The Girl Who Fought Napoleon: A Novel of the Russian Empire

by Linda Lafferty

  A small fish darted by just a few inches under the water.

  At least Elba is in the Mediterranean. So close to France.

  The guard spoke again, shaking Napoleon from his reverie.

  “They say the Russians lost more than a quarter of a million soldiers in the war. Across Europe, five million lives—”

  Napoleon threw up a hand.

  “Perhaps. Monsieur, I was not present for the count. I was otherwise occupied,” Napoleon sniffed.

  The guard tightened his grip on his rifle.

  “You destroyed Moscow, they say. Burned it to the ground.”

  Napoleon ignored the man.

  Ignorant bastard! Of all the adversaries I had, Alexander is the one I respect. True he was a vainglorious nincompoop at Austerlitz. But it was a youthful folly. Eight years later he led his army into Austria and the Battle of Leipzig—and then into Paris. Riding the stallion I gave him!

  Ah, Alexander. I never wanted war with Russia, only for you to stop meddling in Europe.

  We wanted the same thing. Reforms and freedom for our people.

  The cries of two circling seagulls overhead made him shade his eyes and look skyward. The sun glanced off their yellow beaks.

  But we’ve changed, we two. We are not the same men at all. The war is to blame.

  Time and power have worn us down.

  Our dreams of enlightenment, of democracy. Where are our reforms? Where is the brotherhood of liberty, the precepts of revolution?

  We grew fat with power. Our dream, the bright coin of enlightenment is tarnished metal at the bottom of a once-sparkling fountain.

  We have shed those dreams like snakes shed their skins. But I can still dream.

  Of returning.

  Chapter 61

  Vienna, Austria

  January 1815

  Tsar Alexander convened the Congress of Vienna, gathering the royalty of Europe to form a lasting alliance that would eliminate the threat of another great war in Europe.

  The Tsarina Elizabeth’s mature beauty and grace made an impression on the courts of Europe, although her husband paid her no attention at all. Instead, he flirted and consummated relationships with the most dazzling princesses and noblewomen of Europe.

  Elizabeth, who had grown accustomed to her husband’s philandering over the years, stood by his side at fetes, balls, and banquets, her head held high.

  But her greatest admirer, Adam Czartoryski, knew how she suffered. Adam Czartoryski, whom she had refused to see in more than fourteen years, was once again infatuated, the embers of his love ignited.

  At a dinner the Tsar and tsarina hosted, Czartoryski caught her eye from across the crowded room and raised his glass in silent toast.

  Later, Czartoryski wrote feverishly in his journal:

  I see her very much changed but to me she is still the same because my feelings for her have not wavered (perhaps some of their warmth has diminished but they are still strong enough that the possibility of not seeing her at all is torture to me). I have seen her only once so far. Having been ill received, I am experiencing a bad day.

  Second meeting: Ah! She is, as always, my angel. I want nothing more than to secure her happiness. I have forgiven her infidelity with all my heart.

  The two lovers had reunited. Neither one had tasted such happiness in many years.

  Amid the dizzying round of royal fetes and balls in Vienna, the Tsar and tsarina of Russia hosted the heads of Europe at a magnificent dinner. An indoor riding arena was converted to a vast banquet hall. Three hundred and sixty guests were invited, including two emperors, four kings, and thirty reigning princes. Tsarina Elizabeth was seated at the right of Emperor Francis of Austria and Tsar Alexander next to Empress Maria of Austria.

  At tables glittering with a veritable bonfire of candles, plates were adorned with pineapples and cherries from greenhouses in Moscow, truffles from Perigord, oranges from Palermo, strawberries from England, and grapes from France.

  “Look at her majesty the tsarina!” exclaimed the French writer Madame de Stael, leaning closer to her dinner companion, Auguste-Louis-Charles de La Garde de Chambonas. “An angel. No other …” Her voice trailed off. Between these two old friends sentences scarcely needed to be finished. An elegant shrug, a raised eyebrow said so much. The tsarina was beyond compare.

  De La Garde concurred. “Her hair. Her eyes. The purity of her soul.”

