waited upon by his friends Grothusen, Görtz, and Müllern, for he was without servants, such of these as had survived the Bender fight being in prison, and without any luxuries or even comforts, all his possessions having been burnt at Varnitza, and the Porte now having ceased the princely generosity that had rendered easy the first years of exile. The news that he received in his confinement was of disaster upon disaster.

Sweden was attacked on all sides.

General Stenbock worthily filled the place of the King in defending his country, and revenged the burning of Stade by reducing Altona to ashes; but he could not long hold the field with such diminished forces against such a powerful combination of enemies, and all the provinces of the Baltic were lost to Sweden as well as most of her possessions in Germany, and Stenbock was losing ground in Breme and Pomerania.

The Saxons, Danes, and Russians joined forces, advanced on Holstein-Gottorp, the little duchy that had been the first cause of this long quarrel; the Swedish army was destroyed, Stenbock made a prisoner, the whole of Pomerania, with the exception of Stralsund, fell into the hands of Russia, the Danes seized Breme, the Russians Finland, and Karl remained at Demotica.

It was believed in Europe that he was dead; the Swedish senate implored his sister to accept the regency; she did so, and wrote to her brother that the councilors wished to make peace with their enemies who on every side overwhelmed them.

Karl sent an imperious and haughty reply, saying he would send one of his boots, if they wished for a master, and that they could take orders from that.

In this extremity the Princess sent Count Liewin to Demotica to argue with Karl.

This nobleman was conducted into the King’s presence by Count Poniatowski, who had lately come from Constantinople, where he was convinced he could do nothing more for the Swedish cause.

“You will find his Majesty changed--but not his inflexibility.”

To which Count Liewin made answer:

“If he does not return to Sweden, there is not one of us will answer for the crown.”

Karl was shut in his chamber, away from the watchful eyes of his Turkish guards that he found so hateful.

As he had now no domestics, Müllern and Grothusen waited on him, and amused his dreary leisure by the reading of French poems and plays and the tales from the sagas.

This life of confinement and idleness, together with the heart-sickness of disappointment and hope deferred, had at last told on Karl’s superb constitution as no fatigue or hardship had been able to; the sickness he had so long feigned had now become almost a reality; the glory of his strength had gone.

He had risen from his bed to receive Count Liewin and wore his old blue uniform, black cravat, and top-boots; he was thin and pallid, the blue eyes half-closed, his air languid and apathetic.

His face was beginning to be lined and shadowed; his fair hair was close cropped and receding from the forehead; he was newly shaven and fresh in his person, for he had to the full the Northern fastidiousness as to cleanliness, but his habit was more than ever careless, and there was not as much as a ring on his finger to show his rank.

Count Liewin, looking at him, thought he was different indeed to the gallant youth who had left Stockholm fifteen years before, as indeed Sweden was different to what she had been.

He went on one knee and kissed Karl’s passive hand.

“Sire,” he said, in a low voice, “all Europe thinks you are dead.”

Karl looked at him without answering.

“There is no one who can believe,” added Count Liewin, “that Sweden is in such a pass and Karl XII still alive.”

These words seemed to move Karl, he colored and dropped his gaze.

“Tell me,” he said, “the news from Sweden.”

Count Liewin rose and faced the King mournfully.

“Madame Royale, your Majesty’s sister, will have told your Majesty of the state of Swedish affairs,” he answered.

“She wrote to me as a woman and I replied to her as a King,” said Karl. “Tell me now, Count Liewin, as one man to another.”

As he spoke he lifted his eyes and gazed at the envoy with his usual coldness.

“Affairs are so bad at home,” responded Sweden’s envoy, “that the instant return of your Majesty is begged for--nay, demanded.”

“Demanded!” cried the King. “Your senate gets out of hand, Count.”

He spoke harshly; in his misery he was as jealous of his authority as ever he had been in his grandeur; he refused the senate any right to interfere in affairs save by obeying his orders (forgetting that he was the first king to make a free Sweden enslaved), and he had never forgiven the regency for signing, four years ago, the treaty of neutrality at The Hague.

