“This is not the age for Vikings,” said Hélène coldly, “he is like his father. Patkul has told me of them--hard and cruel--how I _loathe_ cruelty.”
Tears shone in her soft eyes and her lips quivered; she was thinking that it was just possible Patkul might one day be in the power of this same cruelty.
“Nay, he is just and even generous; you heard how, after Narva, he gave all the Russian officers their liberty, detaining only M. de Croy, to whom he paid full honor--and the modesty of his dispatches! ’Tis said that with his own hand he struck out his praises and put in those of the Czar.”
“’Tis his vanity,” said Hélène scornfully, “he wishes to impress the world--see if he is kind to his peasants--to his women-folk--see if he has ever thought of the justice of Livonia’s wish for liberty--he blindly continues his father’s tyrannies.”
“That is none of it women’s business. Augustus is the best-natured person in the world, but I doubt if he knows much of his peasantry in either Saxony or Poland!” and she laughed again at the thought.
“He would be a better prince if he did,” said Hélène, with a sternness strange in one of her youth and frivolous appearance. “Patkul says the day will surely come when all the peoples will rise up and cast down their rulers.”
“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.