  The writer smiled. “And the arts …” She shrugged. “Beethoven.”

  Her companion shot her a puzzled look. He didn’t know! Now there was a real tale to tell. Madame de Stael leaned as close as her gown and elaborate coiffure would allow.

  “You haven’t heard? Beethoven wrote a violin sonata for the Tsar and he couldn’t be bothered to pay his debt.”

  De La Garde raised an eloquent eyebrow. Royalty never paid, did they?

  “So the tsarina paid it for him,” de Stael went on. “And Beethoven has written a piece expressly for her to show his gratitude. Fur Elise he calls it. That’s certainly clear, isn’t it?”

  They both smiled.

  “The toast of the continent,” said de La Garde.

  And they exchanged an arch look.

  What a shame her husband is such a philanderer!

  The Russian courier’s horse stumbled into the Viennese courtyard, half-dead with exhaustion.

  “I must see the Tsar at once,” said the young man, his legs buckling under him as he dismounted. An imperial squire grasped the courier’s arm, pulling him to his feet.

  “Stable boy! Take care of this horse at once.”

  The squire turned to loosen the ties on the leather satchel.

  “Don’t touch it!” snapped the courier, regaining his strength. “It is a confidential letter for the Tsar. Only I can deliver it.”

  The courier did not take time to wipe the mud and dirt from his face, clothes, and boots. He was admitted to Alexander’s office at once. The Tsar was seated at his desk conversing with the tsarina.

  “A letter for you, Your Majesty. From Paris,” said the courier, bowing.

  Elizabeth stared at the weary messenger. No good can come of this.

  Alexander slipped a knife under the wax seal. As he read the words the color drained from his face.

  “What is it, Alexander?”

  The Tsar looked at her, barely able to speak.

  “Napoleon has escaped from Elba. He is mounting an army in the south of France.”

  Alexander inspected his face in the mirror.

  I am balding. But the hair I have left still has color. My sideburns are thick enough.

  The Tsar rubbed a piece of ice over his face, tightening the skin and bringing out the natural rosiness. It was a ritual he repeated each morning.

  Peacetime has made me a bit stout. But I can still dance the night away.

  He smiled, thinking of the dizzying array of flirtations, including the ravishing widow of the war hero General Bagration.

  Ah, Madame Bagration. She has bewitched me …

  Then an image of the battlefield flashed in his mind.

  Alexander saw the body of a young soldier in a Russian uniform, a bullet through his temple. His pale mouth sagged open in surprise.

  Napoleon had escaped. It all could happen over again.

  Alexander’s rosy complexion faded and he heard the drip of the melting ice in the basin.

  He looked back to the mirror. A middle-aged man growing stout and wattled stared back at him.

  “Boris! Inform the Tsarina Elizabeth of my intention to dine with her tonight,” he said. “A private dinner, just the two of us.”

  “Yes, Your Majesty.”

  Boris lingered, noticing his master’s slumped shoulders.

  “Your Majesty,” he said gently. “Are you quite all right?”

  Alexander looked at his loyal servant and his graying hair. He thought of the faraway days in the nursery of the Winter Palace. Ah, Boris. How I’ve changed since those innocent days.


  Who are you now, Alexander Pavlovich Romanov?

  “I play a part in a play, Boris, but I detest my role. I seem to have forgotten my lines.”

  “Your Majesty, have patience with yourself. The last years have been cruel.”

  “Cruel? To all of us. But my heart aches.”

  Maria Naryshkina left me for another lover. Millions of souls have perished on the battlefield. Moscow has been burned to the ground.

  All Europe turns its eyes to me to secure lasting peace. Yet I still play the part of philandering tsar.

  He dashed the remaining shard of ice against the porcelain basin.

  “Boris! Tell the tsarina I need to see her.”

  The servant opened the double windows.

  “I think I feel the first breath of spring,” said Tsarina Elizabeth. She smiled. “Freshly turned earth and first growth. Can you smell it, Alexander?”

  “Spring comes much earlier here in Vienna, but I can’t say I can detect it.”

  She sighed and breathed deeply.