Count Liewin, though respectful and even humble in demeanor, faced his sovereign boldly.

“Sire, someone must conduct affairs--we have nothing from your Majesty.”

Karl ignored this.

“And you would make peace, my sister tells me,” he said sternly.

“Sire, we may be forced to take that course,” replied the Count.

“If you do,” returned Karl, “I shall never ratify it.”

“Sire, we are attacked on all sides----”

“Cannot you defend yourselves?”

“Sire, the country is empty of money, men, and all resources.”

He wished to add--“drained by your ruinous, useless wars,” but checked himself.

Karl glanced towards the window-place where Müllern, Grothusen, and Poniatowski were standing.

“You hear,” he said, “how poor-spirited they become at home.”

Count Liewin flushed.

“Call us desperate, sire!” he exclaimed.

Müllern and Grothusen were silent, out of pity and respect for the King, but Poniatowski, out of his love, spoke.

“Sire, it would be better that you should return, for there is nothing to be hoped from the Porte.”

At these words, coming from the man who had labored so long and faithfully in his cause, who had intrigued for him with such tireless energy, and always so eagerly supported the scheme of obtaining assistance from the Porte, Karl started, and a look of reproach crossed his face.

“Alas!” cried Poniatowski, “in my great loyalty to your Majesty, I must speak the truth--the Swedish cause is lost in Constantinople.”

“And in Europe, it would seem,” said Karl, with much bitterness, as he rose.

“No,” put in Count Liewin quickly, “Sweden only languishes for her King.”

“I could not return,” said Karl dryly, “in this miserable estate. I have no army.”

“Once your Majesty is present to hearten the people an army can be raised.”

M. Müllern ventured now to speak.

“And not only your Majesty’s army, but your Majesty’s councils need your presence.”

“So it would seem,” replied the King dryly, “since they talk of peace.”

“And they will make peace, sire,” said Count Liewin boldly, “unless your Majesty returns.” Karl, standing now, overtopping all of them, eyed the speaker with a rising anger.

But Count Liewin, who knew that the very existence of his country depended on his firmness, stood his ground.

“Yes,” he continued, “if your Majesty does not return to defend us, we have no resource but to throw ourselves on the mercy of our enemies.”

The King turned aside with a swelling heart; these enemies were those who had attacked him fifteen years ago, those whom he had put under his feet so splendidly and gloriously.

He thought now of Count Piper, if, instead of acting according to his code of chivalry and justice, and refusing any advantage to himself from his victories, he had taken the political advantage of his success that his minister had wished him to, if he had refrained from the mad enterprise of endeavoring to dethrone the Czar, if he had never undertaken the reckless expedition into the Ukraine, the results of Narva would not have proved such Dead Sea fruits, nor he and his country be in such peril now.

“If Count Piper had been alive he would have smiled at me now,” remarked the King to Grothusen.

“Sire! He has been very loyal to your Majesty.”

Karl smiled; he had never been deceived in those about him.

“If Piper had had the power he would have thwarted me in all I did, Grothusen.”

He walked up and down the narrow chamber with a languid step, for he was sick in mind and body.

“See how many there are to persuade me against my honor!” he exclaimed.

It galled him beyond words that he must return to his kingdom a fugitive and a beggar when his had been the most renowned name in Europe.

The miseries of Sweden were as nothing in his eyes compared to the affront offered to his pride in this proposed return under present conditions.

“Look you, Count Liewin,” he said abruptly, pausing in his walk, “I am without even the money for the journey--Grothusen will tell you how much I am in debt.”

“We could raise more money in Constantinople,” said Grothusen quickly. “For my part I do perceive that this return of yours is imperative, sire.”

The King gave his friend a strange look.

“Grothusen, do you recall a little dog I had, named Pompey, that died in Saxony? I thought you loved me well, but now I perceive that no one loved ever as did that beast--he never sought to turn me from my will!”

“Sire!” cried Count Liewin desperately, “does your Majesty mean that you will not return to Sweden?”

“Aye,” replied Karl, “we will return, Count, we will return!”

He seated himself wearily, rested his arm on his crossed legs, and shaded his bent face with his hand.

M. Müllern signed to Count Liewin that the audience was ended; he and Poniatowski conducted the envoy from the chamber, leaving the King alone with M. Grothusen.

For a while Karl sat motionless, so uniformly cold and reserved was he, even with his intimates (and those few now with him had become of a necessity very intimate in this close, prison-like life), that this man with him now, his nearest friend, expected no confidence from him, even at this moment. But for once the inflexible pride of Karl gave way to the despair in his heart.

“Oh, Grothusen!” he cried, “how differently I dreamed it all!”

“Sire!” answered Grothusen, profoundly moved, he could say no more; the King was not to be deceived by trite comfort, and his friend knew of no real consolation.

“Peter Alexievitch has all I had--all I want!” continued Karl, in a terrible, broken voice. “The cunning Muscovite! Had I been a well man at Poltava I had broken him as he broke me!”

He rose, clapping his hand down on his sword-hilt, a fury in his blue eyes.

“But as it is, he wins--he has my provinces, my seas, my commerce, my people as his slaves, my generals as his prisoners--_he_ wins, that drunken savage, Grothusen.”

“He too may meet his Poltava,” said Grothusen fiercely.

The King gave a short laugh, with an effort controlling his rare passion.

“Could we decide it face to face, man to man, I should have no fear of the issue, ruined as I am,” he said, looking down at his sword arm, “for he is very sick, Grothusen, and worn out by many vices. He has a camp follower for his wife, an idiot, rebellious son--after all, I would not be the Czar of Russia.”

Then with an effort to put so bitter a subject from his mind he turned sharply to his friend.

“How much money do we owe?” he asked.

Grothusen named a sum that sounded large even to the King’s prodigality, but he had always been utterly reckless of money, had refused even to glance at accounts, and had encouraged his followers to be the same.

These were all sums of money owing to the French ambassadors to the Porte, Thomas Cook, and other English, and Jews of Constantinople, to M. La Motraye, the French gentleman of Bender, besides to all the members of his suite.

Karl chafed at all this like a lion tickled with straws.

“We must have more money,” he said impatiently. “Pay these usurers cent for cent--get it, somehow. I must send an embassy to the Porte to say farewell. You must go, Grothusen, and with some magnificence. Poniatowski thinks the Sultan might lend money if he will not lend an army.”

“Your Majesty is resolved to return then?” asked the courtier, some hope springing in his heart at the thought of this dreary exile at length coming to an end.

“What else can I do,” returned the King, “when they break my authority in my absence?”

He made no reference to the wretched condition of his unhappy country and Grothusen knew that he never would; if he cared in the least for Sweden, or regarded her merely as the arsenal from which to take his weapons of war, it was impossible to tell, but he always showed an unconcern amounting to indifference to all that concerned the true welfare of his subjects.

“Grothusen,” he said suddenly, “the son of Aurora von Königsmarck was at the battle of Stade, was he not?”

“Yes, sire,” replied Grothusen, wondering at this change of subject, “a brilliant lad, they say.”

“His mother defied me once,” remarked Karl, with his ugly smile. “She was a surprising woman--what happened to her?”

“I do not know, sire--she left the Elector years ago.”

“If she is alive,” said Karl grimly, “she will be pleased to hear of my present state.”

Grothusen looked startled and bewildered, but the King said no more; he was thinking, irrelevantly, of John Rheinhold Patkul.

The execution of this man, his one barbarity, was the sole fruit of his victories--the only thing that he had achieved and that no one could take away from him; the might of the Czar and all his allies could not put together the broken bones of Patkul.

Karl moved abruptly, checking his line of thought.

“Well,” he said, “let us make our preparations to return home.”