  A servant appeared carrying a lacquered tray with an envelope sealed with red wax.

  “Your Majesty, a letter for you.”

  The Tsar flicked his eyes toward his wife. She was such a graceful consort, admired by all Europe. But for comfort of a more carnal nature he had turned to the widow of General Bagration.

  She should know better than to send communication here. I can’t have a scene with Elise.

  Alexander picked up the envelope inspecting the seal. The image of the medieval knight on a rearing horse.

  “Adam Czartoryski,” he murmured.

  “What?” said Elizabeth. She walked quickly over to her husband.

  “What would Adam want to talk to me about now? He knows my stance on Poland,” said Alexander. “Poland will have its government and civil rights, but I shall be king. I’ve made that quite clear.”

  He turned to his wife. Elizabeth had gone deathly pale.

  “Elise? Do you know anything about this?” he said, accepting the letter knife from the servant.

  “Alexander—I …”

  He looked at her quizzically and then withdrew the letter from the envelope.

  “He requests a private audience with me this morning. The devil with him! Does he think I can spare time from the Holy Alliance? Napoleon has escaped Elba. The tyrant is on the loose again! I do not have time for Polish politicians.”

  “Your Majesty, Prince Czartoryski waits in the anteroom.

  “Show him in.”

  Tsar Alexander continued signing documents. The scratch of the quill pen punctuated his response to his visitor. He barely looked up.

  “What is it, Adam? I’ve made my points clear on Poland. Already I hear that I give Poland more liberty that the Russians themselves experience—”

  “Your Majesty …”

  “Please dispense with formalities. We are alone. But be brief. I must meet with the Austrian ambassador to finalize—”

  “Alexander. I have come to ask for Elise’s hand in marriage.”

  Alexander’s mouth snapped tight, his hand shook. A fat drop of ink pooled where his pen lay motionless on the page. Alexander Pavlovich Roma—

  “You know how much I love her,” said Czartoryski. “We have rekindled our love. All has been forgiven. I only wish to have her as my wife.”

  “Elise! Marriage? You—you must be mad, Adam!”

  Prince Czartoryski shook his head. “I was mad to ever leave her, even with your father’s threat to my life. I’ve have always loved her from the day I first saw her, so many years ago. I want to take her to Poland.”

  Alexander rose from his chair. “Adam! How could I ever give you permission? I would have to divorce her—could you imagine the damage to the House of Romanov and my reign? The instability of Europe—”

  “You cannot love her and give her the happiness I can, Alexander!” said Czartoryski, tightening his hands into fists. “Everyone knows of your liaisons: Princess Liechtenstein, Princess Esterhazy, Sophie Zichy, Princess Auersperg, Madame Bagration—”

  “That is none of your affair!”

  “I don’t claim it to be. I only want to take Elizabeth away from her unhappiness, to love her with all my heart as my wife.”

  “No, Adam. What are you saying? The scandal would topple the Holy Alliance. And the future of your beloved Poland! It will undermine all that you have worked for all your life.”

  Czartoryski uncurled his fists. “How could my marriage possibly affect Poland?”

  “Don’t be a fool, Adam! Consider: the Tsar of all Russia has granted Poland liberties unparalleled in Russia. And now the Tsar offers his wife, the tsarina, to the Polish prince most likely to lead revolt against us for independence? I might as well shoot myself in the head now.”

  “Alexander! This is political banter. I speak of love, of happiness. You don’t love Elise.”

  “You are wrong, Adam!” said Alexander. He walked to the window looking across to the Ballhausplatz. “I do love her and I always have. But now I realize—I need her. I need her counsel, her wisdom.”

  “Does she not deserve to be happy?”

  “You think me selfish.”

  “Utterly!” said Czartoryski. “Selfish and cruel.”

  “Cruel? Because I do not visit her bed? You think we have no relationship, Elise and I? But of course we do. There has been no greater comfort to me. It was Elise who pressed a Bible in my hand as I fought back Napoleon.”

  “Napoleon? I speak of profound love of your wife and you—you speak of Napoleon!”

  “I speak of worldly consequences, Adam! You misjudge me. And Elise. She has given me counsel and directed my spiritual path. She alone understands me. I need her now more than ever.”

  “And for this understanding you would destroy her happiness?”

  Alexander turned away, wincing. Outside the window in the brilliant sunshine, he could see carriages rolling along the cobblestones, driven by men in top hats. The formal draft of the Holy Alliance would be presented within the hour.

  “There are matters more important in this world than an individual’s happiness. I represent all Russia, the power that defeated Napoleon. And now the villain is on the loose again, raising an army. More blood will be shed but I stand for the Holy Alliance, the pact of powers sworn to uphold peace throughout Europe. If I divorce Elise, that power is finished. An eagle with a broken wing! I would be considered a fool. This Congress, Poland’s future, Europe’s security! All would crumble.

  “Alexander, I beg you—”

  “No, Adam,” said the Tsar, raising his open hand to block any further discussion. “I shall never divorce the Tsarina Elizabeth.”

  Chapter 62

  On the road to Lithuania from Polotsk, Belarus

  April 1815

  Napoleon Bonaparte’s escape from Elba put all of Europe on the march again, damn him!

  Our uhlan pennons fluttered once more, and our lances flashed in the sun. Our horses’ spirits were high, inhaling the excitement of movement and battle. All of this made my heart race as it always had. But after years of war, there was a new sentiment that cut into the excitement.

  I had been a cavalry soldier from the cradle. But now I had seen too many deaths, too much blood and suffering. The menacing beat of the war drum, the sight of gallant lads galloping their mounts to meet the enemy, their lances or sabers flashing, filled me with both reverence and overwhelming dread.

  How strange I still found it that one moment, the moment of wringing a goose’s neck—such a simple task any farmwife would do!—had brought a profound realization up from the depth of my soul.

  I hated killing. And war meant death. Always.

  But I was still a cavalry officer and I packed my emotions away. Perhaps during peacetime I could reexamine them. But not during war.

  And so we marched to Kovno, in Lithuania.

  I commanded new recruits who had seen little or nothing of battle. They were eager “to defeat Napo
leon once and for all.”

  But they were as ignorant as they were excited.

  We veterans were tired of war. How could the allied monarchs have allowed Napoleon to escape? What of the French, who had sworn to protect the Bourbon monarchy? The Austrians stationed on the island? The British frigate keeping watch on the sea? And our glorious tsar—may God forgive any untoward criticism—why did he and the allies not send the devil packing to the middle of the Atlantic?

  But what was done was done—and we were on the march westward as our allies mobilized. Word came that England and the Prussians were amassing their armies to stand against Napoleon.

  My new recruits lacked discipline. They thought nothing of pillaging, stealing. Once at midnight, I passed a field sown with oats. I saw something white flit among the stalks of grain.

  “Who goes there!” I demanded.

  I heard a rustle in the grain and then a face appeared in the moonlight.

  “It is I, Captain Alexandrov. Recruit Golsky from the Fourth Platoon.”

  “What the devil are you doing there in the dark, Golsky?”

  “I’m trying, your honor.”

  “Trying”—the Russian equivalent of taking what is needed. In order to fatten up his horse, Golsky was stealing oats!

  “You must stop this instant! Back to camp, Golsky!”

  As I rode to my quarters, I heard a whacking sound. Voices cried out for mercy. I pushed my tired horse into a gallop and soon saw Lieutenant Kolovsky’s soldiers beating several of my platoon with a rod.

  “Desist!” I ordered.

  “Ah! Alexandrov,” said Kolovsky. “Excuse me, but I was taking care of this chore for you. Your soldiers were accused of stealing eighteen jugs of vodka from a Jew. Don’t be angry, brother.”

  “Why should I be angry at you,” I said, my rage turning in a moment against my own men. “On the contrary, I am grateful. Scoundrels! A disgrace to the name of Tsar Alexander. Continue the punishment!”

  I was sick of war. I was miserable trying to train young rascals who had no idea of what sacrifices our Russian soldiers had already made on their behalf, on Europe’s behalf.